All Amazing Babies

The shadow of the tall poplar outside had already fallen across half the yard when the worst thing in all sixteen years of the Beketovs’ life together began. The air in the living room—thick with cigarette smoke and mute tension—felt like you could slice it with a knife. Artyom Viktorovich, a man with hands etched with dark veins and a gaze accustomed to command, pressed his temples, trying to drown out the mounting pain. His wife, Lilya, sat opposite, curled in on herself, endlessly worrying the edge of her old knitted cardigan. Her world—so orderly and clean—was collapsing before her eyes, and the culprit of this apocalypse sat between them, eyes downcast to the floor.School supplies

Their daughter. Ariana. Their quiet, withdrawn Ariana, who smelled of baby cream and books—and now carried a foreign, anxious, bitter secret.

 

It had all started with a trifle. The school medical checkup. The girl flat-out refused to see the gynecologist. The homeroom teacher, a fussy, jittery woman, called Lilya, hinting at “strange and inappropriate behavior.” Sensing trouble already, Lilya tried to speak softly to her daughter over tea with raspberry jam. But Ariana sat in silence, staring into her cup, her fingers whitening with how tightly she gripped the spoon.

Then she pulled it out. A neatly folded slip from the private clinic “Eden.” Not a certificate—a sentence. Gestational age: ten weeks. The diagnosis sounded like a taunt: “Physiological intrauterine pregnancy.”

Having read the paper, Artyom Viktorovich slowly, as if in slow motion, sank into an armchair. His pupils pinpricked.

“Explain,” he said, his voice low and creaky, like a rusty door in the wind. “Who is he?”

Ariana only shook her head without looking up. Her long lashes cast shadows on her pale, almost translucent cheeks. It seemed she might dissolve at any moment, evaporate under this interrogation.

“It was my decision. He has nothing to do with it,” she whispered—and there was steel in her voice, a metal Lilya had never heard before.Bookshelves

“Covering for a scoundrel!” Artyom slammed his fist against the armrest, making the crystal vase on the table tremble. His hand reached for a pack of Belomor. “I’ll— I’ll smash him to splinters! Rot him in prison! You’ll tell me his name, right now!”

“Artyom, don’t! The smoke… it’s harmful!” Lilya instinctively snatched the pack from him, her voice shaking. Already she was defending. Not her daughter. A grandchild. A descendant. Someone who didn’t exist yet, but had already turned everything upside down.

“And how could you, as her mother, not notice?” He swung his rage-filled, helpless gaze to his wife. “Right under your nose! You were always saying she comes home on time, that she doesn’t run around!”

“I’m sorry,” Lilya lowered her eyes. Guilt—caustic and burning—spread through her veins. “I… I never would have thought. She’s our little girl…”

“So you won’t say his name?” Artyom leaned toward his daughter again, his shadow covering her completely. “I’ll find out. I’ll find out everything. And then he won’t know what hit him. I swear.”

“Dad, don’t,” her plea came out surprisingly calm, almost detached.

“Then he can marry you! Support you and your…” he groped for a word, “brood!”

“Artyom!” Lilya practically jumped. “She’s our daughter! And that’s our grandchild, for your information!”

“I don’t want to get married,” Ariana shook her head again. “At least not now.”

“And that’s right, honey,” Lilya babbled, glancing nervously at her husband. “Your father and I will take care of everything. We’ll arrange it somehow… He’ll be like a son to us. Or a daughter! You always wanted a little sister, Arisha?”

Artyom Viktorovich stared at his wife as if seeing her for the first time. Disgust twisted his face.
“Are you out of your mind, Lilya? Wake up!”

“Don’t, Mom,” Ariana lifted her eyes to her mother for the first time. They were huge, bottomless, the color of a stormy sky. “I won’t be able to lie to him my whole life. I won’t be able to watch him call you Mom and Dad, and me… sister.”

There was something in her gaze that made Lilya shrink inside. Something irreparable.

“Ariana, you’re a child yourself!” she cried, tears finally spilling—hot and bitter. “School, university… Your whole life is ahead of you! With a baby, you’ll bury it! Miserable job, constant exhaustion, sicknesses! And no decent man will marry you!”

“I don’t need one!” Ariana turned sharply toward the window, toward the setting sun.

“You’ll go have the baby at Aunt Sveta’s in Reutov,” Lilya went on, wiping her tears and trying to pull herself together. “She’ll get you into a good maternity hospital. Quiet, calm. And for now count on us.”

She threw a defiant look at her husband, but he kept silent, staring into the smoke-choked ashtray.

When Ariana went to the store for bread, the silence exploded. Artyom unleashed a barrage of accusations at Lilya.

“You spoiled her! Raised her like some kind of witcher! Here’s the result of your permissiveness!”

“And you?!” she snapped back, retreating toward the sideboard. “You carried her around on your hands! ‘Daddy’s princess!’ Don’t you dare pin it all on me! If you were home more often, maybe none of this would’ve happened!”

“And why do you even need this… grandchild?” he shouted, already beyond control. “Why? You’re forty-two! You won’t manage! Your back, your health!”Buy vitamins and supplements

“Thanks for reminding me about my age!” Lilya flared, humiliated in the sorest spot. “Other women my age are just starting to live! Maybe I still hoped… to have one of my own!”

Artyom froze with his mouth open. The careless cigarette hung from his lip.
“Really?” he rasped, and his voice unexpectedly gave way—became softer, gentler. “Lilyush… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean the age… It’s just… hard. And your back…”

“Leave me alone!” she turned away—but hearing the familiar scratch of a match, exploded again: “And don’t you dare smoke in here! Into the stairwell! Now!”

“Aye-aye!” he saluted unexpectedly, and despite herself a strangled smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. He caught it and exhaled inwardly. She never stayed mad for long. That was her saving grace.

The secret didn’t last. Ariana’s best friend—red-headed, fidgety Snezhana—couldn’t keep such an atom bomb inside. Within a day the whole school, from first-graders to the vice principal, was whispering that “Beketova got knocked up.” They’d mocked Ariana before for her shyness and slight plumpness; now the bullying became total. They pointed at her, cracked filthy jokes, and some “well-wishers” even left diapers and baby food in her locker. Worst of all was that no one, absolutely no one, could even guess who the father was. Ariana didn’t hang out with boys, didn’t go on dates. Her pregnancy was an immaculate conception, a jeer at logic.

Gritting his teeth, Artyom Viktorovich paid the necessary people to have her switched to home schooling on a fabricated note: “severe nervous exhaustion.”

Behind the family’s back he began his own investigation. He ran through all the young males in the neighborhood: the hooligan neighbors, the upperclassmen, young workers from the plant. He even hired a private detective—a mustached type in a threadbare trench coat—but the man named a price that could’ve bought a new Moskvich. Artyom spat and took another route. He offered a reward—triple less, but still solid—to anyone who would name the “scoundrel.”Family games

Hell began. His phone ran red-hot. Artyom had to take time off to sit by the apparatus.

Bounty hunters descended on him like crows on carrion. They pointed to some Sergeys-who-drink, Vityas-the-rockers, college kids next door. No evidence whatsoever. A typical exchange went like this:
— “Hello! Are you the one paying for information?” piped a teenager’s voice.
— “Possibly,” Artyom drilled the receiver with his gaze.
— “Up front! Half!”
— “You get the full amount when I know you’re not lying.”
Usually the call ended there. But some “eyewitnesses” appeared. One swore he personally saw Ariana kissing in the stairwell with some dark-haired guy in a leather jacket. Another swore she secretly met with a married swimming coach.
— “Too bad I didn’t have a camera!” one such witness lamented. “If I’d known, I’d have taken a pic!”
— “And when was this?” Artyom wrote the name in his notebook.
— “Two months ago…”
Two months ago, according to the note, Ariana was already pregnant. Artyom silently hung up and lit another cigarette. His ashtray looked like a little cemetery.

During these days, Irina called him.
— “I told you not to call here,” he hissed into the phone, cupping it with his palm.
— “You’ve forgotten about me completely,” she drawled in a spoiled tone. “You don’t come by, you don’t call…”
— “Now’s not the time,” he justified himself, gooseflesh prickling his back.
— “Ah, right. I heard. You’ll be a grandpa soon… Artyom, I miss you…”
— “Artyom, who is it?” Lilya stood in the doorway of the office. Her face was pale, dark crescents under her eyes from sleeplessness.
— “No one,” he put the phone down, his heart pounding in his throat. “What’s with you?”
— “I asked you not to smoke in here!” She pointed at the overflowing ashtray. “Quit this filth!”
— “Sorry, Lilyush… Nerves…” He crushed the butt.
At that moment the phone gave a dying croak—an incoming text. From Irina.
Lilya raised an eyebrow.
— “What’s that?”
— “Aleksandr Ivanych,” he lied, horrified by his own helplessness. “Inviting me fishing.”
He snuck a glance at the screen: “So I’m nothing to you, then?”
— “You’re getting worse at lying, Artyom,” Lilya shook her head and left, leaving him in a cloud of shame and guilt.
— “Lilya! Lilyushka!” he rushed after her. “I’ve never lied to you! Never!”
— “Oh, you have?” she turned—and in her eyes he saw not anger but endless fatigue and pain. “My heart has known it for a while…”
— “No! You… you’re the only woman in my life!” he blurted, grabbing her hands.
— “Ah, you sly fox,” she wagged a finger at him without malice. “Watch yourself…”

On Monday, Artyom Viktorovich left for work earlier than usual. He had to meet Irina. Tell her it was over. Climbing the stairs to her apartment, he rehearsed his speech in his head, picking words that wouldn’t sound like treachery.

He rang their signal: two short, one long. No one answered for a long time. He was about to leave—breathing a sigh of relief—when the door swung open. A huge, sleepy lunk stood there in baggy boxers and a tank top.

— “What d’you want, old man?” he yawned.
Behind him Artyom saw Irina’s pale face, twisted with fear. She pressed her hands together in prayer.
— “Is Aleksandr Ivanych home?” Artyom forced out, finding his footing unexpectedly.
— “No one by that name here,” the big guy grunted and slammed the door.

“Thank God,” Artyom thought, heading downstairs. He felt incredible relief. The affair had weighed on him from the start. Now he was free.

On his way home from work he stopped at the priciest shop in the neighborhood and bought Lilya those very French perfumes she’d been eyeing for a year. He added a huge bouquet of scarlet roses and a bottle of champagne.

— “What’s this?” she asked at the door, puzzled. “Are we celebrating something?”
— “Just felt like making you happy,” he whispered, kissing her cheek.
— “What is it? A celebration?” Ariana echoed from her doorway.
— “For you too, sunshine.” He handed his daughter a huge box of fancy Belgian chocolates. “Your favorite—truffle centers.”
— “Thanks, Daddy!” a rare smile lit her face.
— “What are you doing giving her chocolates?” Lilya tapped his shoulder lightly with the bouquet. “Chocolate is a strong allergen! She shouldn’t!”
— “I thought… while it’s still early, maybe it’s okay…”
— “Sweetheart, what does the doctor say?” Lilya perked up at once. “When can I talk to them? We need a plan!”
— “Mom, a parent’s presence is needed only if they send you for an abortion,” Ariana said quietly.
— “Ptui-ptui-ptui, don’t jinx it!” Lilya spat over her shoulder. “But the chocolates—are they allowed?”
— “They’re allowed,” Ariana nodded.

Then the impossible happened. Ariana came over and hugged them both at once, pressed her face against them. They stood like that, all three—entangled in arms, flowers, and boxes—more of a family than they’d been in a long time. They sat at the kitchen table. A fragile, quivering armistice took hold.

— “Your father and I will move into your room,” Lilya said dreamily, pouring tea. “It’s the sunny one. And we’ll give you and the baby our bedroom! Your father, of course, has smoked it… um… perfumed it up, but they have services now—ozonation and such. We’ll do a Euro-renovation!”
— “I’ll do it myself,” Artyom cut in. “New wallpaper, stretch ceiling… Honey, will you pick the wallpaper? With little bears or bunnies?”
— “God, I’m so happy!” Lilya clasped her hands. “I even dreamt I was pushing a pram… and inside such a baby! A tiny dumpling! By the way, sweetie, when’s your ultrasound? When will they tell us the sex?”
Ariana chewed the chocolate slowly. She looked somewhere past them, at the wall.
— “I don’t think it’ll be any time soon.”
— “What do you mean, not soon?” Lilya was put out. “They say you can see by four months!”
— “Mom. Dad,” Ariana lowered her eyes into her cup. Her voice went very quiet, barely audible. “I have to tell you… Actually… I’m not pregnant.”

Silence fell—thick, dense, ringing. Lilya froze with the tray in her hands.
— “Not pregnant?” she whispered, her face blanching. “What happened? Did you…?”
— “There is no baby,” Ariana didn’t look up. “There never was. I made it up. The certificate from the clinic… I bought it at the metro. It’s fake.”

Artyom nearly dropped the champagne bottle he was trying to open.
— “What?!” his voice broke into falsetto.
— “And the doctor? The one who wrote the certificate?” Lilya clung to the last straw.
— “I didn’t go to any doctor. I’m sorry.”

At last it dawned on Lilya. Why her daughter had fought so desperately when she offered to go to the clinic together, to do all the tests. Why she dodged conversations about lab work so strangely.

“Why… why would you do this?” Lilya’s voice shook. She still couldn’t believe that the one she’d already wrapped in her mind, rocked, named—didn’t exist. “Why would you do this to us? Explain!”
— “I wanted you and Dad to be together again,” Ariana said, her voice finally firm. “For you to stop fighting. For Dad… for Dad to come home.”

Lilya stared, uncomprehending.
— “But we… we didn’t fight that much…” she said slowly. “And I’d already bought you a book… ‘The Most Beautiful Names.’ I thought we’d choose together…”
— “I’m sorry,” Ariana’s voice wavered, and she finally looked at their bewildered, emptied faces. “I didn’t know you needed him this much… If you want, I’ll…”
— “No!” Artyom’s voice rang out loud, almost commandingly. “Everything in its own time! Starting tomorrow—you’re back to school! I’ll call your homeroom teacher.”
— “But—”
— “No buts!”

Ariana left the kitchen with her head bowed.

Lilya watched her go in silence.
— “And I’m a fool,” she said softly at last. “I even noticed she’d lost weight… and she should have been putting it on…”

Artyom went to her, tried to hug her, but she drew back.
— “Don’t despair. We’ll have grandkids. We will.”
— “What did she mean, Artyom?” Lilya raised her eyes to him. There were no tears in them. Only a cold, piercing question. “‘So that Dad would come home’? What does that mean? What am I supposed to know?”

Artyom Viktorovich sank heavily onto a chair. The time had come.
— “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he coughed. “I was afraid you wouldn’t forgive me. One day… our daughter saw me. With another woman. I promised her I’d break it off. And… I didn’t keep my word.”

