All Amazing Babies

Arina, bake a cabbage pie for dinner tomorrow,” Lyudmila Vasilievna declared, entering the kitchen and sitting down at the table. “I haven’t had a proper pastry in a long time; you’re always cooking some strange dishes.”

Arina turned away from the stove where she was frying cutlets for dinner. Her mother-in-law sat with her usual displeased expression, adjusting her familiar burgundy sweater.

“I’m allergic to cabbage, Lyudmila Vasilievna,” Arina replied calmly, flipping a cutlet. “I’m not going to make it.”

“What do you mean you’re not going to?” the mother-in-law’s voice sharpened. “I asked you, and you’re refusing me? Who do you think you are to talk back to me? In my time, daughters-in-law respected their elders!”

“This isn’t about respect,” Arina said, moving the pan to another burner. “If I cook cabbage, I’ll have an allergic attack. Make it yourself if you want it so much.”

“Make it myself?” Lyudmila Vasilievna jumped up from her chair. “I am not your servant! You’re the lady of the house, so cook what I say! And your allergy is just an excuse. You’re just too lazy to deal with dough!”

“Lyudmila Vasilievna, what does laziness have to do with this?” Arina turned toward her mother-in-law. “I cook every day, clean, do laundry. But I won’t make a cabbage pie because I physically can’t!”

“Can’t or won’t?” the mother-in-law stepped closer, narrowing her eyes. “You think just because my son married you, you can boss me around? We’ll see who’s really in charge here!”

Keys jingled in the hallway — Mikhail had come home. Lyudmila Vasilievna’s face instantly changed into a suffering expression.

“Misha, son,” she rushed to him. “Good you’re here. Your wife has gotten completely cheeky! I asked her to bake a pie, and she’s rude to me, refusing!”

Mikhail took off his jacket and gave his wife a tired look; she stood by the stove with a tense face.

“Arina, what’s going on?” he asked, hanging his jacket in the closet. “Why are you refusing your mother?”

“I’m allergic to cabbage, Misha,” Arina said quietly. “I already explained it to Lyudmila Vasilievna.”

“Allergy? What allergy?” Mikhail waved his hand. “Mom, don’t worry. Arina will bake the pie tomorrow. Right, dear?”

Arina silently looked at her husband, then at her mother-in-law, who was smiling triumphantly. Her heart clenched painfully with hurt.

“No, I won’t bake it,” she said firmly, taking off her apron and heading to the door. “You can have dinner yourselves.”

Arina went to the bedroom and closed the door behind her. Voices muffled behind the wall — Mikhail and his mother were calmly having dinner, discussing some everyday matters. And she lay face down on the pillow, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Behind the wall, a steady murmur of voices could be heard — Mikhail was telling his mother about work, and she was nodding sympathetically. As if nothing had happened. As if his wife hadn’t left upset, but simply disappeared into thin air.

In the morning, Arina got up earlier than usual. Lyudmila Vasilievna was still asleep — the house was unusually quiet. Mikhail sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, scrolling through news on his phone.

“Misha, I need to talk to you,” Arina sat across from him, clasping her hands. “A serious talk.”

He looked up from the screen, frowning in confusion.

“About what?”

“About your mother,” Arina took a breath. “I’m tired of the constant nagging. Lyudmila Vasilievna criticizes everything — how I cook, how I clean, what I wear. I’m tired of obeying her in my own… in our home.”

“Arina, what are you saying?” Mikhail put down his phone. “Mom behaves fine. She just has her habits.”

“Habits?” Arina’s voice sharpened. “Is that what you call bossing around adults? Misha, maybe it’s time to find your mother a rented apartment? Let her live separately? We’re still young — we need our own space.”

Mikhail slammed his cup on the saucer.

“Are you suggesting to throw my mother out on the street?” Metal edged his voice. “She asked to live with us, and you want to kick her out?”

“I’m not saying that,” Arina reached out to him, but he pulled away. “Just a separate place. We could help with the rent…”

“Look, I don’t like this,” Mikhail stood up and began getting ready for work. “Mom doesn’t bother anyone. On the contrary, she makes our life better — cooks, helps around the house.”

“When does she cook?” Arina also stood up. “Misha, open your eyes! I work, come home, cook dinner, clean, do laundry. And your mother only criticizes!”

“Enough,” Mikhail cut her off, putting on his jacket. “I don’t want to hear this anymore. Mom stays with us. Period.”