Lilya sat motionless, turned to stone. She seemed not even to breathe.
— “Leave, Artyom,” she finally forced out in a strangled, alien voice. “I don’t want to see you.”
— “I won’t leave.”
— “Then I’ll pack and go myself,” she rose, but he stood in front of her, blocking the way.
— “Did you see what she resorted to? Do you understand what that was for? I can’t leave. Who knows what she’ll think up next time! I’ve broken it off with that woman. For good. For you. For her. Forgive me.”

 

Lilya left the kitchen without a word.

Artyom hoped she would, as always, get over it quickly. But this time was different. She didn’t speak to him for three days. He tried jokes, little digs—she left the room in silence. On the fourth day, in desperation, he told some stupid tailor joke, and she smiled faintly. It was enough.

Encouraged by this tiny victory, Artyom Viktorovich staged a grand spectacle. He phoned old pals who, in their youth, had been the talk of the district in the VIA “Samotsvety,” and talked them into coming over.

At exactly nine in the evening, the quiet courtyard rang with guitars and Artyom’s cracked but heartfelt baritone:

“I am here, Inezilia,
I’m here beneath your window.
All Seville is gathered
In darkness and in slumber…”

Heads popped out onto balconies one after another. Passersby stopped, smiling.

“Filled with all valor,
Wrapped in my cloak…” Artyom warbled, but on the high note his voice treacherously broke and he fell into a cough.
One of the musicians jumped in, saving the moment:
“With guitar and sword,
I’m here beneath your window!”

People on the balconies applauded. But Lilya did not appear.
— “Inezilia, f—’s sake, come out!” someone from the tipsy crowd bellowed. “The man’s trying! Hey, you witch!”

Back home, Artyom was crushed. He had tried everything. He decided he had lost. Late that night, when Lilya had already gone to bed, he went into the bedroom. The room was dark.
— “Lilya,” he said into the darkness. “I must have hurt you too much. You’re right. You deserve better. Tomorrow I’ll leave.”

The covers rustled sharply in the silence.
— “Get in bed, troubadour,” she snickered through her sleep.

Lilya’s dream came true. Less than a year later she really was rolling an elegant pram down the park alleys. But not with a grandchild—with their second child, late and madly longed-for. Everyone was happy. Happiest of all was Ariana, who fell in love with her little sister at first sight and chose the name herself—Bogdana. “God-given,” she said, rocking the baby in her arms. And Artyom and Lilya silently agreed. Because sometimes the truest miracle is born from the most artificial, the most desperate lie. Like an artificial sun lit on a gloomy day to drive the clouds away.

Larisa stood by the kitchen window, watching the neighbor load a stroller into the trunk of her car. Forty-one years old, and still dependent on public transport and the rare chance to use her husband’s car. Design projects were scattered all over the city, clients wanted meetings at inconvenient times, and there she was, suffering in packed buses with her portfolio under her arm.
Car dealership

— Lar, what are you thinking about? — Igor came into the kitchen, sipping coffee from his favorite mug.

— Oh, nothing special. — She turned away from the window. — Just thinking about work.

Igor came closer and put an arm around her shoulders. Years of marriage had taught him to read between the lines.

— Thinking about a car again?

 

Larisa tensed slightly in his embrace. They had already discussed this more than once. His old Honda was always tied up — his job with a construction company meant constant trips to work sites.

— You can’t spend your whole life just dreaming, — she said, trying to sound carefree. — My birthday’s soon; maybe a fairy godmother will show up with a magic wand.

Igor kept silent, but something in his eyes changed. Larisa didn’t notice — she was already mentally plotting a route to yet another client with three transfers.

Over the next two weeks Igor behaved oddly. Long phone calls he’d cut short whenever she entered the room. Mysterious smiles and evasive answers to direct questions. Larisa started to suspect he was up to something.

— Igor, you do remember I turn thirty-five in a week? — she asked over dinner, studying his face.

— Of course I remember. What, you think I forgot? — He looked almost offended. — I’ve got a surprise for you.

— What kind of surprise?

— If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise, — he winked. — But I think you’ll like it.

On Saturday morning Igor woke unusually early and spent a long time in the bathroom, humming in the shower. Larisa lay in bed, listening to his simple little melody, feeling her mood lift.

— Dress up nicely, — he said, coming out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist. — We’re going on an errand.

— What kind of errand on a Saturday morning?

— You’ll see.

An hour later they were standing in a used-car lot. Larisa looked at the rows of cars and couldn’t believe her eyes.

— Igor, are you serious?

— Pick one, — he grinned. — From what we can afford, of course. But pick.

Larisa walked the lot twice. A red 2018 Mazda immediately caught her eye — compact, economical, but still roomy enough for work materials.

— This one, — she said, unable to hide her excitement. — Can we take a look?

The salesman turned out to be a pleasant middle-aged man, and he praised the car sincerely. The paperwork was in order, the condition excellent, one owner. Igor asked practical questions about gas mileage and parts; Larisa just sat behind the wheel and imagined driving to work, not depending on bus schedules, not jostling through rush hour.

— Deal, — Igor said, shaking the salesman’s hand. — We’ll pick it up Monday afternoon.
Vehicle electronics

On the way home Larisa couldn’t stop thanking her husband. She planned where she would park in the courtyard, what music she would listen to, how surprised her colleagues would be. Her birthday promised to be truly special.

On Sunday evening Vika, Igor’s sister, called. Larisa didn’t like those calls — they usually meant Vika needed something. A loan, help with a move, solving yet another everyday problem. At thirty-five, Vika still hadn’t learned to handle difficulties on her own, preferring to turn to her older brother.

— Igor, I need to talk to you seriously, — Larisa heard from the hallway.

The conversation lasted about an hour. Igor spoke quietly, but Larisa caught the intonation — first surprise, then sympathy, then something like resolve. When he returned to the living room, his face looked troubled.

— What happened? — Larisa asked, tearing herself from the TV.

— It’s Vika’s problems, — he sighed heavily. — She… she’s pregnant.

— Pregnant? — Larisa stared at him. — And the father?

— She says it’s complicated. There’s no one to rely on. She’ll be raising the baby alone.

Larisa nodded, but something clenched inside. She knew Vika well enough to understand that any problem of hers sooner or later became Igor’s problem.

— And what does she want?

— Nothing specific yet. Just… support.

On Monday morning, her thirty-fifth birthday, Larisa woke with a sense of celebration. She was already picturing how, after work, they would go pick up the car, how she would drive it for the first time down familiar streets.
Car dealership

Igor was unusually quiet at breakfast. Several times he started to say something, then stopped.

— Why so gloomy on my birthday? — Larisa asked, pouring him coffee.

— Lar, I need to tell you something.

There was something in his voice that made her go cold inside.

— I’m listening.

— Vika called again last night. She… she’s really begging. She really needs a car. To take the baby places, to go to doctors. And she has nothing.

Larisa set her cup on the table and looked at her husband. In his eyes she saw guilt and a kind of painful resolve.

— And?

— I’m sorry, but your present will go to my sister—she needs to drive a child, — my husband decided to give away my car, but not so fast.

Larisa felt as if the world around her froze. Her husband’s words sounded unreal, as if she were hearing them through thick glass.

— Say that again, — she said quietly.

— Come on, Lar, try to understand. Vika’s in such a situation…

— Repeat what you just said.

Igor sighed and repeated it, less confidently this time:

— Vika will get the car. She needs it more.

Larisa rose from the table. Her hands didn’t shake; her voice was steady, but inside everything was boiling.

— I see. Then I have something to say too. — She leaned on the back of the chair. — If you’re set on arranging your little sister’s life, then move in with her. Out of my apartment. In my car you decided to give her.

 

— Lar, what are you talking about? I don’t understand…

— There’s nothing to understand. This is my late mother’s apartment; it belongs to me. And the car you promised me was supposed to be mine too. If you think Vika’s problems are more important than our relationship — be my guest. But then go live with her and solve her problems.

— You can’t be serious…

— I’m more than serious. — Larisa looked at him intently. — I’m filing for divorce. This isn’t a joke, and it’s not a bluff to scare you. I’m just tired of being in second place after your sister.

Igor went pale. Over the years of marriage he had seen his wife tired, upset, sometimes irritated. But he had never heard such cold resolve in her voice.

— Larisa, wait. Let’s talk this through…

— There’s nothing to discuss. You made your decision — I’ve made mine. You have until evening to decide what matters more to you.

She grabbed her bag and headed for the door.

— Where are you going?

— To work. On my birthday. By bus. As always.

The door closed with a soft click.

At work, Larisa threw herself into her projects. Colleagues congratulated her and asked about plans for the evening, but she answered curtly. By lunchtime her phone was blowing up with calls from Igor, but she didn’t pick up.

Around three in the afternoon Vika called.

— Larisa, what is this kindergarten? Igor says you’re making a scene over a car.
Car dealership

— Hello, Vika. Not over a car. Over the fact that my husband thinks it’s normal to give away other people’s presents without asking the person they were meant for.

— Oh, come on! Big deal, a car. I’m having a baby, I really need it more.

— Vika, have you thought about getting a job and buying a car yourself? Like adults do?

— I’m pregnant! It’s hard for me!

— I see. Maybe it’s time to grow up?

Larisa hung up. Her hands were shaking with anger, but she also felt a strange relief. For many years she had put up with Vika’s interests always coming first in their family. Today, her patience had run out.

She got home around seven in the evening. Igor sat in the kitchen, hair rumpled, staring at the wall.

— Well? Have you decided? — she asked, taking off her jacket.

— Lar, I’m sorry. I didn’t think… I mean, I thought you’d understand. Vika’s pregnant…

— Igor, I’m thirty-five. I’ve dreamed of having a car my entire adult life. You promised to give me one; I believed you and was thrilled. And then you decided your sister is more important than your wife. Do I have that right?
Family games

— It’s not like that…

— How is it then?

Igor was silent, then sighed heavily:

— I called the salesman. I said we’ll take the car as agreed.

— And?

— And I told Vika there won’t be a car. She… she’s very upset.

— I can imagine. What did she say?

— Called me… I won’t repeat it. Said I’m betraying my family for my wife.

Larisa snorted:

— Funny. So a wife isn’t family?

— Of course she is. Lar, forgive me. I caved to her tears; I didn’t think about you. Let’s go get the car tomorrow?

Larisa looked at her husband carefully. In his eyes she saw sincere remorse — and something else: fear of losing her.

— All right. We’ll go.

The next day they picked up the red Mazda. The salesman glanced at them with curiosity — yesterday’s phone negotiations must have seemed strange to him. Larisa got behind the wheel, carefully pulled out of the lot, and drove through the city, finally feeling truly free.

Vika didn’t call for three days. When she did, her voice sounded uncertain.

— Igor, I need to tell you something, — Larisa heard from the hallway.

The conversation was short. When Igor came back into the room, his face was both bewildered and angry.

— What happened? — Larisa asked.

— Vika admitted she isn’t pregnant. She said she lied because she figured if we were buying a car, she could ask for it.

Larisa set aside the magazine she’d been flipping through and looked at her husband:

— So she deliberately deceived you to get my present?

 

— Looks like it.

— And what did you tell her?

— That I don’t want to talk to her anymore. At least for a while.

Larisa nodded. She felt no triumph — only the fatigue of the pointless drama they had all gone through.

— Igor, do you realize that if I hadn’t issued an ultimatum, you would have given her the car? And we would never have learned she was lying?
Car dealership

Igor sat down on the sofa next to her:
Car dealership

— I do. And I realize I act like an idiot when it comes to Vika. She’s always known how to pressure me.

— That’s not an excuse.

— I know. I’m sorry. And… thank you for not letting me do something stupid.

Larisa took his hand:

— Next time, before you make decisions that affect both of us, consult me. Deal?

— Deal.

Outside, the evening city hummed. In the courtyard stood the red Mazda — not just a means of getting around, but a symbol that in a family there are boundaries that cannot be crossed. And that sometimes you have to be ready to defend them.

Larisa leaned back against the sofa and thought that her thirty-fifth birthday, even if a day late, had turned out special after all. Not only because of the car, but because she finally said what she should have said many years ago.

Vika never did congratulate her on her birthday. But Larisa wasn’t upset — some relationships are better left alone than maintained on false pretenses. And every morning the car waited for her in the courtyard, ready to take her wherever she needed to go, without a glance at bus timetables or other people’s plans.
Family games

— “The apartment obviously stays with me. The cars too,” my husband Kirill’s voice cut like a knife, bouncing off the polished walls of the lawyer’s office.

He wasn’t talking to me, but to my representative—a young guy in a perfect suit who, until then, had only been nodding silently.

“I’ll toss you a little money, fine. For a while,” Kirill threw me a look full of disdainful magnanimity.
“So you don’t starve to death while you look for… well, any kind of job.”

I looked at my hands resting on my knees. Steady, with short-trimmed nails, stained with soil no brush could ever wash out completely.

“You can take the dacha,” he continued his monologue. “Keep tinkering with your flowers out there. I don’t need it anyway.”

My lawyer gave a barely audible cough. I raised my eyes to him and gave the slightest nod. Time.

“My client does not agree to your terms,” the young man said evenly.

Kirill froze, then laughed—loud and unpleasant.

“Doesn’t agree? That’s new. And what, exactly, are you counting on?”

He turned to me, his eyes awash with genuine bewilderment mixed with contempt.

“What can you do without me at all?”

I stayed silent, letting him run on. He stood up and paced the office, radiating the self-assurance of a man who thinks he owns the world.

“For ten years you rode on my back. Your dresses, your trips, your stupid floristry courses—I paid for it all! You’re a complete zero, Anya. A penniless housewife who wouldn’t last a

day without my money.”

He stopped in front of me, looming like a judge.

“So take the dacha and say thank you I’m not throwing you out on the street. But title to the land stays with me.”

I slowly lifted my head. Looked him straight in the eyes. No hatred, no resentment. I just looked.

“No, Kirill. I won’t take the dacha.”

His face fell.

“What do you mean, ‘won’t take it’?”

“It means I don’t need a handout—I need everything,” I smiled for the first time during the meeting. “I’m buying it from you. Your share. Along with the adjoining three hectares of land.”

For a few seconds a ringing silence hung in the office. Kirill stared at me as if I’d started speaking an unknown language. His lawyer stopped taking notes.

“Buying?” Kirill repeated, a hysterical note creeping into his voice. “You? With what money, may I ask? With the pin money I gave you?”

He turned to my lawyer for support.

“Is she in her right mind? Maybe she needs a doctor, not an attorney?”

Without changing expression, my representative placed a slim folder on the table.

“Here is a preliminary appraisal of the market value of the plot and buildings. And an account statement from my client confirming her full ability to pay.”

Kirill pushed the folder away with disgust without even looking inside. His gaze locked back on me.

“I get it. You’ve got someone. Some rich sugar daddy playing the noble patron.”

He smirked, but the smile came out crooked, mean.

“And you think he’ll keep footing your whims for long? Naive. Women like you are only needed while you’re young. Then they’ll toss you out just like—”

“Kirill,” my voice came out unexpectedly firm, cutting off his stream of filth. “Your fantasies are irrelevant. We’re discussing the division of property.”

“What property, for hell’s sake!” he exploded. “It’s all mine! I earned it! You only spent!”

He began pacing like a caged animal. His polish, his confidence were beginning to crack. I no longer saw a successful businessman, but a bewildered, angry man being deprived of his favorite toy.

“Remember what you were when we met?” He jabbed a finger at me. “A gray mouse from the biology department! I made a person out of you! I brought you up in the world!”

I stayed silent. I remembered. I remembered turning down graduate school because he “needed a wife, not a scientist.”

And how, five years ago, I accidentally ran into my classmate Dima at an exhibition.

He was already a budding entrepreneur and, seeing my sketches and herbariums, said, “Anya, this is a ready-made business! Your talent should be monetized, not hidden within four walls.”

He was the one who helped me register an LLC, with me as the silent founder and him as the general director.

“Your little flowers…” Kirill hissed. “I always hated that smell of soil in the house. You forever messing with your pots like some country bumpkin. It was pathetic.”

“You owe that ‘pathetic sight’ the fact that your office—and your partners’ homes—always had fresh, original arrangements,” my lawyer replied calmly. “Which, by the way, my client provided completely free of charge—as advertising.”

Kirill stumbled mid-word. He had clearly never thought about that. To him, my bouquets were just part of the decor, like the furniture.

He abruptly changed tactics. Came over to the table and sat. Looked at me almost pleadingly.

“Anya, let’s not do this. We’re not strangers, are we? So many years together… Can it really all be crossed out just like that?”

It was his signature manipulation—turn soft, insinuating, press on pity. It used to work flawlessly.

Not now.

“It’s already crossed out, Kirill,” I said. “And you’re the one who did it.”

I stood up.

“My lawyer will contact yours to finalize the details of the land purchase. As for the rest of the property—I propose we split everything evenly, as the law requires.”

His face twisted.

“Evenly? My assets? You won’t get a penny of my money! I’ll prove in court you have nothing to do with it!”

“Go prove it,” I shrugged and headed for the door.

At the threshold I turned back.

“Oh, and, Kirill. Tomorrow morning someone will come by to collect my things. And one more thing… I’m canceling all corporate floral-service contracts that were arranged through your firm.”

“Find yourself a new supplier. I’m afraid your office will soon lose its presentable look.”

I left without waiting for a reply, leaving him in the office to realize that the world where he’d been absolute master had started to collapse. And the cause of it was the “penniless housewife.”

Kirill burst out of the lawyer’s office, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled. Rage clouded his eyes. Buying the land! Canceling contracts! He gripped the steering wheel.

One thought hammered in his head: she couldn’t have. On her own—she couldn’t. It was that other man. An invisible “sugar daddy” pulling the strings. And she—a doll. And now the doll had decided she could live her own life.

He smacked the wheel. No. He’d show her what her flowers were worth without his protection, his money, his name.

The car jerked forward. He didn’t drive home. He drove where her real heart beat. To the dacha. To her realm he had always despised.

When he arrived, he shoved the gate open. The smell of flowers and damp earth hit his nose. The smell he hated most. The smell of her separate life he didn’t understand.

He didn’t go into the house. His target was the greenhouses—three huge, modern structures that had appeared a couple of years ago. He’d laughed then: “You’ll play at it and quit.” But she hadn’t quit.

The door of the first greenhouse wasn’t locked. Inside it was hot and humid. Rows of racks with hundreds of plants.

Some rare orchids, odd succulents, exotic ferns. He understood none of it. To him it was just a green mass. Useless and expensive.

He grabbed the first pot he saw and hurled it onto the concrete floor. The ceramic exploded with a deafening crash.

That snapped the last restraint. He smashed everything. He overturned racks, trampled rare flowers she ordered from abroad, tore the leaves off unique varieties she had bred for years.

He wasn’t destroying plants. He was destroying her world, her work, her secret pride.

When the first greenhouse was a ruin, he moved on to the second. That was where arrangements ready to ship to restaurants and hotels were stored.

He ripped them apart, mixing delicate petals with soil and shards.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was her. He declined the call. Then, smirking, he took several photos of the wreckage and sent them to her. Without a word. Just so she’d see. So she’d understand.

 

I was in my new temporary studio apartment when his message came. I opened the photos and my breath caught.

This wasn’t broken furniture or smashed dishes. This was murder. The murder of what I had been building for ten years.

Every plant in those photos was alive to me. I remembered planting each sprout, fighting off diseases, rejoicing at the first bloom.

I looked at the screen and the years of pain, resentment, humiliation—suddenly drained away. Only one thing remained. An icy, crystal-clear calm. The realization that the point of no return had been passed.

Enough. That’s all.

I no longer felt like a victim. I didn’t cry. I just knew what I had to do.

I dialed.

“Dima, hi. Emergency.”

“What happened, Anya?”

“He wrecked the greenhouses. Everything. To the ground.”

Silence for a beat.

“I’ll be there. Same address?”

“No, I’ll send a new one. And also… please call Sergei Ivanovich. Tell him Flora-Design is ready to sign an exclusive contract with his holding. On the terms he proposed. But there’s one small additional condition.”

“What is it?” Dima asked.

“Full and immediate severance of all ties with Kirill Sokolsky’s company. All of them. Including logistics and supplies.”

I hung up and looked out the window. The city was living its life. And so was I. My new life was starting right now. Amid the rubble of the old.

The next morning Kirill woke with a deep sense of satisfaction. He waited. He waited for a call full of tears and remorse. He waited for her to crawl to him, broken and destroyed, begging his forgiveness.

Instead, at ten o’clock, he got a call from Sergei Ivanovich, the owner of a construction holding, his key partner.

“Kirill, I won’t beat around the bush. We’re ending our cooperation.”

Kirill choked on his coffee.

“What do you mean? Sergei Ivanovich, we have a three-year contract! We have a joint project!”

“The contract is terminated unilaterally. My lawyers will find the grounds, don’t worry. The project is frozen,” the voice was cold as steel. “Good day.”

The line went dead before Kirill could say anything. Busy tone.

Before he even processed it, the phone rang again.

This time it was the head of the logistics company handling all his shipments. Same story. Contract terminated.

Over the course of a week his phone wouldn’t stop. One by one, those he considered his firmest pillars turned away.

His business—his empire, built over years—started to crumble like a house of cards. He tried calling, bargaining, but met only polite refusals.

By week’s end, driven mad, he understood. It was her. But how? How could that worthless housewife have done it?

He found her. Not in a rented studio, but in a panoramic restaurant downtown. She was sitting by the window with Dima. They were laughing, discussing something over a laptop.

He stormed up to their table, chair screeching.

“Was this you?”

I looked up at him. Calm, not surprised.

“What exactly, Kirill? Be specific.”

“Don’t play dumb!” he hissed, drawing the whole room’s attention. “My business! You’re destroying it!”

“Your business?” I smiled. “No. You destroyed it yourself. The day you smashed my greenhouses.”

He stared at me, uncomprehending.

“What do your stinking flowers have to do with anything?”

“Those ‘stinking flowers’ are the property of Flora-Design LLC. A company with an annual turnover of several million euros. We don’t just sell bouquets.

We do landscape branding. We create unique varieties for hotels, develop signature scents for restaurants. What you dismissed as my hobby was an integral part of the image and marketing strategy of your own partners.”

His face slowly blanched.

“You thought I gave you bouquets for free just because? It was marketing.

I was building a network of loyal clients right under your nose. You introduced me to the right people yourself, bragging about your ‘talented’ wife.”

Dima closed the laptop.

“When you destroyed the property of our key supplier and, effectively, derailed several major projects, Sergei Ivanovich deemed you an unreliable partner. Too impulsive.

He chose to keep working with us. The others followed suit. Business, nothing personal.”

Kirill sagged and dropped into a chair. He looked at me and no longer saw the gray mouse he’d picked up ten years earlier. He saw a stranger—strong, dangerous.

“But… from where… the money?” he whispered.

“I didn’t spend everything you gave me, Kirill. I invested. In myself. In my business. In what you called ‘a pathetic hobby.’”

I stood up. Dima stood too.

“You’ll receive a lawsuit tomorrow for property damage and lost profits. And yes, I’m still buying that plot from you. We need a site to build a new, larger greenhouse complex.”

We walked toward the exit, leaving him alone at the table. Crushed, destroyed. He lost everything not because I was strong, but because he believed I was weak.

Outside, Dima took my hand.

“Are you okay?”

“More than,” I said, drawing in the fresh evening air. “It’s only beginning.”

Epilogue. A year later.

I’m standing in the middle of a huge, light-filled space. All around—rows of perfect flowers, the air saturated with their subtle fragrance.

This is the main pavilion of our new agri-complex, built on the land I once bought from Kirill.

Flora-Design has become a market leader. We’ve opened branches in other cities and launched an online school. Sometimes I read about myself in business magazines and it feels like they’re writing about someone else.

Dima stands beside me. He sets a hand on my shoulder and I lean into him. Our business friendship long ago turned into something more.

A calm, grown-up feeling built on trust and a shared cause.

“Do you remember what you were thinking that day he wrecked everything?” he asks softly.

“I do. I thought he’d killed my past,” I answer. “Turns out, he just cleared space for the future.”

I’ve seen Kirill only once in the past year, by chance on the street. He’d gone downhill. Dull eyes, a cheap suit.

His company went bankrupt six months after our divorce. He tried to start something new, but his reputation ran ahead of him.

He saw me and quickly looked away. There was no hatred in his gaze. Only emptiness and incomprehension.

He never realized it wasn’t my revenge that ruined him, but his own blindness. He’d grown used to measuring people by money, power, status—and had forgotten how to see their essence.

He looked at a housewife, while beside him a serious entrepreneur was growing. He saw a “pathetic hobby,” and it was a carefully built empire.

I didn’t feel gloating when I looked at him. Only a light sadness. Because he had lost not just money.

He had lost the ability to be amazed. And to believe that the most valuable things are often hidden behind the most unassuming facade.

Dima and I walk out of the pavilion. Ahead lie the sunset and new plans. And I know for sure that my strength isn’t in million-euro turnovers.

It’s in the soil on my hands that will never wash off. In the love for a craft that was once only a dream. And in the ability to grow a beautiful garden on the ruins left by others.

Lena sat at the kitchen table, twirling a pen between her fingers. A blank sheet of paper lay in front of her, and she still couldn’t bring herself to write the first word of her résumé. For the third month in a row, the job search was going nowhere—either her qualifications didn’t fit, or the pay was miserable, or the interview ended before it even began.

“Still sitting around doing nothing again?” Andrey walked into the kitchen, stretching after his daytime sleep. He worked the night shift and was used to catching up on rest during the day.

“I’m writing a résumé,” Lena answered wearily, without looking up.

“For what position this time?” There was a barely perceptible irony in her husband’s voice.

“Sales manager at a construction company.”

Andrey poured himself some tea from the kettle Lena had boiled that morning. The tea was strong, almost black.

“Do you know anything about construction at all?”

Lena lifted her tired eyes to him.
“I know sales. I worked at Eldorado for three years—remember?”

“That was five years ago,” Andrey said, sitting down across from his wife. “Maybe it’s time to look for something realistic? Not everyone gets to be a manager.”

Lena gripped the pen tighter. They had this conversation almost every day. Andrey never said it outright, but she felt how much it weighed on him that he was supporting the family alone. Utilities, groceries, her public transport pass for going to interviews—all of it fell on his shoulders.
Family games

“I’m trying,” she said quietly.

“I know. It’s just…” Andrey rubbed his forehead. “It’s just hard, you know?”

Lena nodded. Of course she understood. The apartment was hers—a two-room Khrushchev-era flat she’d inherited from her parents. But maintaining it on one system administrator’s salary wasn’t easy, even though Andrey worked at a good company.

A week later the call came out of the blue. Lena was washing the dishes when the phone rang.

“Elena Viktorovna? This is StroyInvest. You applied for the position of sales manager?”

 

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Yes, I did.”

“Could you come in for an interview tomorrow? Say, at two in the afternoon?”

“Of course!” Lena could barely contain her excitement. “May I have the address?”

After writing it down, she hung up and leaned against the fridge. Maybe this time she’d get lucky?

The interview went by in a blur. First with the HR manager, then with the head of sales, then with the deputy director. Lena answered questions, talked about her experience, tried to present herself in the best possible light. In the end, the sales director—a solid man in his fifties—looked at her closely.

“Elena Viktorovna, you’re a good fit for us. Can you start on Monday?”

“I can!” Lena barely restrained the urge to jump for joy.

“The salary is seventy thousand rubles a month plus commission. On average it comes out to around a hundred thousand. Does that work for you?”

Lena’s breath caught. That was more than Andrey earned.

She practically flew home. Andrey was still sleeping—he had two hours before his shift. Lena carefully sat on the edge of the bed.

“Andryusha, wake up. I have news.”

He opened his eyes, instantly alert.
“What happened?”

“I got the job!” Lena couldn’t hold back a smile. “Seventy thousand plus commission!”

Andrey sat up, now fully awake.
“Seriously? Congratulations!” He hugged his wife. “Finally! Now we’ll live like normal people.”

The first months at work flew by. Lena threw herself into her new responsibilities, learned the company’s product line, and built relationships with clients. It turned out she really did have a knack for sales—by her second month she received a bonus as the best employee, and by the end of the third her pay really had approached a hundred thousand.

Things at home improved too. Lena started buying the groceries and took on part of the utilities. Andrey visibly brightened—the tension that had been building for months disappeared.

But six months later, they had That Conversation.

Lena came home from work exhausted—the day had been tough, clients were fussy, and management demanded the impossible. She kicked off her heels and went into the living room, where Andrey was watching the news.

“Hi,” she said, sinking into an armchair.

“Hey. How’s work?”

“Fine. Just tired.”

Andrey turned off the TV and faced his wife.
“Len, I need to talk to you.”

Something in his tone set her on edge.
“About what?”

“About money. About our budget.”

Lena frowned.
“What about it?”

Andrey hesitated, choosing his words.
“You see, I’ve done the math… During the time you weren’t working, I spent roughly four hundred thousand rubles on the two of us. Maybe a little more. Groceries, utilities, your expenses…”

“So?”

“Well, now that you’re making more than I am, it would be fair if you put a bit more into the household budget. So we’re square.”

Lena slowly straightened up in the chair.
“What do you mean, ‘square’?”