The door slammed behind him with an unpleasant metallic sound. Arina was left alone in the kitchen, staring at her husband’s half-finished coffee. The bitterness from the conversation spread inside her like that cold drink. She slowly took the cup, washed it, and set it to dry.

Arina was irritated by this injustice. Her mother-in-law had given her apartment to her daughter. And then insisted on living with them. And Mikhail saw nothing strange in this! Arina was tired of living under his mother’s watchful eye.

Half an hour later, Lyudmila Vasilievna appeared in the kitchen. Her hair was neatly styled, her robe buttoned up to the last button. Her face expressed extreme displeasure.

“Well, what a scene you made,” the mother-in-law started without even greeting. “So unkind! You thought my son would support you?”

Arina silently poured herself some tea, trying not to react to the provocation.

“See?” Lyudmila Vasilievna continued, sitting down at the table. “My son took my side! That means he understands who’s the boss here. And since that’s so, you have to obey me!”

Arina put the kettle down a bit more sharply than planned.

“Today you’ll clean the entire apartment until it shines,” the mother-in-law continued in a lecturing tone. “Wash the windows, mop all the floors in every room, make the bathroom sparkle. Otherwise, you walk around here like a lady, but the house is dirty!”

“The house isn’t dirty,” Arina quietly objected.

“Not dirty?” Lyudmila Vasilievna’s voice rose. “I saw dust on the dresser in the living room yesterday! And the mirror in the hallway is smudged! If you argue, I’ll complain to my son and tell him you don’t listen to me!”

Something inside Arina snapped. Like a tightly stretched string that could no longer withstand the tension. She turned sharply to her mother-in-law.

“No!” Her voice rang with tension. “I won’t do it! I’ve obeyed you for too long! I lost myself in all this! I cook what you order, clean when you say, stay silent when you yell! Enough!”

Lyudmila Vasilievna jumped up. Her face reddened with outrage. She screamed:

“How dare you? How dare you talk back to me?”

Arina raised her voice too.

“I dare! I am a living person, not your servant! And I will no longer tolerate your nitpicking!”

“If you talk back, my son will throw you out!” shouted the mother-in-law, shaking her fist.

And then something inside Arina seemed to break loose. Years of silence, months of humiliation. It all poured out in one powerful wave. She straightened to full height. Her voice sounded so strong that Lyudmila Vasilievna involuntarily stepped back.

“You forgot whose apartment this is! You forgot who let you live here! Who allowed you to live here without paying rent, utilities, groceries — nothing! Let me remind you — this is my apartment! Mine, bought before marriage. Bought before I met your son, your whole family!”

Lyudmila Vasilievna froze with her mouth open. She clearly did not expect such a turn.

But Arina didn’t stop.

“And so from this day on, you will no longer dictate terms to me! Or it won’t be me who ends up on the street — it will be you! Understand?”

For several seconds, the mother-in-law stood as if petrified, then slowly came to herself. Her face flushed, her eyes narrowed.

“How dare you speak to me like that?” she shrieked. “You have no right! I am your husband’s mother! I am older than you! You must respect me!”

“Respect should be earned, not given by age!” Arina did not give in. “And in the past months living here, you have not earned even a drop of respect!”

“How dare you…” Lyudmila Vasilievna gasped in outrage. “Who do you think you are? I’m Misha’s mother! And you’re just a temporary woman! He’ll always choose me!”

“Then you two move out together!” Arina cut in. “And I’ll stay in my apartment! The one I pay for, clean, and cook in! While you’re only bossing around!”

“I… I’ll tell my son!” the mother-in-law stammered. “He’ll find out how you treat me!”

“Go ahead and tell!” Arina crossed her arms. “Just don’t forget to mention that you live here for free!”

Lyudmila Vasilievna turned indignantly and, loudly stomping, ran to her room. The door slammed so hard the windows rattled.

A few minutes later, an agitated voice came from the room. The mother-in-law was clearly calling her son. Arina caught fragments: “Completely cheeky… insults me… threatens to kick me out…”

Arina calmly finished her tea and began getting ready for work. Let Lyudmila Vasilievna complain — today she spoke the truth for the first time in a long while.

In the evening, Mikhail returned home nearly furious. His face was flushed, his eyes blazing with anger. Barely crossing the threshold, he attacked his wife:

“What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “Mom told me everything! How dare you insult her? Threaten to kick her out of the house?”