“You know,” Andrey avoided her gaze, “I carried the family alone for a long time. Now it’s your turn. I think it would be fair if you put about seventy percent of your salary toward our shared expenses, and I’ll put in fifty percent of mine. That way we’ll gradually make up what I spent.”
Family games

Lena stared at her husband, not believing her ears.
“Andrey, we’re a family. We’re supposed to help each other. I wasn’t working not because I was lazy, but because I couldn’t find the right job.”

“I understand. But fair is fair.”

“Fair?” Lena’s voice turned cold. “Is it fair that I cook, clean, and do the laundry? Did you count that in your expenses too?”

“Lena, don’t be like that. I just want everything between us to be fair.”

She stood and walked to the window. The silence dragged on.

“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll think about it.”

For the next few days Lena was pensive and quiet. Andrey tried several times to bring up the topic again, but she answered in monosyllables: “Still thinking.” He knew she was hurt, but he believed his position was fair. After all, he really had supported them both for a long time.

On Saturday morning, Lena came back from some errand carrying a folder. Andrey was eating breakfast in the kitchen.

“Where were you?” he asked.

“Out on business,” Lena sat down across from him and put the folder on the table. “I have some documents for you.”

“What documents?”

Lena opened the folder and took out several sheets.
“A rental agreement.”

Andrey almost choked on his coffee.
“A what?”

“A rental agreement for one room in my apartment,” Lena explained calmly. “Since we’re counting everything fairly now, let’s make it truly fair.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Not at all.” Lena flipped through the contract. “Look, I calculated everything. The market rent for a one-bedroom apartment in our neighborhood is thirty thousand rubles a month. But since you’re my husband, I’m giving you a discount. Twenty-five thousand. That’s not expensive, you have to admit.”

Andrey looked at his wife, unsure whether she was joking or serious.

“Lena, this is our apartment…”

“My apartment,” she corrected him. “I inherited it. And if we’re splitting expenses down the middle, and you also think I owe you for the time I wasn’t working, then it’s only logical that you pay for housing.”

“But we’re husband and wife!”

“Husband and wife means ‘for better or for worse, for richer or poorer.’ What we’ve got here is everyone tallying up their own side.”

Andrey set down his cup and looked closely at the contract.
“And you seriously want me to sign this?”

“If I owe you for groceries, then you can pay for living in my apartment,” his enterprising wife replied. “It’ll make me feel better. Everything honest and transparent.”

Andrey said nothing, leafing through the agreement. Every clause was properly written, legally airtight.

“Is this revenge?” he asked at last.

“No, it’s justice. By your logic.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Lena stood and began clearing the dishes.

“By the way,” she said casually, “I have another proposal.”

“What kind?” Andrey asked warily.

 

“Cleaning services and cooking. I checked—weekly cleaning costs three thousand, and a home cook is at least a thousand rubles a day. That comes to forty-three thousand a month. But for you, as my nearest and dearest, I’ll give a discount—thirty thousand.”

Andrey opened his mouth but couldn’t find any words.

“Lena…”

“What, ‘Lena’? I’m not a professional housewife. I have a full-time job I get paid for. And housework is additional labor. If we’re counting everything, then let’s count everything fairly.”

She set the cups in the sink and turned back to her husband.
“So that’s fifty-five thousand a month from you. Plus your share of groceries and utilities. Fair, don’t you think?”

Andrey stared at the rental contract. The numbers swam before his eyes. Fifty-five thousand—almost his entire salary.

“You’re punishing me,” he said quietly.

“No,” Lena sat down beside him. “I’m just showing you where your logic leads. You want to treat our relationship like a business partnership? Fine. Then we’ll count everything.”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“What did you mean? That I should reimburse you for expenses from when I wasn’t working, but keep cooking and cleaning for free, getting nothing for it?”

Andrey was silent. Put that way, his proposal did sound unfair.

“I didn’t think it through,” he admitted.

“Didn’t think—or decided you could exploit me a little?”

The word “exploit” cut sharply.

“I didn’t want to exploit you,” Andrey took his wife’s hand. “It’s just… it was hard carrying everything alone. And when you started earning well, it seemed to me you should make up what I spent.”

“Andrey, what if tomorrow I lost my job again? Or got sick? Would you start counting how much you’ve spent on me then too?”

He thought about it. What would he do in that situation?

“Probably not,” he answered honestly.

“Then what’s the difference?”

Andrey set the contract aside and rubbed his face with his hands.
“Lena, I’m sorry. I acted like an idiot.”

“You did,” she agreed, but her voice softened.

“Can we put everything back the way it was? Shared budget, shared expenses?”

“We can. But on one condition.”

“What condition?”

“That we never again tally up who owes what to whom in this family. We’re one team. It doesn’t matter who earns how much.”
Family games

Andrey nodded.
“Deal.”

Lena slipped the rental agreement back into the folder.
“And one more thing. When we have children and I go on maternity leave, you won’t be adding up how much you spend on me.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “You have my word.”

They embraced. A light spring rain was falling outside the window, and the apartment somehow felt quieter and calmer.

“I’m still going to keep the contract, though,” Lena said, snuggling into her husband.

“Why?”

“Just in case. In case you ever decide again that ‘fairness’ matters more than family.”

Andrey laughed.
“I won’t. I’ve learned my lesson.”

 

And Lena thought that sometimes the most important lessons in family life have to be taught in unusual ways. And it’s a good thing when there’s someone to teach them—and someone to learn them.

— Mom, please, just for an hour, — Andrey was saying it for the third time, and with each repetition his voice grew thinner and more pleading. He stood in the middle of their small living room, feeling like an awkward teenager caught off guard.

Galina Borisovna didn’t even turn her head. She sat in the only armchair Oksana loved so much, ramrod straight, and looked with disdain at the children’s drawings taped to the fridge door. Her silence was louder than any rebuke. She had arrived forty minutes earlier without calling — simply appeared on the doorstep with a suitcase and the expression of someone to whom everyone owes something. Now, with her regal presence, she was turning their cozy family apartment into a satellite of a VIP lounge.
Family games

— Mom, the train arrives in an hour and a half. I have to get to the station, meet Oksana… You understand, she’ll be tired after the trip, with bags.

He helplessly swept his gaze around the room. Five-year-old Misha was intently building a crooked tower out of blocks, and three-year-old Katya was trying to feed a plastic carrot to a plush rabbit. The ordinary peaceful bustle that an hour ago had seemed like normal life now looked like flagrant disorder, compromising him in his mother’s eyes.

At last, Galina Borisovna deigned to react. Slowly, with a grimace of disgust, she shifted her gaze from the refrigerator to her grandchildren, as if appraising shoddy merchandise.

— Andrey, — she pronounced his name as though rinsing her mouth with something unpleasant. — I’m going to tell you something, and you try to get it the first time.

— What is it?

— I don’t need your kids here even for free, sonny! I came to you to relax, not to look after your brood! So I won’t even stay in the same room with them!

She didn’t raise her voice. Her words dropped into the room like heavy, cold stones, driving all the air out. Andrey felt the blood rush to his face. It wasn’t just refusal — it was a public annulment of his children, his family, his life.

— But it’s just an hour… — he mumbled, already sensing how futile his words were.

— I don’t care, — she cut him off and, rising gracefully from the chair, headed not for the door but deeper into the apartment. Her gait was that of a mistress inspecting her domain. She was walking straight into his and Oksana’s bedroom.

On autopilot, Andrey moved after her. He couldn’t formulate what he wanted to say or do, but her very movement toward their private space triggered a dull panic in him.

Galina Borisovna entered the bedroom and, without slowing, went to the big sliding wardrobe. With a soft squeak she pushed the mirrored door aside. Her gaze slid methodically, without the slightest interest, over his shirts and suits and came to rest on Oksana’s side.

— Well then, let’s see what your fashionista has for the evening, — she said more to herself than to him. Her hand, adorned with a massive gold ring, plunged into the row of neatly hung dresses. She shoved hangers aside with such breezy insolence it was as if she were rifling through rags in a thrift store. — What’s this sack? My God, that color… And this, I suppose, is for “going out”?

She spoke calmly, with a faint note of investigative curiosity, which was more frightening than open aggression. Andrey stood in the doorway, paralyzed. He watched those foreign, imperious hands rummaging through his wife’s things, touching her underwear, judging her dresses, and he couldn’t say a word. He should have stopped her. He should have said, “Mom, stop. Those are Oksana’s things.” But his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. This wasn’t just a woman — this was his mother, a force of nature he had been trained to obey since childhood. Any protest felt unthinkable, like trying to stop an avalanche with bare hands.

His mute presence in the doorway meant nothing to her. Galina Borisovna acted with the method and entitlement that only a long, unquestioned maternal status could confer. She wasn’t just rooting through her daughter-in-law’s belongings — she was conducting an audit of someone else’s life, issuing a silent but perfectly clear verdict. She pulled out a silk slip dress, held it by two fingers as if it were something indecent, and with a little snort of disdain tossed it onto the bed. It landed on Oksana’s pillow, crumpling like a discarded napkin.

 

Andrey swallowed. Scalding shame rose from somewhere deep in his gut and burned his throat. He didn’t just feel like a bad husband — he felt like an accomplice. Every gesture she made, every appraising look — all of it was happening with his tacit consent. The children in the next room had fallen quiet, and in that sudden silence the squeak of hangers along the metal rod sounded deafening.

— Mom, don’t, please, — he finally managed. His voice sounded weak, unconvincing. — Oksana will be upset. Those are her things.

Without turning around, Galina Borisovna answered while continuing to sort through the outfits:

— So what if they’re hers? It’s not like a stranger is taking them. Or does your wife already think I’m a stranger? I knew she was turning you against me. Bought rags worth three paychecks, and her mother-in-law comes once a year — and she begrudges me.

She turned her shoulders toward him; her face was utterly calm, even righteous. In her world, everything was logical and proper. She was the mother. She had the right. And any attempt to dispute that right was a rebellion to be crushed in the bud. Andrey opened his mouth to object, to say that Oksana wasn’t begrudging anything, that this wasn’t the point, but the words jammed somewhere in his chest. What could he even say? That she was violating every imaginable rule? To her, those rules didn’t exist.

Her choice fell on a dark blue velvet dress. New, with a barely noticeable cardboard tag at the collar. Oksana had bought it for their anniversary and hadn’t worn it yet, saving it for a special occasion. Galina Borisovna took the dress off the hanger and held it up to herself, gazing at her reflection in the mirrored door.

— Well, at least something decent, — she nodded approvingly. — She’s always in those pants of hers, like a little boy.

With that she began unbuttoning her travel cardigan right there in the middle of the bedroom. Andrey wanted to turn away, to leave, to sink through the floor. But he kept standing there, as if nailed in place, watching this profanation of their most private space. He saw her take off her clothes and put on his wife’s dress. The velvet clung to her heavy figure in a way it was never meant to fit Oksana’s slender frame, but that didn’t seem to bother Galina Borisovna at all. She went to the dressing table, moved Oksana’s perfume bottle aside, and, leaning toward the mirror, began fixing her hair.

— There now. Much better, — she said, admiring herself. — And tell me, where was she going dressed like this? To the store for bread? Just throwing money away.

She turned toward him, expecting approval, and at that very moment his jeans pocket buzzed briefly. Andrey pulled out his phone. On the screen glowed a message from Oksana. Two words that chilled him inside: “We’re pulling up. Come out.”

The door lock clicked with a dry, final sound that, to Andrey, went off like the starter pistol for a race he had already lost. He froze, unable even to turn around. A moment later Oksana appeared in the hallway. Tired from the road, with a travel bag on her shoulder and a light jacket thrown over her arm. She stopped, and her gaze, which had first slid over the suddenly subdued children, moved slowly to her husband, and then — into the bedroom, where, like a monument to someone else’s brazen impudence, stood his mother.

She didn’t say a word. There was no surprised gasp, no angry shout. The traces of travel fatigue on her face vanished for an instant, leaving it absolutely impassive, like a mask. She looked at Galina Borisovna, dressed in her new velvet dress, and there was no question in her eyes. There was only fact. Dry, indisputable, like a medical report. She saw everything: the dress stretched taut over a foreign body, the crumpled things tossed on her pillow, and the pathetic, guilty posture of her husband frozen between them.

Momentarily nonplussed, Galina Borisovna quickly gathered herself. She tried to play the gracious hostess welcoming a long-awaited guest to her own home.

— Oksanochka, you’re here! And we… I decided to help you straighten up a bit, tried this on, too — thought maybe we’d sit together this evening, celebrate my arrival.

Her voice sounded falsely cheerful, but the falseness shattered against the wall of Oksana’s silence. Oksana slowly set her bag and jacket on the floor. She took a step forward, skirting her husband as if he weren’t there at all. Andrey didn’t just feel superfluous — he felt invisible, a piece of furniture unworthy of even a passing glance.

She entered the bedroom. Her movements were measured, almost somnambulistic. She didn’t look at her mother-in-law or the mess. She went to the same wardrobe that, just minutes earlier, Galina Borisovna had been so unceremoniously inspecting, and slid the mirrored door aside. Her hand reached confidently into the depths, past the festive hangers, and drew out an old terrycloth bathrobe. Faded from many washings, the color worn in places, loops pulled on the sleeves. The very robe she wore while drinking her morning coffee and sometimes when she ran out onto the balcony. A completely domestic, intimate thing, not meant for other eyes.

Oksana turned. She held the robe out in front of her at arm’s length, like a flag of capitulation offered to an enemy. She took a few steps toward her mother-in-law and stopped. The silence in the room grew so dense it seemed you could touch it. Even the children stopped fidgeting and froze, sensing the change in the air.

— Get changed, — Oksana’s voice was terrifyingly calm. Quiet, even, without a single quiver. It wasn’t a command or a request. It was a statement of the inevitable.

Galina Borisovna went rigid, her face slowly flushing a deep crimson. She looked from the humiliating robe in her daughter-in-law’s hands to her cold, indifferent face. At last the full scope of the insult dawned on her. She hadn’t just been caught out — she had been publicly, silently reduced to the level of a servant to whom one tosses work clothes.

— You… what?! — she gasped, her usual authoritative manner collapsing into a ragged screech. — How dare you order me around! What is this supposed to be?!

Oksana didn’t answer. She just stood there, holding the robe out. Her calm was an absolute weapon. It devalued Galina Borisovna’s scream, turning her righteous fury into a pitiful, impotent hysteria. Andrey tried to intervene, took a step, started to say something, but met his wife’s gaze. There was nothing in her eyes but cold steel. And he realized that if he uttered even one word in defense of his mother, he would cease to exist for her forever.

— I’m talking to you! Are you deaf? — Galina Borisovna took a step forward, her face contorted with rage. She had expected anything: tears, shouting, accusations, a scene in which she would, as usual, emerge the victor by crushing everyone with her authority. Instead she collided with something new and incomprehensible — an icy wall of complete disregard.

Oksana didn’t deign to reply. She simply tossed the old robe onto the bed beside the crumpled silk dress. Then, just as calmly and methodically, she walked up to Galina Borisovna. There was no aggression in her movement; it was businesslike, like an orderly performing an unpleasant but necessary procedure. She took her mother-in-law by the elbow. Her grip was not strong, but it was unyielding. It was a touch that left no choice.

Galina Borisovna tried to wrench free, her body tensing.

— Hands off! Who do you think you are, you little brat?! Andrey, say something! Tell your wife not to dare lay a hand on me!

She appealed to her son, but her cry hung in the air. Andrey stood rooted, watching the scene as if it were a silent film. He was no longer a participant but a spectator. A spectator to the execution of his maternal bond, which his wife was now, before his eyes, coolly carrying out.

Ignoring the shouting and resistance, Oksana led her mother-in-law out of the bedroom. She moved with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing and will see it through. Galina Borisovna dug in her heels, tried to yank her arm away, but Oksana’s grasp was iron. They passed through the living room, by the children frozen in amazement, staring wide-eyed at the strange procession. They didn’t understand the words, but they fully felt the cold resolve emanating from their mother.

In the hallway, without releasing her mother-in-law’s elbow, Oksana scooped up her suitcase and travel bag with her free hand. Then she just as calmly opened the front door. The stairwell, with its dim bulb and scuffed walls, greeted them with an institutional chill. Oksana gently led Galina Borisovna across the threshold and set her bags beside her. All of this — in silence.

 

Only on the landing did Galina Borisovna seem to fully grasp what was happening. Her face went from crimson to ashen gray. She looked at Oksana, at her son’s door closing, and her rage gave way to bewildered disbelief.

— You… You’re throwing me out? From my son’s home?!

Oksana stopped in the doorway, her hand on the handle. She didn’t look at her mother-in-law but at her husband, who had silently followed them all this time.

— Your vacation is over, Galina Borisovna, — she said in the same even, colorless voice. Then her gaze locked onto Andrey. — Andrey, call your mother a taxi.

It wasn’t a request. It was an order. Final, definitive. She left him no room for maneuver, for compromise, for pitiful attempts to reconcile them. She presented him with a fact.

And at that moment she began to close the door. Slowly, inexorably, separating the stairwell from the apartment space. Andrey watched the narrowing gap, his wife’s face disappearing, and in the last second he saw her eyes — empty, cold, alien. The door slammed. The lock clicked, turning twice.

He was left on the landing. On one side — the locked door of his home, his family. On the other — his mother, who now looked at him with a hurricane of rage, humiliation, and contempt in her eyes. He was no longer caught between two fires — he was alone…
Family games

“Your sister stole from me.”

For a few seconds the line filled with a dense, heavy silence in which only the background noise of someone else’s office could be heard. Then Maxim’s uncertain voice, distorted by the phone speaker, came through.

“Olya, maybe you’re mistaken? What are you even talking about?”

Olga stood in the middle of the bedroom, flooded with indifferent morning sun. Her gaze was fixed on the open jewelry box on the vanity. Carved dark wood, Maxim’s gift for their first anniversary. The red velvet inside was mercilessly empty in its two main compartments. Where a thin gold chain with a teardrop pendant and tiny stud earrings had lain as recently as yesterday morning, two dull, lonely dents now gaped. She was not mistaken. She had worn those earrings practically nonstop; yesterday, for the first time in a month, she had put them in the box, deciding to wear others. It had been almost a ritual, and she remembered every detail.

“I’m not mistaken,” her voice sounded even and cold as metal. There was no panic in it, only measured, icy fury. “My gold chain is gone. And the earrings. The ones your mother gave us for our wedding.”

“Wait, maybe you put them somewhere else? You know how it is, automatically…”

“No, Maxim,” she cut him off, not letting him finish this absurd attempt at an excuse. Her fingers tightened around the phone. “I didn’t move them. And that’s not all. Remember the new bottle of Chanel you brought me from your business trip? That’s gone too. I only took the plastic off it yesterday. And the cherry on top—five thousand disappeared from my wallet in the hall. Exactly one bill. Yesterday there was only one guest in this house. Your sister.”

Now she was moving through the apartment, and each step was like a hammer blow driving nails into the coffin of their peaceful life. She went to the entryway, opened her bag, pulled out her wallet. Opened it as if conducting a forensic experiment. Yes, just so. Small bills, bank cards, and an empty compartment where, just last night, a new, crisp five-thousand-ruble note had lain—the one she’d withdrawn from the ATM for the weekend. She remembered how Lera, walking past the chest of drawers, had cast a fleeting glance at her bag. At the time it seemed like ordinary curiosity. Now that glance took on a sinister, predatory meaning.

“Lera? Olya, come on, no way. Sure, she’s flighty and might blurt things out without thinking, but stealing… that’s too much. Are you sure that—”

“She could, Maxim. And she did,” Olga didn’t shout, but she raised her voice to a ringing, ear-cutting pitch. It was unbearable. He didn’t believe her. He doubted her words, trying to protect, to whitewash his sister. In his tone she heard not a desire to get to the bottom of it, but an instinct to smooth the scandal over, to pretend nothing had happened. “She sat here, drank my tea, smiled to my face, and meanwhile was scouting what she could pocket. She knew I wouldn’t check her every step in my own home!”

She stopped at the window, looking down at the fussy life of the city below. People hurried about their business, unaware that in this particular apartment a whole world was collapsing. It wasn’t about the money. Not even about the gold or the perfume. It was a brazen, cynical invasion of her territory, a spit in the face of her trust. And now her husband, her closest person, was effectively becoming an accomplice to that spit by refusing to believe the obvious.

“I’ll call her now, talk to her…” he mumbled helplessly.

“I don’t care what you do,” Olga cut in. The cold had returned to her voice, pushing out the brief flare of anger. Now she was absolutely calm because she had made a decision. “I don’t need your talk or her lying excuses. I don’t care how you do it. Shake it out of her, or go buy everything new down to the last kopek. But if by the time you get home today my things aren’t back in their places, don’t even come up to the apartment. Turn around and go live with your thief. The choice is yours.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She simply hit the end button, and the hum of the unfamiliar office cut off. The apartment fell silent. But it wasn’t the silence of an empty house. It was the silence of a taut string. Olga set the phone on the windowsill. She wasn’t going to cry or smash dishes. She would simply wait. Wait to see whose side he chose. Whose truth. Hers or his sister’s.

Maxim threw the phone onto the passenger seat so hard it bounced and hit the door. He sat in his car in the office parking lot, and for a moment the world beyond the windshield lost its focus. Olga’s voice, cold and clear, kept sounding in his head, repeating the last phrase over and over. “The choice is yours.” It wasn’t just an ultimatum. It was a kill shot. He started the engine, and the car lurched forward too sharply. He wasn’t driving home. He was driving to his sister’s.

Thoughts fluttered in his head like a startled flock of birds. Lera. A thief? The thought seemed wild, absurd. His kid sister—impulsive, always getting into some scrape, living paycheck to paycheck—but… to steal? From them? He tried to find another, logical explanation. Olga was mistaken. She had put the jewelry in a different box. She had spent the money and forgotten. The perfume… maybe the bottle broke and she just didn’t want to admit it? But he knew his wife. Olga was meticulous to the core. If she said things were missing, then they truly weren’t where they belonged.

He turned into the courtyard of an old five-story block where Lera rented her tiny studio. The stairwell met him with the smell of damp and sour cabbage. He climbed to the third floor, his heart thudding somewhere in his throat. He didn’t know how to start the conversation. He felt both like a judge and a traitor. He pressed the doorbell. Behind the door the TV went silent, shuffling steps approached. The door opened.

“Oh, Max! Hi! What are you doing here, not at work?” Lera stood in the doorway in home shorts and a stretched-out T-shirt, hair in a messy bun. She looked surprised but not scared. She was smiling. “Hey, Ler. We need to talk,” he walked inside, into the cramped entryway. The air held a sickly-sweet scent from cheap incense, trying to drown out tobacco. “Tea can wait. This is serious.”

She turned. The smile slowly slid off her face, replaced by a wary look.

“What is it? Is Mom okay?”

 

“Mom’s fine,” he paused, mustering his strength. “Lera. You were at our place yesterday. After you left, Olga couldn’t find several things.” He looked straight into her eyes, trying to catch even a shadow of guilt, the slightest sign of a lie. But Lera only raised her brows in surprise.

“What do you mean ‘couldn’t find’? Was I supposed to keep track of her stuff?”

“Her gold earrings are gone, the chain, the perfume, and five thousand from her wallet,” he said the words dryly, as if reading them into a report.

Her reaction was instantaneous. She recoiled as if he’d hit her. Outrage twisted her face; a bright flush flooded her cheeks.

“What?! Are you hinting at something, Maxim? You came here to accuse me of theft? Your own sister?”

“I’m not hinting at anything. I’m saying the things vanished after your visit. No one else was in the house.”

“Oh, that’s what this is! I knew I shouldn’t have dragged myself over there! Your queen invited me just so she’d have someone to blame afterward? She stared at me all evening like I was contagious! Picked on every word! And now I’m a thief! Brilliant!”

She wasn’t shouting, but her voice rang with indignation. She paced the tiny kitchen from corner to corner like a tigress in a cage.

“Lera, let’s be calm. If you took something, maybe by accident…”

“By accident?!” She stopped short and drilled him with her gaze. “Do you think I’m senile? I ‘accidentally’ slipped gold and cash into my pocket? Max, are you out of your mind? She put this in your head, didn’t she? And you, as usual, lapped it up! She’ll drive you away from all of us soon, don’t you see? First she didn’t like Mom, now it’s me. Who’s next on her blacklist?”

He stayed silent, thrown by the ferocity of her counterattack. He had expected anything—tears, denial—but not this aggressive reframing. Lera deftly shifted the blame, casting herself as the victim and Olga as a spiteful, suspicious shrew. And the seeds of doubt he had tried to stamp out began sprouting again. What if it was true? What if Olga disliked her so much she was ready to accuse her of theft to banish her forever?

“So what do you want from me?” Lera crossed her arms, her look sharp and prickly. “Want me to turn my pockets inside out? Conduct a search of my apartment? Go on, don’t be shy! You came here as an investigator, not a brother!”

He rubbed his hand over his face wearily. His head was buzzing. He’d hit a dead end. He had come seeking a solution and found only more chaos. He looked at his sister—angry, offended, righteous in her fury. And he remembered his wife’s voice on the phone, cold as steel. He was between a rock and a hard place. There was no way out.

“I just want the things found,” he said quietly.

“Then look under your wife’s pillow!” Lera spat. “And don’t come here with this again. I’m not your punching bag. Get out, Maxim.”

The lock clicked with a dry, lifeless sound. Maxim stepped into the apartment as into a hostile, alien space. Silence. Not the soothing silence of waiting for a loved one, but thick, suffocating, like cotton. From the kitchen came the faint aroma of fried garlic and meat, and that ordinary, homely smell clashed violently with the icy atmosphere hanging in the air. He took off his jacket, hung it on a hook, and walked on stiff legs to the kitchen.

Olga stood at the stove with her back to him. She wore a simple T-shirt and pants; her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. Her movements were mechanical, precise. She stirred something in the pan with a wooden spatula, and the soft, steady sizzle of oil was the apartment’s only sound. She didn’t turn around. She knew he’d come in but didn’t show it. It was worse than shouting. It was deliberate, humiliating disregard.

“Olya…” he began; his voice sounded unsure and hoarse. She didn’t turn. “Are you going to have dinner?” her voice was utterly even, devoid of any emotion, as if she were asking a passerby.

“I went to see Lera,” he went on, ignoring the question and stepping closer. He felt like an idiot, forced to explain himself in his own home. “She swears she didn’t take anything. She… she’s furious. Said you’re slandering her, that you’ve always hated her.” He fell silent, waiting for a reaction. But Olga kept silently stirring dinner. The pan hissed, ticking off the seconds of his failure. Her imperturbability infuriated him far more than if she had started smashing plates.

“Where are the things?” she asked just as quietly, without turning her head. That simple question devalued all his words, his trip, his soul-searching. It reduced the complex, tangled situation to a single fact he couldn’t provide.

“They’re not there, Olya. She won’t admit it. She…”

“I understand,” she turned off the stove and finally faced him. Her face was calm, almost serene, and that made it frightening. There was no anger in her eyes, only a cold, considered assessment. She looked at him the way one looks at a faulty mechanism that no longer performs its function.

“Listen,” he stepped closer again, a wheedling, conciliatory note creeping into his voice. “This is all nerves, a misunderstanding. To hell with the stuff! I’ll buy you new ones. A chain, earrings—any you want. Even better than the ones that were. We’ll order the perfume today. Forget about the money. Let’s just end this circus.”

That was his biggest mistake. He saw it in the brief narrowing of her eyes. He had offered her a deal. He had tried to buy his way out of her humiliation, out of her truth. He hadn’t just failed to believe her—he had priced her principles at a few grams of gold and a bottle of perfume.

 

“You’ll buy new ones?” she slowly, deliberately repeated his words. Her voice was no longer calm. A bright, cutting metal rang in it. “Do you really think this is about money? That I staged all this over a piece of gold? You went to her, listened to her lies, her filth about me, and now you’re offering to pay me to shut up?”

She stepped almost right up to him. Now he could see everything in her eyes: contempt, disappointment, and that same icy fury she had held back for so long.

“Do whatever you want, but by tonight the things your sister stole had better be home. If not… then don’t bother coming home anymore. Go live with your sister.”

She said it not as a threat, but as a sentence. Final, not subject to appeal. She left him no room to maneuver, for compromise, for his attempts to sit on two chairs at once. She simply put up a wall. Turning away, she took a plate, served herself dinner, and sat at the table. She picked up her fork and began to eat. Calmly, methodically, as if he no longer existed in that kitchen. And he stood in the middle of the room on the scorched ground of his compromises, deafened by the smell of fried meat and his own helplessness. He understood that his attempt to smother the war had only led to its formal declaration. And he was already losing it.

Maxim didn’t last ten minutes in that torture. The silence in which Olga calmly and methodically ate her dinner was louder than any scandal. In every movement—in the way she raised the fork to her mouth, in the straightness of her back—he felt a silent but crushing rebuke. He was a stranger in his own home. In a desperate, idiotic attempt to break the blockade, he did the one thing that could make it worse. He took out his phone and stepped onto the balcony. His fingers dialed his sister’s number.

“Lera, it’s me. Listen, come over. Right now,” his voice was tense and low.

“Are you crazy? After what you said to me today? So I can step over the threshold of your viper’s lair again? Never.”

“Please,” a plea slipped into his voice that he hadn’t expected from himself. “She won’t hear anything. She’s throwing me out. Just come. Look her in the eye, tell her how it is. She has to see you’re not lying. Help me, Ler.”

He wasn’t lying. He truly was on the edge. He believed that a face-to-face, a direct look, live emotions could break down the wall of cold contempt Olga had erected. He hoped for a miracle. Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang, sharp and demanding.