“Out of my house,” Arina corrected calmly, taking off her apron. “And I didn’t threaten. I warned.”

“Out of yours?” Mikhail’s voice grew louder. “We are husband and wife! What’s yours is mine!”

“No, dear,” Arina turned to him. “This apartment was bought by me before the marriage. And I will no longer tolerate your mother’s rudeness.”

“Mom didn’t do anything wrong!” Mikhail yelled. “She only asked for help around the house!”

“She gave orders,” Arina countered. “And insulted me. And you supported her.”

“Of course I supported her! She’s my mother!”

“Then live with her,” Arina headed for the front door and opened it wide. “But not here. Pack up and leave.”

“You’re joking?” Mikhail looked at his wife in disbelief.

“Not at all,” Arina pointed to the door. “You’ve used me enough, lived off me enough. Now decide where and how you want to live. And I choose to be happy. Without you!”

Lyudmila Vasilievna ran out of the room hearing the shouting.

“What’s going on?” she asked, but seeing the open door, understood everything.

“Pack up,” Arina repeated. “You have half an hour.”

Relief washed over Arina like a wave. She had taken the hardest step.

After leaving the orphanage, seventeen-year-old Lida inherited something strange — a little house in the wilderness, passed down from her long-deceased grandmother. The half-collapsed building stood apart from everything — on the edge of the forest, as if forgotten by time.

No one was waiting for her, nothing tied her to the past — and she took this as a chance to start a new life. A modest one, but her own.

On the third day, to clear her head after endless cleaning, Lida went into the forest to pick mushrooms. She went deeper and deeper until she accidentally came upon an unusual clearing covered in soft moss. In the middle of the trees, as if fallen from another time, stood an old airplane — almost intact but entangled in roots and covered in rust, as if it had become part of the forest.

Curiosity overcame caution. Lida climbed into the cockpit — and, looking inside, screamed: in the pilot’s seat sat a motionless skeleton in uniform, frozen in the last moment of life. Around its neck hung a medallion… with her name carefully engraved on the surface.

From that moment, everything changed. What began as an attempt to start an independent life alone turned into a deep immersion into a mystery from the times of war — about missing crews, secret operations, family ties… and something much bigger than she could understand.

Lida froze, clutching the edge of the cockpit. The air was thick, stuffy — smelling of rust, mold, forgotten time.

The skeleton looked at her with empty eye sockets. It seemed to be waiting for her.

She barely tore her gaze away and reached for the medallion. Her fingers trembled, her breath faltered. Carefully, almost reverently, she removed the ornament from the chain.

On the back were engraved the words:

“To Lida. When you grow up — find me.”

Her throat went dry. Her heart pounded as if wanting to burst out of her chest.

“What nonsense?..” she whispered, feeling her fingertips grow cold.

The pilot’s uniform was preserved to an astonishing degree — as if time had spared him alone. On the instrument panel were crumpled notes in English, one of which read:

“Mission 13. Northern Sector. Classified.”

She didn’t know English but could read the number.

An unlucky number.

When Lida got outside, the sun was already setting. The forest grew denser, the air heavier. The rustling around seemed louder. She hurried home, forgetting the mushrooms, clutching the medallion tightly in her hand.

 

The next morning, she felt drawn to the forest again. Not by fear, but by a deep unease, as if something demanded attention.

But before going out, she heard a strange creak in the attic. The house was quiet — too quiet for anyone to be nearby. Going upstairs, Lida found an old suitcase filled with letters. One was addressed to her:

For my granddaughter Lida. If you return.

Opening the envelope, she read:

If you are reading this — it means you found the plane. Keep silent about it. It is not from our time. And perhaps, it came for you.

These lines gave her goosebumps. Everything happening was beyond ordinary. But most of all, one question tormented her: if the pilot knew her name — who was he?

The next day Lida woke with the feeling someone had called her in a dream. Thoughts would not let her rest:

How could he know about me? Why me? Who is that man in the cockpit? And how did grandmother know the truth?

Stubbornness won over fear. Dressed warmly, with a flashlight in hand, she headed to the forest.

Every step was hard. The bushes seemed to close behind her, the trees whispered overhead.

When she reached the clearing — the plane was gone.

Only young grass, soft moss, and silence. No metal gleam, no rusty wreckage. As if it had all been a dream.