Olga raised her head from her plate. Her eyes met Maxim’s, and there was neither surprise nor anger in them. Only the statement of a fact. The fact of his final betrayal. He had let the enemy into their fortress. He had opened the gate himself. Maxim let Lera in. She entered, sweeping the room with a defiant look, ready to fight. She wore jeans and a bright top, and the bold, cheap perfume she always loved wafted from her. She stopped in the middle of the living room, arms crossed. Olga slowly rose from the kitchen table and came into the room. She didn’t look at Lera. She looked at her husband.

“What is she doing here?” she asked as if Lera weren’t in the room.

“We have to sort this out together!” Maxim blurted, feeling cold sweat down his back. “Lera, tell her. Tell her you didn’t take anything.” Lera turned her prickly gaze on Olga.

“I wasn’t planning to report to you. I came to help my brother, the one you’ve got under your heel. Think I don’t see how you twist him? First you drove him away from his mother, now you’re after me. What, decided to bend everything to your will? So he has no one left but you?”

“You didn’t need to steal for me to know what you are,” Olga answered evenly, taking a step forward. She moved smoothly, like a predator closing the distance. “But it turns out you’re not only jealous—you’re a petty thief as well.”

“Who do you think you are?!” Lera squealed, losing control. “Look at yourself, queen! Sitting in your golden cage that Max built for you and thinking you can do anything? Think I don’t see how you look at me? Like I’m dirt under your nails! You just enjoy humiliating me!”

They stood facing each other. Maxim flitted between them like a helpless witness to a duel.

“Girls, stop…”

“Shut up!” both women snapped at him in unison.

 

And in that moment Olga went still. She stood so close she could pick out every note in the smell coming from Lera. It wasn’t her usual cloying-sweet perfume. Beneath it, faint but unmistakable, another scent pushed through. Deep, heady, with notes of jasmine and patchouli. The scent of her new bottle of Chanel. Olga drew in a subtle breath. That was it. No doubt.

She slowly raised her eyes to Lera. Her gaze grew heavy, like molten lead.

“You smell like my perfume.” Lera jerked; for a second her face lost all its aggressive confidence, animal fear flickering in her eyes.

“What? You’re crazy. It’s mine! I always buy it!”

“You’re lying,” Olga’s voice was quiet but piercing. “You told me yourself yesterday that Chanel is a smell for ‘stuffy old ladies’ and you’d never douse yourself with it. Did you forget?”

Lera turned pale. She was caught. Stupidly, ridiculously—by a smell. She opened her mouth to say something but found no words. In that ringing pause Olga turned her head and looked at Maxim. It was a silent question. It lasted an eternity. There she is—your sister. There is your truth. Now what?

Maxim looked at Lera’s white face, at her frightened, darting eyes, and everything finally fell into place. With a deafening crack, all his hopes, his doubts, his brotherly affection collapsed. He had been deceived. Used. His sister—his own flesh and blood—had lied to his face, hiding behind his back. He stepped forward. His face turned to stone. He gripped Lera by the elbow so hard she cried out.

“Out,” he growled, and it was the voice of a stranger, a frightening man.

“Max, what are you…” she stammered, trying to wrench free.

“Out of here!” He dragged her to the door, his fingers clamping her arm like a vise. “I don’t ever want to see you again. Ever. Do you understand me? I don’t have a sister.”

 

He yanked the front door open and literally shoved her out onto the landing.

“You’ll regret this! Both of you will!” came her spiteful, near-shriek. Maxim slammed the door and turned the lock. Twice. He was breathing hard, pressing his forehead to the cold metal. Absolute silence settled in the apartment. He turned. Olga stood in the same spot. She looked at the empty space where Lera had been, then shifted her gaze to him. There was no victory in her eyes, no gratitude. Nothing. She silently turned, went to the kitchen, sat down at the table, and picked up her fork to continue her cooling dinner. The war was over. The territory had been won back. But there were no victors.

Lena suspected her husband was unfaithful. Lately he’d been acting too strangely, too distant. Only two years into the marriage, and they already felt like strangers. Her mother-in-law had warned her, said her son was fickle and that Lena should think a hundred times before deciding to marry him. Back then Lena believed she could make her husband settle down. She had been very wrong. Now she herself understood how foolish and naïve she’d been—but it was too late to cry over it. She needed proof, and if Maksim really was seeing someone on the side, she would simply file for divorce.

 

Her husband had been coming home late. Often Lena was already asleep, and when she woke up, he would slip off to work. But that evening she decided to stay up. She made a delicious dinner, dressed up, and decided it was time they talked. Lena turned off the light in the living room, watching the streetlights shimmer outside. Maksim assumed his wife was asleep. He tiptoed into the living room and started when he heard a familiar voice.

“Why are you sitting in the dark and scaring me like that?” Maksim snapped.

“What’s there to be afraid of if you’ve got nothing to hide?” Lena asked, slowly turning. She looked at her husband and smiled.

Maksim switched on the light; she could see he’d gone pale. They had supposedly loved each other so much, but now a chasm had opened between them—one that seemed impossible to bridge. Seeing her husband no longer filled Lena with that joyful flutter. She felt superfluous, and time after time forced her feelings to fall silent. Perhaps they had gone silent for good.

“You’re talking nonsense. I’d like to see you in my place,” Maksim snorted. “Why aren’t you asleep at this hour?”

“I was waiting for you. I made dinner. We hardly see each other anymore, so I thought we should try to fix that. You work late, and I… I don’t mind going to bed later.”

Lena kept thinking how best to approach the question gnawing at her. She watched her husband, trying to catch a flicker of fear in his eyes. Was he even a little afraid of losing her? Did it cross his mind their marriage could end?

“You shouldn’t have waited up. I’m tired—I’m in no mood to talk. You’ve already said it yourself: I’m working late, not out having fun.”

Only his voice was trembling, betraying his confusion. What did that mean? A lump of hurt rose in her throat, but Lena held firm and smiled again.

“Then let’s just have dinner together. We don’t have to talk. But if there’s something to say, it’s better not to keep quiet—so this doesn’t drag on—so we can still fix at least something before we sink for good.”

Maksim didn’t react at all, as if her words weren’t meant for him. He pretended not to hear, and Lena decided she wouldn’t push tonight. She would watch a little longer.

They ate in silence. Every so often Maksim cast her a nervous glance, then looked away and pretended not to notice her. In the morning he rushed off to work earlier than usual, as if he were avoiding Lena, afraid she would ask awkward questions. For the weekend he’d told her he planned to go fishing with friends, but Lena learned his friends weren’t going anywhere. The conclusion suggested itself. Still, she wasn’t about to cave and surrender. She waited for her husband to act—at least somehow.

That evening Maksim came home upset. He smelled faintly of alcohol. Lena was waiting, as if she knew the verdict would be delivered right then.

“I’m tired of hiding from you. I’m afraid to come back to my own apartment. And you’re no help—you’re always glaring at me like a wolf. In short, we need to split up. I made a mistake marrying you. I should’ve used my head back then, but I was infatuated, and now I see you’re not the woman I want to share my life with.”

How much those words echoed what her mother-in-law had said. Alla Vladimirovna had persistently warned Lena and asked her not to take offense later—she was the one who’d taken the risk. And now she was hearing it from her husband.

“I’ve found someone else. Pack your things and get out of my apartment. I want to live like a normal person instead of constantly looking for excuses. I think you’ve figured it all out already, since you’ve started asking the ‘right’ questions.”

Maksim coughed and lifted his eyes to his wife. Guilt flickered in them, but not strongly enough. There was a struggle going on inside him, and he was doing his best to smother his conscience.

“I figured as much, but… I’m not going anywhere,” Lena replied, crossing one leg over the other and lifting her chin.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Do you really enjoy playing the wronged wife?”

“I doubt anyone enjoys that. I’m not against a divorce—I’ve already prepared everything necessary—but you’re not going to throw me out of the apartment.”

Maksim was shocked by her audacity. He’d expected her to throw a fit, to lash out at him and sob, then pack her things and move in with her mother. Isn’t that what wronged wives do? But Lena looked at him as if she had planned everything out. She was smiling, and he couldn’t for the life of him understand why.

“And what does that mean? You plan to stay in my apartment? I want to bring the woman I love here. You don’t think she’ll like having my ex around, do you? Should I remind you this is my place? I bought it with my money, and you didn’t put in a single kopeck. I never asked you for anything, and whatever you bought for the house—you can take it, I won’t ask you to leave it.”

Lena couldn’t suppress a smirk. Maybe in another situation she wouldn’t have behaved like this, but the hurt lodged deep inside was speaking for her. She wasn’t going to let him get away with it. Not only had he found someone else, he had lied for so long—choosing which woman was “better” in his eyes. If he’d told her everything right away, she might have taken pity—but not now. Now she had a plan, and she wanted to teach him a lesson, so he wouldn’t dare act like this again, to show him that women are smart and can stand up for themselves. Lena certainly could.

“Why so quiet? What are you plotting?”

“I’ll let you figure it out yourself,” Lena said calmly. “Any thoughts yet? Or do I have to spoon-feed it to you like a child?”

She wasn’t going to grovel before the man who had betrayed her and laughed at her behind her back. She spoke to Maksim the way he deserved. She could no longer smile while looking into his eyes—and he knew it. She had been faithful, taken care of him, planned a future together. It was good she’d begun preparing for this outcome as soon as the first alarm bells rang. Good that she’d kept her distance and hadn’t gotten pregnant. Otherwise it would have been far more painful and difficult.

“You can explain it, if you think I’m too stupid to see what’s obvious.”

“Fine,” Lena stood up from the couch and went to the window. “This isn’t your apartment, dear husband. It’s marital property, because you bought it after we got married. I’m not going anywhere until we divide it according to the law.”

Maksim flushed with rage. He clenched his fists and squinted. He’d thought he’d married a simple, naïve girl, but Lena turned out to be too shrewd. Was she planning to leave him homeless after all the sweat and blood he’d put into earning this place?

“You didn’t put in a single kopeck. That’ll be easy to prove!” he protested.

Lena only smiled and nodded. She had already met with a lawyer. She’d decided to act only after getting a legal consultation. Proving she hadn’t contributed a penny would not be so easy. In most cases the judge rules in favor of splitting property acquired during marriage equally, regardless of unequal contributions to the budget. Maksim had made a big mistake buying the apartment that way. He could have done it before the marriage was registered, but for some reason he dragged his feet. And now he’d fallen into his own trap.

“Go ahead and try. I’m not stopping you. We have equal rights. You can defend your position, and I can demand what the law grants me. Until the court case is over, I’m not moving out. So hold off on moving your new sweetheart in, unless you want me to make her life so miserable she’ll run off before you even get the divorce.”

 

Maksim was stunned. He looked at his wife differently now. She suddenly seemed too smart, too… He hadn’t noticed before, had stopped noticing—but now she seemed even more beautiful. Why had he ever pulled away and given in to temptation? He drove the foolish thoughts from his head. He’d already decided. He was getting divorced, and Lena was too crafty. They would have to fight, but Maksim planned to defend his position to the bitter end.

Alla Vladimirovna condemned her son’s behavior. She refused to testify on his behalf and said it was all his own fault. If Maksim had listened to her and not acted recklessly, it wouldn’t have come to this.

“Lena’s a good woman. She did what she did because you hurt her too badly. You have to pay for your mistakes. If you couldn’t keep your pants on, then take responsibility. Maybe next time you’ll use your head. And if not, you’ll lose something again. You won’t just lose half an apartment. You’ll lose the woman who loved you. Finding another like her won’t be easy. Not at all—but that’s not my problem.”

Maksim’s spirits sank at the very start of the proceedings, because he realized his chances were slim. The judge ruled in Lena’s favor and ordered the apartment split.

“Got what you wanted? I suppose that’s why you married me in the first place?” Maksim asked bitterly.

Lena only gave her ex-husband a reproachful look and said nothing. She saw no point in justifying herself. He was unlikely to understand. A new chapter was beginning in her life, and she couldn’t afford to stumble again.

She moved into a rental not far from her office. She authorized her attorney to handle the sale of her share of the apartment because she no longer wanted to see her ex or listen to the nasty things he used to wound her.

Maksim fell into a depression. When his new lover learned he’d lost the apartment and for the foreseeable future could only afford a tiny studio, she bolted at once. She had no intention of tying herself to a pauper—and hadn’t planned anything serious anyway.

“I was just having fun. I never asked you to divorce,” the girl said in parting.

Maksim was left with nothing. It took him a while to grasp what his mother had meant, but now he realized he’d lost more than property… he’d lost his family through his own stupidity. Spending his evenings in languid solitude, he kept thinking… he missed Lena, but he had to admit she wouldn’t be coming back. He needed to move on and use his head from now on. But would he truly learn his lesson when the next temptation appeared on the horizon—one so hard to resist?

Irina stood at the kitchen window, watching October leaves whirl in the air before dropping onto the wet asphalt. Ten-year-old Katya was fussing with her homework at the table, glancing at her mother now and then in the hope of getting help with math.

“Mom, how do I solve this one?” the girl asked, pointing her pencil at the textbook.

Irina came over and sat beside her. Katya was a bright child, but math didn’t come easily. From Irina’s first marriage she’d been left with only warm memories of Katya’s father—and Katya herself, the most precious thing in her life.

“Let’s work through it together,” Irina smiled, taking the book.

An hour later her husband, Sergey, came home from work. He was an engineer at a factory and always returned tired, but he tried to give his family his attention. He treated Katya with understanding and care, and Irina valued that deeply.

“How’s my smart girl doing?” Sergey asked, ruffling Katya’s hair.

“Studying math, Daddy Sergey,” the girl replied. She had quickly grown to love her new dad, who never shouted and always listened.

The family idyll didn’t last long. Soon Galina Ivanovna—Sergey’s mother—burst into their lives. She had been widowed a year earlier and now spent most of her time visiting her son, inspecting the young family’s household with a critical eye.

The first signs of hostility showed up immediately. Galina Ivanovna would enter the apartment without knocking, look around the rooms, and wrinkle her nose as if she were seeing something improper.

“Sergey, why does the girl have her own room?” his mother asked during one of her visits. “Isn’t that a bit too luxurious for a child?”

Irina froze by the stove where she was cooking dinner. Katya was playing in her room and couldn’t hear the conversation, but her mother could feel the atmosphere tighten.

“Mom, Katya is part of our family,” Sergey answered calmly. “She needs a place to study and play.”

“Part of the family…” Galina Ivanovna drawled. “Well, yes, of course.”

There was such coldness in her voice that Irina turned and met her mother-in-law’s hostile gaze. Galina Ivanovna looked at her as if she were an impostor.

The next visit brought fresh unpleasantness. Galina Ivanovna came on a Sunday, when the whole family was gathered at the dinner table. Irina had tried to make something special—roast chicken with vegetables and a homemade salad.

“Katya, scoot closer to your mother,” Galina Ivanovna requested as she sat down. “I need a seat closer to my Seryozhenka.”

The girl obediently moved, but Irina noticed her frown. Katya was sensitive and picked up on adults’ moods.

“You cook well,” the mother-in-law said, tasting the chicken. “Although of course it isn’t the way Sergey likes it. He’s been used to different food since childhood.”
Gift baskets

“And how exactly?” Irina asked, trying to stay composed.

“Home-style, the real way. Not these modern experiments of yours.”

Sergey kept silent, eating intently and avoiding his wife’s eyes. Irina could see he felt uncomfortable, but he preferred not to get involved in a conversation between his mother and his wife.

After dinner, when Katya went to her room to do homework, Galina Ivanovna launched a full-on attack.

“Sergey, I want to talk to you,” she announced. “About our family’s future.”

“Mom, we already are a family,” her son replied wearily.

“What family?” she snorted. “Strange blood isn’t kin. That girl will never be a real granddaughter. And you’re spending time and money on her—resources that should go to your own children.”

Irina stood at the sink washing dishes, her hands trembling with indignation. The blood rushed to her face, but she forced herself to keep quiet to avoid a scene in front of the child.

“Mom, don’t talk like that,” Sergey said. “Katya’s a good girl.”

“Good, not good—that’s not the point,” she waved him off. “It’s about blood, about lineage. And that girl is a stranger. She has her own room, your attention, and you spend money on her needs.”

“Galina Ivanovna,” Irina couldn’t hold back any longer and turned from the sink. “Katya is my daughter, and as long as we live in this apartment, she will have her own room.”

Her mother-in-law looked at her with undisguised contempt.

“As long as you live…” Galina Ivanovna pronounced slowly. “And who said that will be for long?”

Sergey looked up from his plate at his mother in surprise.

“Mom, what do you mean?”

“I mean that sooner or later he’ll have to choose,” she said coldly. “Between the past and the future. Between other people’s children and his own blood.”

After Galina Ivanovna left, a heavy silence settled over the apartment. Katya was in her room, but Irina was sure the girl had heard the conversation. Children always sense tension between adults.

“Sergey, we need to talk,” Irina said when her husband settled down in front of the TV.

“About what?” he asked without taking his eyes off the screen.

“About what’s going on. Your mother is openly showing hostility toward Katya.”

“Mom is just getting used to the new situation,” he sighed. “She lost Dad; it’s hard for her.”

“Sergey, she’s demanding that Katya give up her room!”

“Mom didn’t demand anything like that.”

Irina sat down next to him and turned his face toward her.

“You heard the same thing I did. Galina Ivanovna thinks my daughter is a burden.”

“Don’t exaggerate. Mom is just expressing her opinion.”

“And what’s your opinion?”

Sergey was silent for a long time, and that silence told Irina more than any words. He was torn between his wife and his mother, but he didn’t want to choose.

The following weeks brought new trials. Galina Ivanovna began coming more often, as if checking how the family lived without her supervision. She criticized everything—from the meals Irina cooked to the way she raised her daughter.

“You spend too much time with the girl,” the mother-in-law declared one evening. “Sergey comes home from work exhausted, and you’re busy with a stranger’s child instead of taking care of your husband.”

“Katya is not a stranger,” Irina said through clenched fists. “She’s my daughter.”

“She’s a stranger to me,” Galina Ivanovna snapped. “And a stranger to our line. And it’s time Sergey thought about his own children instead of wasting his energy raising someone else’s girl.”

At that moment Katya was doing her homework in her room, but the thin walls couldn’t hide the loud argument. The girl was smart and understood she had become the cause of family conflicts.

“Mom, doesn’t Grandma Galya love me?” Katya asked before bed.

Irina sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed and stroked her hair. How could she explain what she herself couldn’t understand?

“Adults sometimes behave strangely, sunshine,” she said softly. “That doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”

“But she says I’m a stranger.”

“You are my own daughter, and no one has the right to say otherwise.”

Katya hugged her mother and pressed close. Irina felt how the tension of the past weeks was taking its toll on the child. The girl had withdrawn, played less, and spent more time alone in her room.

The climax came on a November evening. Galina Ivanovna arrived earlier than usual, when Sergey was still at work. She walked through the apartment and peeked into every room as if she were inspecting the premises.

“Where’s Katya?” she asked.

“At school,” Irina replied. “They have extra classes.”

“Good. Then we can speak frankly.”

The mother-in-law sat in an armchair opposite the couch where Irina was and studied her daughter-in-law.

“You’re a smart woman,” she began. “And you should understand that this can’t go on.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That girl is ruining my son’s future. Sergey spends time, money, and emotions on her. And what will he get in return? Another man’s child will never be grateful. She’ll grow up and go back to her real father.”

Irina listened in silence, feeling anger swell inside her. Galina Ivanovna spoke of Katya as if the girl were an object, not a living person.

“Katya doesn’t have another father,” Irina said coldly. “Sergey is her real dad.”

“A real dad must be blood,” the mother-in-law cut her off. “It’s time for Sergey to think about his own children. But as long as a stranger’s child is in the house, he won’t be able to focus on what matters.”

“And what are you proposing?”

Galina Ivanovna got up and went to the window; it was already dark outside.

“I’ve thought about this a lot,” she said slowly. “And I’ve concluded the girl would be better off in a special institution. There she’ll be taught discipline and given the proper upbringing.”

“What?” Irina sprang from the couch.

“An orphanage isn’t as terrible as it sounds. Professionals work there; there’s routine and education. And Sergey will finally be able to build a normal family.”

“You’re suggesting I put my daughter in an orphanage?”

“I’m suggesting you think about the future. Yours, Sergey’s, and the future children you could have if not for this burden.”

Irina froze, staring at her mother-in-law. The woman spoke calmly and deliberately, as if discussing the purchase of new furniture.

“Galina Ivanovna, you’re out of your mind,” Irina said quietly.

“I’m perfectly sane,” the mother-in-law replied. “And I’m saying what Sergey should have said. But my son is too soft to make hard decisions.”

At that moment a key turned in the lock and footsteps sounded in the hall. Sergey had come home from work.

“Hi, my dears,” he called, taking off his jacket.

Galina Ivanovna straightened and gave Irina a warning look.

“Think about what I’ve said,” she whispered. “And remember: I always get my way.”

Sergey came into the room and saw the two women standing facing each other in tense silence.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking from his mother to his wife.

“We were just chatting,” Galina Ivanovna smiled. “About family matters.”

“Yes,” Irina nodded, trying to stay calm. “About family matters.”

But deep down she knew: a war had begun. And the stake in this war was her daughter’s fate.

That evening, when Katya returned from school, Galina Ivanovna was cloyingly sweet with her son, Sergey. The mother-in-law ostentatiously inquired about his work, asked about his plans, and ignored Katya.

“Sergey, I think you need more space to relax,” his mother said, looking around the apartment. “This room could make an excellent study.”

She nodded toward Katya’s room.

“Mom, that’s Katya’s room,” he reminded her.

“A child needs only a corner in your bedroom,” she waved him off. “A man needs a place to work and think.”

Irina pressed her lips together and kept washing the dishes, trying not to listen. But every word from her mother-in-law etched itself into her memory like a knife.

Late that night, after Katya went to bed and Galina Ivanovna went home, the spouses had a serious talk.

“Your mother has gone way too far,” Irina said, closing the bedroom door.

“About what?”

“Sergey, she suggested sending Katya to an orphanage.”

He spun around sharply.

“What? When?”

“Today, before you got home. Galina Ivanovna thinks my daughter is a burden and wants our home freed from her.”

Sergey was silent for a long time, mulling it over.

“Maybe you misunderstood?”

“I understood perfectly. Your mother called Katya a burden and proposed getting rid of her for the sake of our future.”

“Mom sometimes says too much when she’s angry,” he said. “You shouldn’t take all her words to heart.”

“Too much?” Irina stared at him, astonished. “Sergey, your mother is demanding we get rid of my child!”

“She’s just worried about our future…”

“Our future cannot be built on abandoning Katya.”

“I’m not saying we should abandon her,” he said quickly. “Mom only thinks the girl needs more discipline, more structure…”

“In an orphanage?”

Sergey fell silent, avoiding his wife’s eyes. The silence dragged on for several minutes.

“You agree with your mother,” Irina said slowly.

“I don’t agree… I just think we should consider different options.”

“What options?” Irina’s voice grew dangerously quiet.

“Maybe a boarding school… a residential school… places where children are well brought up…”

Irina stood there blinking, not immediately believing what she’d heard. Her husband truly was considering sending Katya away.

“You want to get rid of my daughter,” she said flatly.

“Irina, don’t dramatize. It’s not about getting rid of her; it’s about what’s best for everyone.”

“For everyone? Or for your mother?”

“For our family. Mom is right that we should think about our own children…”
Family games

“We already have a child. Katya.”

“We could have a child together. Ours by blood.”

The last words sounded like a verdict. Irina realized her husband did, in fact, see Katya as a burden—he had simply hesitated to say it.

She left the kitchen without a word and went to the bedroom. Sergey remained at the table, realizing he had said something irreparable.

Irina opened the wardrobe and pulled out a large suitcase. Then she began neatly folding her husband’s things into it: shirts, trousers, underwear.

“What are you doing?” Sergey asked, appearing in the doorway.

“Helping you pack.”

“Pack for where?”

“To your mother’s. Since the two of you consider my daughter surplus to this home, go live with your own family.”

Sergey stepped closer and tried to take her hand.

“Irina, we can discuss this calmly…”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” she pulled away. “You’ve made your choice.”

“I haven’t chosen anything! I just voiced an opinion…”

“An opinion that my daughter should live separately from us.”

 

He tried to protest, but his voice lacked conviction.

“I didn’t say she must… I only suggested we consider…”

“Consider sending a ten-year-old to boarding school,” Irina finished for him. “So that your mother will be pleased.”

Sergey watched in silence as his wife methodically packed his things. Suits, sportswear, shoes went into the suitcase.

“Irina, stop. Let’s talk like adults.”

“Like adults?” She straightened and looked at him. “Like adults would have defended my daughter from your mother’s attacks. Like adults would have told Galina Ivanovna that Katya is part of our family.”

“Mom just wants what’s best for us…”

“Your mother wants to get rid of Katya. And you support her.”

The suitcase was almost full. Irina snapped it shut and set it by the door.

“My daughter stays. You two are leaving,” she said firmly.

“Irina, this is our home…”

“No. This is my home.”

She went to the dresser and took out a folder of documents. Sergey watched in surprise as she pulled out several sheets.

“Certificate of ownership,” Irina said, showing the document. “The apartment is in my name. I bought it before our marriage with the money from selling my previous place.”

Sergey took the document and looked it over carefully. Indeed, Irina was listed as the sole owner.

“I thought the apartment was ours…”

“You thought wrong. And it’s good we didn’t register joint ownership.”

He grasped the seriousness of the situation. Legally he had no rights to the dwelling.

“Irina, don’t throw me out. I’ll talk to Mom, explain to her…”

“Explain what? That Katya has the right to live in her own home?”

“Yes, exactly that.”

“It’s too late, Sergey. You’ve already shown where your priorities lie.”

At that moment the doorbell rang. Irina looked through the peephole and saw the familiar silhouette of Galina Ivanovna.

“Your mother’s here,” she told her husband.

Sergey opened the door. Galina Ivanovna entered with the air of a mistress of the house, but quickly noticed the suitcase in the hall.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Packing,” Irina answered curtly.

“Who’s packing?” the mother-in-law didn’t understand.

“You and your son. You’re vacating my apartment.”

She looked at Sergey in confusion.

“Sergey, explain what’s happening.”

“Mom, we have a conflict with Irina…”

“There is no conflict,” Irina interrupted. “There’s a simple solution: Katya stays in her own home, and you find another place to live.”

Galina Ivanovna frowned and drew herself up to her full height.

“Young woman, you forget whom you’re talking to.”

“To someone who wants to send my daughter to an orphanage.”

“I proposed a reasonable solution to family problems!”
Family games

“You proposed disposing of a child for the sake of your own comfort.”

The mother-in-law shouted that her son had nowhere to go, that this was unfair, that Irina was destroying the family.

“Galina Ivanovna, you destroyed the family,” Irina replied calmly. “When you called my daughter a burden.”

“That’s what she is! A stranger’s child in the house is always trouble!”

“Then go solve your troubles somewhere else.”

Irina took the apartment keys from the shelf in the entryway.

“I’ll be keeping these. I’ll need them.”

“Irina, we can still sort this out,” Sergey tried to plead.

“There’s nothing to sort out. You chose your mother over my daughter.”

Reluctantly, Sergey handed over his keys. Galina Ivanovna still couldn’t believe what was happening.

“You have no right to throw us out!”

“I do. This is my apartment, and I decide who lives here.”

The suitcase ended up outside the door. Mother and son stood on the landing, not knowing what to do.

“This is lawlessness!” the mother-in-law yelled. “I’ll go to court!”

“Feel free,” Irina replied coolly. “But first look up what rights guests have in someone else’s apartment.”

“Sergey is my son! And that girl is a stranger!”

“Katya lives in her own home. You do not.”

Her husband and mother-in-law left with shouts and reproaches, but Irina was ready for the conflict to continue. She took out her phone and dialed the police.

“I want to report threats from my husband’s relatives.”

 

The patrol arrived half an hour later. Irina described in detail her mother-in-law’s demands, the pressure on her child, and the attempts to force her to give up her daughter to an orphanage.

“We’ll file a report,” the lieutenant said. “In case the situation repeats.”

Katya had been sitting in her room, listening to the voices in the hallway. She was afraid to come out, not knowing what was happening.

“Mom, where’s Daddy Sergey?” Katya asked after the police left.

“Daddy Sergey doesn’t live with us anymore,” Irina said, hugging her daughter.

“Because of me?”

“Not because of you, sunshine. Because the adults couldn’t come to an agreement.”

“Will he come back?”

“I don’t know. But you will stay with me, no matter what.”

The next day Irina filed for divorce. She decided there would be no more humiliation—neither for her nor for her daughter.

In the petition she stated the reason: irreconcilable differences regarding the upbringing of children and family values. She asked to dissolve the marriage without division of property since there was no jointly acquired property.

Sergey tried calling several times, but Irina didn’t answer. He wanted to arrange a meeting and explain his position, but she was unyielding.

A week later a court summons arrived. Sergey had filed an objection to the divorce, citing temporary disagreements and the possibility of reconciliation.

At the hearing Irina set out her position clearly: her husband and his mother had demanded that she send her daughter to an orphanage or boarding school, considering the girl a burden to the family. Such a stance was incompatible with continuing the marriage.

The judge clarified the circumstances and ruled to grant the divorce. The marriage was deemed dissolved a month after the filing.