Lida looked around, feverishly searching for any traces. Nothing. Only somewhere far off a woodpecker was tapping.

And then — a branch cracked.

She sharply turned. Behind the trees flickered a shadow — tall, indistinct.

Her heart froze. The shadow froze too. Lida did not move. After a second — it disappeared.

But she knew: someone had been watching her. And perhaps, had been observing all along.

That night Lida couldn’t close her eyes. The room smelled damp, old boards creaked, and outside the window something alive seemed to be peeking in.

She reread grandmother’s letter:

The plane will return if you remember. You are not just an orphan, Lida. Your blood remembers more than you think.

These words chilled her to the bone.

Sitting on the floor, clutching the medallion, she suddenly felt the air tremble. The room shook slightly, as if the space was wavering.

From the wall, as if through water, the outlines of the cockpit appeared. There, in the dim light, sat the pilot. His eyes were alive. And he was looking right at her.

“Lida…” came a muffled voice, as if from underwater.

The medallion in her hand suddenly heated up like hot metal.

“Who are you?! Why are you calling me?!” she exclaimed.

The pilot did not move. Only his lips whispered:

“Remember the coordinates.”

And then everything vanished. The air returned to normal, the room became as before.

On the floor lay a note — as if slipped out from the past. On it — coordinates:

Latitude 62.001. Longitude 47.744. 12:13 — don’t be late.

Lida trembled. But inside, determination was already growing.

The next morning she got up early. The wind picked up, the forest rustled anxiously. Something was preparing. Something was waiting.

Exactly at 12:12 Lida stepped onto the clearing. In her hands — a watch, her heart — in sync with the time.

12:13.

The medallion flared with heat. The air stirred, twisted into a vortex — and before her, just like the first time, appeared the plane.

Not a mirage. Not a hallucination. Real, tangible, like any object in this world.

Only now she knew: this was not the end. This was the beginning.

But now the cockpit door was open.

Lida slowly approached. The pilot’s seat was empty. Inside, on top of the instrument panel, lay a new sheet of paper. She took it.

It was a child’s drawing: a girl holding the hand of a man in military uniform. The caption below read:

“Dad and me. Lida, 4 years old.”

Her heart stopped. The world tilted.

“Dad?..” she breathed out.

Somewhere in the forest a branch cracked again.

Lida stood clutching the drawing. Thoughts raced:

Dad? But how? Why is he in that plane? And why now?

The medallion on her chest vibrated slightly — as if responding to her anxiety.

Behind her came a rustle.

She turned sharply. At the edge of the clearing, among the trees, something was moving. At first it seemed just a shadow. But then a face emerged from the gloom — pale, as if carved from ash. Mouthless. With eyes — human, but alien.

The creature did not move. But Lida was pierced with certainty:

If I run — it will follow me.

She slowly stepped back toward the plane. The door was ajar. Inside everything was as before — only on the pilot’s seat lay a second medallion, exactly like hers.

Lida took it… and heard a voice:

 

“They are coming. You must make it, Lida. Only you can close the cycle.”

“Cycle? What cycle? What is happening?!” she shouted in her mind.

The creature at the edge of the clearing moved. Smoothly, silently. Unhurried. It did not chase her — it knew there was no more time.

Lida stepped inside the plane and slammed the door.

Inside the cockpit came to life. Dim lights lit one by one. The instrument panel glowed faintly — without wires, without a power source.

A button labeled “START” flickered like a heartbeat.

Outside — silence. But somewhere there, beyond the visible world, awaited something nameless.

Lida reached for the button. Held her breath. Pressed it.

The space around jerked. The cockpit filled with gray light, as if time was torn apart. Outside the window the forest disappeared.

Before her spread an airbase — cold, abandoned, frozen in the past. Planes, signal flags, people in uniform. And among them — him.

The pilot. Her father. Alive.

He looked straight at her.

“You made it. Now choose: stay here… or go back.”

Lida didn’t know what to say.

Behind her — loneliness, the orphanage, the empty house. Here — her father. A man who should not exist. But who had been waiting for her.

“Decide,” he said, “and know: much depends on this choice.”

She looked through the glass — beyond time, as if in a loop, the same scene repeated. The same clearing, the same plane, the same her. The cycle. A closed circle.

“Why me?” she finally asked. “Why you?”

He looked at her with pain.

“Because you are not just a daughter. You are the result of a choice.

I went on the flight knowing I would not return. It was a mission — to cross the time rift. To pass coordinates to the next generation. But something went wrong. I got stuck between times, like in a drop of resin.

Grandmother knew. She was warned. But you are the first to find me. Because the rift opens once every 50 years. And you — are 17. Exactly when everything begins anew.”

A dull thud ran along the plane’s body.

“He has come,” whispered the father.

“Who is he?” asked Lida.

“The Keeper of the cycle. He cannot speak. But he is not an enemy. He is a guardian. Searching for those who break boundaries.”

The creature behind the plane’s wall began to emerge. Not as a monster. But as a reflection of something old, familiar.

“He… was me?” she whispered.

The father was silent.

And then the creature reached out — to the medallion on her chest.

And she understood.

If she stayed, she would be with her father — outside time.

If she left — she could pass on the knowledge, warn the world, break the cycle.

But then he would disappear forever.

And she would be alone again.

The medallion grew warm. From it came a voice — familiar, gentle:

“You are stronger than you think. You are the link. Choose with your heart — and time will hear you.”

Lida clenched her fist. Stood between her father and the creature.

“I cannot lose you both.

But if I stay — everything will begin again. And no one will be saved.

“Forgive me…”

She extended the medallion to the creature.

The plane trembled. A flash. Time shattered into pieces.

“Lida!” her father shouted. “Thank you. For everything.”

And then — silence.

Epilogue

She woke up on the floor of the house. The sun played with rays in the dust. Everything was as before. Almost.

On the floor near her lay a charred sheet of paper.

On it — just a few lines:

The cycle is complete.
Pass it on.
Your blood remembers.

Lida stood up. Walked to the window. Beyond it — the same forest, the same trees. But now she knew the truth.

There was no longer a shadow in it.

Ksenia looked at the numbers on the computer screen for the third time, as if they could change under her intense gaze. The bonus turned out to be even bigger than she had expected. Twenty-four months of work in a state corporation, endless negotiations, nights spent on documents — and here was the result. The biggest deal of the year was closed by her.

“Ksyusha, how are you?” her colleague Marina peeked into the office. “Your face looks kind of strange.”

“They credited the bonus,” Ksenia quietly replied without taking her eyes off the monitor.

“And what, was it small?”

“Big. Very big.”

Marina whistled when she saw the amount on the screen.

“Congratulations! Now you can afford everything you dreamed of.”

Dreamed of… Ksenia opened a browser tab with photos of the Maldives. She had been looking at these pictures for years — the snow-white sand, turquoise water, huts on stilts over the ocean. How many evenings had she spent scrolling through travel bloggers’ Instagrams, imagining herself in their place.

“The Maldives?” Marina guessed. “About time! If I were you, I’d also rent my own apartment. How old are you, twenty-seven? Time to live separately.”

Ksenia nodded. Yes, she had thought about that too. Living with her mother and older sister Lena was getting harder. Especially since Lena, at thirty, still hadn’t found a steady job but had found many reasons why it wasn’t her fault.

Ksenia returned home in a good mood. In the kitchen, her mother was washing dishes in a familiar checkered apron.

“Mom, I have news,” Ksenia began, taking a yogurt from the fridge.

“What kind?” her mother turned, wiping her hands with a towel.

“They gave me a bonus. A big one. For the deal I closed.”

Her mother’s eyes lit up.

“Ksyusha, you’re such a smart girl! How much?”

Ksenia named the amount. Her mother even sat down on a chair.

“Oh my God… That’s a fortune!” She paused, then her face lit up with an idea. “You know what, Ksyusha? Let’s give your big bonus to your sister for her thirtieth birthday! She’ll be so happy!”

Ksenia choked on her yogurt.

“What?”

“Well, think about it yourself,” her mother said enthusiastically, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Thirty years is a big anniversary, a very important date. Let Lena remember this day! She can use that money to buy a trip abroad, finally go somewhere.”

“Mom, are you serious?” Ksenia slowly put the cup down.

“What’s so funny about it? The money should stay in the family. Lena is also a daughter, and she’s the eldest. Besides, you have a good salary, you’ll earn more.”

At that moment, Lena came into the apartment, cheerful after a walk with friends.

“What’s the conversation about?” she asked, taking off her jacket.

“Ksyusha got a huge bonus,” Mom said. “And we’re thinking of giving it to you for your birthday.”

“We’re not thinking,” Ksenia said firmly. “That’s you thinking.”