Galina Ivanovna tried to catch Irina near the house, but Irina walked past without reacting to reproaches and threats. The mother-in-law shouted that Irina had ruined her son’s life, but no one listened.

Gradually Katya recovered from the stress. She began to smile again, to play, to invite classmates over. The room remained her room; the home remained her home.

“Mom, are we not going to let anyone else in anymore?” Katya asked one evening.

“We will, sweetheart,” Irina smiled. “But only those who respect us.”

“And who respect me too?”

“You too. Absolutely.”

Irina hugged her daughter and knew she had made the right choice. Better to be alone with your child than to endure humiliation for the sake of keeping a marriage. Katya was her daughter, her family, her future. And no one had the right to demand that a mother give up her own child.

That evening, after Katya went to sleep, Irina sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea and thought about what they’d been through. The decision had been hard, but there was no doubt. A daughter is more important than a husband who couldn’t protect a child from his own mother’s attacks.

Through the window she could see yellow leaves the wind was tearing from the trees. Autumn was ending; winter was approaching. But the home was warm and calm. Katya slept in her room, in her bed, under her blanket. And no one would dare call the girl a stranger or unnecessary again.

Irina finished her tea, turned off the light, and went to bed. Tomorrow a new day would begin, a new life. A life with no compromises where a mother’s love is concerned.

Lilya, what are you doing to those curtains?” her mother-in-law’s voice sliced through the living room’s silence. “How can you hang them like that? The pleats are coming out uneven.”

 

Lilia froze on the stepladder, holding the heavy drape. Valentina Petrovna circled below, critically evaluating her daughter-in-law’s every move.

“It’s easier for me this way,” Lilia answered curtly, adjusting the hooks on the rod.

“Easier!” the mother-in-law snorted. “In Matvey’s nursery I always hung the curtains beautifully. And what is this disgrace?”

“Valentina Petrovna,” Lilia carefully climbed down and turned to the woman, “this is my living room.”

Her mother-in-law pressed her lips together and strode over to the sofa where Matvey was scrolling on his phone.

“Son,” she sat down beside him, “explain to your wife that a house should have order and beauty.”

Matvey looked up from the screen, shifting his gaze from his mother to his wife.

“Mom, maybe let’s not?” he said cautiously.

“What do you mean, ‘let’s not’?” Valentina Petrovna flared. “I’m only trying to help! And they won’t listen to me!”

Lilia reached for the stepladder to put it away, but her fingers trembled with a surge of anger.

“Lil,” Matvey set his phone on the side table, “Mom knows more about interiors…”

Those words cut right through her. Lilia dropped the stepladder and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” her husband called after her, bewildered.

But she had already slipped into the bedroom and shut the door firmly behind her. She sank into the chair by the window and pressed her temples with her hands. Again he chose his mother. He always chooses his mother.

About twenty minutes later the door opened a crack.

“Lilia, stop sulking,” Matvey came into the room. “Mom will be going back to her place soon.”

“How soon?” his wife asked without turning.

“Well… in a couple of weeks her renovation will be done.”

“Two weeks,” Lilia repeated, finally looking at her husband. “For two weeks I’m supposed to ask permission on how to live?”

“Not ask… just listen sometimes.”

“Listen to what, Matvey?” her voice grew firmer. “She’s already criticized how I wash the dishes, my choice of bed linen, and now the curtains!”

Matvey shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“Well, she’s used to controlling everything…”

“And you’re used to backing her up!” Lilia stood and came closer. “Every time, Matvey! Every single time you take her side!”

Her husband looked away, clearly unprepared for such a conversation.

Valentina Petrovna walked into the bathroom just as Lilia was putting on mascara. In the mirror her mother-in-law’s reflection appeared behind her like a shadow from the past.

“Putting on makeup again?” the woman asked with open mockery. “As if it makes any difference.”

Lilia froze, the wand paused at her lashes. Something clenched painfully inside, but her voice was even.

“What do you mean?”

“What’s not to understand,” Valentina Petrovna leaned against the doorframe, clearly settling in for a long talk. “No matter how much you paint yourself, it won’t make you prettier. My Matvey could have found a much better girl.”

The mascara wand slipped from Lilia’s trembling fingers into the sink. The reflection in the mirror showed a pale face with wide eyes.

“Are you serious?” Lilia whispered, turning to her mother-in-law.

“More than serious, dear,” she replied with a cold smile. “Plain, unremarkable. You don’t even have your own apartment. I don’t understand what my son saw in you. He probably chose you out of pity.”

The words pelted Lilia like hail. Each strike echoed as a sharp pain in her chest. Her breathing quickened; her cheeks flamed.

“Get out of here,” Lilia hissed through clenched teeth.

“Oh, how proud,” the mother-in-law laughed. “Can’t tell the truth? I knew you had a nasty character.”

Lilia turned to face Valentina Petrovna. The fire in her eyes made the woman involuntarily take a step back.

“I said—get out! Immediately!”

“Don’t you shout at me!” the mother-in-law protested. “You’re not my equal!”

Those words were the last straw. Lilia grabbed a towel from the sink and flung it toward Valentina Petrovna.

“Out of my bathroom! Right now!”

The mother-in-law hurried out, but at the threshold she turned with a triumphant smirk.

“Now my son will see your true face,” she threw over her shoulder.

Lilia slammed the door and leaned against it. Tears streamed in hot tracks down her cheeks. Her hands shook so badly she had to clench them into fists.

From that day on, a strained silence reigned in the apartment. Lilia stopped speaking to her mother-in-law altogether. She walked past as if the woman didn’t exist. Valentina Petrovna pretended not to notice her daughter-in-law either, yet constantly complained to her son about her behavior.

Matvey dashed between the two women, trying to reconcile them, but every attempt ended in a new scandal. Lilia refused even to discuss what was happening.

Two weeks of tension and silence dragged on in an endless procession of gray days. The apartment turned into a battlefield where the opponents avoided direct clashes but were ready to explode at any careless word. But at last, the mother-in-law left.

And then something unexpected happened. A call came early in the morning as Lilia was getting ready for work. The notary’s voice sounded official, but the words struck like lightning.

“Lilia Viktorovna? You are the heir to your grandmother’s dacha plot. When can you come to process the documents?”

Lilia slowly sank into a chair. Her grandmother had left her a dacha. A small house outside the city where she had spent her school holidays. Suddenly, something like hope stirred in her chest.

That weekend Lilia went to inspect the dacha. The small house turned out to be in decent condition—the roof intact, the foundation solid, the windows unbroken. The plot was overgrown with grass, but that could be fixed. The realtor she invited to appraise it walked the grounds carefully and delivered his verdict.

 

“For such a dacha you could get three and a half, maybe four million,” he said, jotting something down in his notebook. “Good plot, electricity connected, the city is a stone’s throw away.”

Lilia nodded, mentally totaling the sums. Together with her savings, it would be enough for her own apartment. A real home where no one would tell her how to live.

At home, Matvey met his wife with a suspicious look.

“So how did it go?” he asked carefully. “What are you going to do with the dacha?”

“Sell it,” Lilia answered shortly, hanging her coat in the hallway.

Matvey frowned as if he’d heard something unpleasant.

“Sell it? Why rush? Maybe it’s better to think about it?”

Lilia turned to her husband in surprise. The disapproval in his voice grated on her nerves.

“I don’t like nature, mosquitoes, or digging in garden beds,” Lilia explained patiently. “And the money would be more useful. It’ll be enough for an apartment if we add our savings.”

Matvey pressed his lips together; something unpleasant flickered in his eyes.

“Shouldn’t we ask Mom?” he suddenly said quietly.

Lilia froze. A bitter smirk twisted her lips.

“Your mother’s opinion doesn’t interest me at all,” Lilia ground out. “It’s my dacha, my inheritance.”

Matvey turned away, but Lilia saw his shoulders tense. Silence hung heavy between them.

Two weeks flew by in busy work. Lilia posted listings online and called agencies. Calls from potential buyers came quickly.

The doorbell rang sharply just as Lilia was on the phone with another realtor. On the threshold stood Valentina Petrovna, her face flushed with outrage.

“What is this outrage?” the mother-in-law shouted from the doorway. “How dare you sell the dacha without my consent?”

Lilia slowly set down the receiver. Inside, everything went cold with fury.

“What consent are you talking about?” Lilia asked in an icy tone. “The dacha belongs to me under the will.”

“Under the will!” Valentina Petrovna mimicked, walking into the living room uninvited. “And the fact that my son is your husband means nothing to you? This is family property!”
Family games

Lilia followed her, her fists clenching involuntarily.

“This is my personal property, inherited,” Lilia said slowly. “And you have nothing to do with it.”

“Nothing to do with it?” Valentina Petrovna squealed. “I’ve dreamed of a dacha all my life! And you’ve decided to squander it on your whims!”

“My whims?” Lilia’s voice rang with restrained anger. “This is my house! And with the money I want to buy an apartment!”

At that moment Matvey came into the apartment. Seeing his mother and wife in the living room, he stopped dead.

“What’s going on?” he asked carefully, looking from one woman to the other.

“Your wife is selling off the family assets!” Valentina Petrovna complained, sniffling. “She wants to sell the dacha without asking anyone!”

Lilia looked at her husband, silently pleading with him at last to take her side. But Matvey lowered his eyes.

“Lil, Mom really has always dreamed of a dacha,” he muttered in a guilty tone.

Those words were enough for something inside Lilia to finally snap. Her last hope crashed down with a bang.

“And I dreamed of a home,” Lilia whispered, looking at her husband. “A real home where no one humiliates me.”

“Lil…”

“No, Matvey,” Lilia cut him off, heading for the bedroom. “Enough. I’m tired.”

An hour later, Lilia left the apartment with a suitcase in hand. Matvey tried to stop her, said something about making peace, but his words reached her as if through cotton wool.

Six months later Lilia received her share of their joint savings through the court. The dacha was sold for four million. With that money plus her savings, she bought a two-room apartment in a residential district.

Standing on the threshold of her new home, Lilia smiled for the first time in a long while. Here no one would tell her how to cook, what to wear, or whom to be friends with. Here there would be only her—and the long-awaited silence.

Met My Ex-Wife and Almost Turned Green with Envy

Oleg slammed the fridge door shut so hard that the bottles inside rattled, and one of the magnets clattered to the floor.

Lena stood opposite him, pale, her fists clenched tight.
“Well? Feel better now?” she exhaled, sharply raising her chin.

 

“You’re just driving me crazy,” Oleg’s voice cracked, though he tried to stay calm. “Is this even a life? No emotions, no future.”

“So once again I’m the one to blame?” Lena gave a bitter smile. “Of course. Things aren’t the way you dreamed they would be.”

Oleg wanted to reply but waved it off. He opened a bottle of mineral water, took a swig straight from the neck, and slammed it onto the table.

“Oleg, don’t stay silent,” her voice trembled. “For once, just say directly what the problem is.”

“What’s there to say?” He grimaced. “You wouldn’t even understand. I’m sick of it all. To hell with this!”

They stared at each other in silence. Lena drew a deep breath and went into the bathroom. Oleg sank heavily onto the couch. From behind the door came the sound of running water—she had probably turned on the tap to hide her tears.

But he didn’t care.

A Life That Became Routine

Three years earlier, they had gotten married. They lived in Lena’s apartment, which her parents had given her when they retired and moved out of the city. The apartment was spacious but outdated: Soviet-era furniture, peeling wallpaper, worn linoleum.

At first, Oleg was pleased: the city center, a nice neighborhood, his job nearby. But over time it began to irritate him. Lena felt cozy in her “family fortress,” while Oleg felt suffocated by what he saw as a “frozen era.”

“Lena, be honest,” he often began. “Don’t you ever want to redo this place? New wallpaper, new floors? Something modern, stylish?”

“Of course I do,” she would answer calmly. “But let’s wait for my bonus or save a little first.”

“Wait? That’s your whole philosophy—endure and wait!”

In the beginning, Oleg was proud of choosing Lena. He’d tell his friends: “She’s a bud that will bloom, and everyone will be amazed.” But now he thought that bud had never blossomed—only withered.

Lena, meanwhile, simply lived the way she thought was right. She found joy in little things: a hot cup of tea, an evening with a book, new kitchen towels. Oleg saw only stagnation.

Yet he didn’t rush to leave—moving back in with his parents meant facing their strained relationship. His mother, Tamara Ilyinichna, often took Lena’s side:

“Son, you’re wrong. Lena is a good, smart girl. You’re living in her apartment and still complaining.”

“Mom, you’re stuck in the Stone Age, just like her,” Oleg snapped.

His father, Igor Sergeevich, only waved it off:
“Let him figure it out himself, Tamara.”

But every time he looked at Lena, Oleg thought: “She’s like a shadow… And she’s tied me to this apartment.”

One day, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Lena, I’m tired,” he said, standing by the window.

“Tired of what?” Her voice was steady, but her eyes glistened with tears.

“Of this life, this routine. You’re buried in pots and dust, and I don’t want to waste my years like this!”

 

Lena quietly picked up the trash bag and left. The door slammed.

Oleg expected her to return and try to stop him, but she came back calm.

“Maybe you really should live on your own,” she said. “Move out.”

“Oh sure, so you can rule the place alone?” Oleg snapped. “I’m not leaving my own home!”

“Oleg, this isn’t your home,” Lena smirked. “It’s my parents’ apartment.”

A few weeks later, he did move back to his parents’.
And within a few months, they divorced.

A Meeting That Changed Everything

Three years passed.

Oleg was still living with his parents, always telling himself it was “temporary,” that soon he’d rent his own place and get his life together. But it never happened. His job didn’t pay enough, relationships went nowhere, and his parents were hinting more and more that he wasn’t a kid anymore to be living off them.

One spring evening, on his way home, he passed a cozy little café. Warm lights glowed inside, soft music played.

He was about to go in when he froze.

At the café entrance stood Lena.

But not the Lena he used to know.

This was a confident woman with a stylish haircut, an elegant coat, and car keys in her hand. She looked calm, well-groomed, even happy.

“Lena?” he blurted out.

She turned, and after a second, recognized him.
“Hello, Oleg,” she said evenly.

“Hi… You… you look amazing.”

“Thanks,” she smiled. “I’m living the life I always dreamed of now.”

“Still working at the same place?”

“No, I opened my own flower studio. I was scared at first, but… I found someone who supported me.”

“Who?” Oleg asked before he even knew why.

A man walked out of the café. He put his arm around Lena’s shoulders and said:
“Darling, a table just opened up. Shall we?”

Lena introduced him:
“This is Vadim. Vadim, this is Oleg.”

“It was nice to meet you, Oleg. I hope everything’s good with you too,” Vadim said politely.

Oleg only nodded. Words stuck in his throat.

He watched Lena walk away, laughing with Vadim, and inside him twisted with envy.

He had once said: “I live with a bud that never opened.”

But the bud did bloom—
Just not with him.