Lena raised her eyebrows:

“How much is the bonus?”

Mom proudly named the amount. Lena whistled just like Marina did in the morning.

“Ksyusha, what are you doing?” she sat next to her sister. “I could really use such a gift for my thirtieth. I’ve never been anywhere all my life. And you’re still young, you have plenty of opportunities ahead.”

“I have plenty of opportunities ahead?” Ksenia felt her blood boil inside. “Lena, I’m twenty-seven! I studied at university for four years, then interned for two years for peanuts, then worked hard for another two years to get this position. I earned this money myself!”

“Ksenia, don’t raise your voice at your sister,” Mom scolded.

“Why can she raise her voice at me? Why can she claim money I earned?”

Lena crossed her arms:

“I didn’t raise my voice. I just said that the gift would be useful to me. You know how hard it is to find a decent job these days.”

“Hard to find, right?” Ksenia stood up. “Hard to look for one? How many interviews did you go to last year? Three? Four?”

“Ksenia!” Mom raised her voice. “How are you talking to your sister? Lena is looking for a job in her field, not grabbing at anything.”

“Mom, I’m working in my field too. And I looked for two years. I went to interviews every week. I was rejected dozens of times before I got this job.”

“So what now?” Lena intervened. “You got your position, got the bonus. Can’t you feel sorry for your sister?”

“Feel sorry?” Ksenia’s voice rose. “Lena, I feel sorry for you every month! Who pays for the internet? Who buys groceries? Who pays the bills? Mom and I! And what do you do?”

“I’m looking for a job!”

“You’re hanging out with friends! You’re on your phone! You sleep until noon!”

“Girls, stop it!” Mom stood between them. “Ksenia, Lena is right. It’s very hard to find a job now. And you got such a big bonus… Are you really unwilling to share with the family?”

“Unwilling?” Ksenia felt tears of hurt fill her eyes. “Mom, I planned to use that money to go to the Maldives. I dreamed of that trip since university. Then I wanted to rent an apartment and finally live on my own.”

“The Maldives?” Lena snorted. “Ksyusha, seriously? Throwing that kind of money away on two weeks of lying on the beach?”

“That’s not throwing away! It’s my dream!”

“My dream is to go at least to Sochi,” Lena said. “And I’m almost thirty. If not now, then when?”

“When you earn it yourself!”

Mom sighed heavily:

“Ksenia, I don’t recognize you. You’ve become so harsh, so selfish. Has success at work changed you that much?”

“Selfish?” Ksenia felt something break inside. “Mom, am I selfish? I’ve been living in this apartment for two years paying for everything. I buy your medicine. I give you presents for every holiday. And when I want to spend my own earned money on myself, I become selfish?”

“You’re exaggerating,” Mom said. “We all contribute to this family.”

“What contribution does Lena make?”

“Lena helps me around the house.”

“Helps?” Ksenia laughed bitterly. “Mom, when was the last time you saw Lena mop the floor? Or clean the bathroom? Or even take out the trash without being reminded?”

“Lena has depression because of unemployment,” Mom said quietly. “It’s hard for her.”

“Is it easy for me? Do you think it’s easy for me to work twelve hours a day? Do you think it’s easy for me to come home and see you making plans for my money?”

Lena stood up:

“You know what, Ksyusha? If you treat the family like that, then don’t give anything. I’ll manage somehow.”

“Lena, don’t say that,” Mom put a hand on her eldest daughter’s shoulder. “Ksyusha is just tired. She’ll understand and share.”

“No, I won’t understand or share!” Ksenia shouted. “I earned this money! I will spend it on what I need!”

Mom looked at her long and hard:

“Alright, Ksenia. If you don’t want to help your sister voluntarily, I’ll make you.”

“How?”

“You will pay much more for the apartment. Much more. Lena doesn’t work, I’m retired. If you’re so independent, then pay for everything yourself.”

“Mom…”

“Either share the bonus with your sister, or pay for everything. Choose.”

Ksenia stood in the middle of the kitchen feeling her world crumble. The family she supported, helped, loved was giving her an ultimatum. Give up the money or become the family’s cash cow for good.

“I see,” she said quietly. “Everything is clear.”

She turned and went to her room. Behind her, she heard her mother say to Lena:

“Don’t worry, she’ll understand. She just needs time.”

Ksenia closed the door, took out her phone, and dialed Marina’s number.

“Marish, can I bother you?”

“Of course. What happened? Your voice sounds strange.”

“I told them about the bonus at home…”

She told her friend the whole situation. Marina listened, occasionally saying “Really?” and “No way.”

“Ksyush,” she finally said, “do you understand what’s happening? This is pure abuse. They’re blackmailing you.”

“But it’s mom and sister…”

“So what? Being family doesn’t give them rights to your money. Are you a slave? Working to support an adult healthy sister?”

“She can’t find a job…”

“Can’t or won’t? Ksyush, how long can you fool yourself? She’s comfortable sitting on your neck. And Mom is comfortable having someone to pay the bills.”

Ksenia was silent, digesting her friend’s words.

“You know what,” Marina continued. “Move in with me. Temporarily. I have a big kitchen, there’s enough room. You need to rest from them and think calmly.”

“Marish…”

“No options. Pack your things and come. And you will definitely fly to the Maldives. Stop living someone else’s life.”

An hour later Ksenia was packing her suitcase. Mom stood in the doorway silently watching.

“Where are you going?”

“To Marina’s. For a while.”

“Ksyusha, don’t do anything stupid. We’re family.”

“Family?” Ksenia didn’t look up from the suitcase. “Family is when they rejoice in your success, not plan how to use it.”

“We do rejoice…”

“You rejoice in my money, not me.”

Mom was silent, then quietly asked:

“And how long are you going to sulk?”

“I don’t know. Maybe until you learn to see me as an adult, not an ATM.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Exaggerating?” Ksenia finally looked up. “Mom, name one time in the last year when you or Lena cared about my plans, dreams, desires. Not related to money.”

Mom opened her mouth, then closed it. She was silent for a long time.

“We didn’t know you had plans…”

“You didn’t know because you never asked.”

Ksenia zipped the suitcase and picked it up.

“Ksyusha, wait…”

“Mom, I need time to think. I’m not angry at you. I’m just tired of being convenient.”

At Marina’s it was warm and calm. Her friend made tea, and they sat in the kitchen discussing what had happened.

“You did the right thing leaving,” Marina said. “Now go to your Maldives. Turn off your phone and just rest.”

“But what if Mom worries?”

“Ksyush, you’re twenty-seven. Mom will survive. But you’ll finally live for yourself.”

The Maldives turned out even more beautiful than in the photos. Ksenia spent two weeks there, and for the first time in many years felt truly free. Her phone stayed off in the suitcase. No one demanded reports or made plans for her time and money.

Returning to Moscow, she seriously started looking for an apartment. Work went on as usual, projects followed one another. At Marina’s, she felt like a guest but didn’t rush to meet with her family.

Mom called regularly. The conversations were tense, full of unspoken things. Lena didn’t call at all.

“How are you?” Mom asked.

“Fine. Working.”

“When will you come home?”

“I don’t know, Mom. I’m looking for an apartment.”

“Why do you need an apartment? It’s good at home…”

“Mom, I need to live separately.”

The conversations reached dead ends. Mom didn’t understand what her daughter wanted. Daughter couldn’t explain without hurting Mom more.

Three months after moving in with Marina, Ksenia finally found a suitable apartment. Small, one-room, but bright, nicely renovated, within walking distance from work. She paid a deposit and prepared to move.

That evening the doorbell rang. Marina opened it and called out in surprise:

“Someone’s here for you.”

At the door stood Lena, confused, eyes downcast.

“Hi,” she said quietly.

“Hi. How did you find me?”

“Through Sveta Komarova. She gave me Marina’s detailed address.”

They went into the room. Lena sat on the edge of the bed, Ksenia in the armchair.

“Ksyush, I came to apologize.”

“For what exactly?”

“For everything. For me and Mom acting like… like greedy idiots. For me not working. For leeching off you and getting used to it.”

Ksenia was silent, studying her sister. Lena looked tired and… somehow more mature.

“After you left, I thought a lot,” Lena continued. “And I realized Mom and I were wrong. Your bonus is your money. You earned it, you have the right to spend it however you want.”

“And what changed?”

“I got a job. At a coffee shop for now, but it’s still a job. The salary is small but enough for my expenses. Now I help Mom — both with money a little and doing more around the house.”

Ksenia raised her eyebrows:

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. You know, it turned out that working isn’t so scary. Yes, it’s tiring, but there’s a feeling you do something yourself, not just hang on someone.”

“And Mom?”

“Mom…” Lena sighed. “At first she was angry. Said I was betraying the family, working for peanuts. But then she got used to it. She’s even a bit proud that both her daughters work.”

“Did she ask you to come?”

“No. It was my initiative. I felt ashamed, Ksyush. Very ashamed. You were always responsible, always helped. And we took it for granted.”

Ksenia was silent, then asked:

“What do you think about the Maldives?”

Lena smiled:

“I think you’re great. I saw your photos on social media — unbelievably beautiful. I’d like to go there someday too.”

“You’ll get there someday. When you earn it yourself.”

“Yes, when I earn it myself. But for now, I plan to go on vacation to Krasnodar. Not the Maldives, of course, but there’s also the sea. And most importantly — with my own money.”

Ksenia felt something warm stirring in her chest. Her sister had really changed. Not just outwardly — something new had appeared in her, some dignity.

“Ksyush,” Lena said. “I’m not asking you to come back home. I understand you need to live separately. Just… can we be sisters again?”

Ksenia stood up and hugged Lena.

“We can,” she said. “Of course, we can.”

“Ksyush, have you found an apartment yet?”

“Yes, I’m signing the lease next week.”

“Far from us?”

“Not really. About twenty minutes by metro.”

“Good. We’ll see each other more often. But now I’ll invite you to cafes with my own money.”

Ksenia laughed:

“Deal.”

Lena was getting ready to leave:

“Thank you for forgiving me.”

“Thank you for changing.”

“I tried. I really tried to become better.”

“It shows. And that’s great.”

Later, they met in the kitchen with Marina over tea.

“So? Made up?”

“We did. Lena really changed. She works, helps Mom.”

“That’s great. So your lesson paid off.”

“What lesson?”

“The lesson of boundaries. You showed you have boundaries that can’t be crossed. And they understood.”

Ksenia nodded. Yes, boundaries are important. It took her twenty-seven years to understand, but better late than never.

A week later she moved into her own apartment. Small, but hers. The first evening she sat on the windowsill with a glass of wine. No one demanded reports on where she had been or what she did. No one planned her money. No one expected her to feed someone or buy anything.

Her phone beeped with a message from Lena: “Ksyush, how’s the new place? If you need anything — let me know. But I’m not rich yet, keep that in mind :)”

Ksenia smiled and replied: “All good. I’ll invite you for tea at my place soon.”

Yes, they had become sisters again. Finally.

It all started suddenly — my little daughter Lizochka got sick. She was only nine months old, and then suddenly her temperature shot up sharply, and she started vomiting and having diarrhea. I was in panic — I’m 23 years old, a young mom with almost no experience in such situations. And Sasha, my husband, as usual, was sitting at home by the computer, sipping beer and playing his favorite “tank” games.

“Sash, Liz is feeling bad, look at her!” I called him, trying to soothe the crying baby.

“Come on, maybe she’s teething?” he shrugged, not even taking his eyes off the screen. “Give her something, it’ll pass.”

I sighed. Arguing with him was useless anyway. At some point, I realized: if I don’t take action, it will only get worse. When it became clear that the fever wasn’t going down, and Liz was becoming lethargic and stopped responding, I called an ambulance myself.

The doctors arrived quickly, examined the baby, and said briefly:
“Rotavirus. Immediate hospitalization.”

“Sash, get ready, we’re going!” I shouted while the medics prepared our daughter for transport.

“I… I have work tomorrow,” he mumbled, not getting up from his chair. “You’ll manage, right?”

I looked at him — at his beer can, the flickering screen, his relaxed posture — and said nothing. I just turned and followed the ambulance. At that moment, only Liz mattered to me. His indifference could wait.

At the hospital, they sent us to the infectious diseases ward. Liz cried nonstop; I rushed between doctors, IV drips, tests, trying to be near her, to calm her. The night passed like a fog: I barely slept, holding my daughter until she, exhausted, finally fell asleep near dawn. And then — morning. My birthday.

At exactly eight, the phone rang. It was Sasha. For a second, I felt a little relieved — maybe he would at least congratulate me properly, ask how Liz was?

But instead I heard:

“Happy birthday, old lady!” he laughed. “So, how’s it going? Still lying there?”

I froze. “Old lady”? I’m only 23. I’m sitting in a hospital room, my daughter has rotavirus, I haven’t slept all night, and he’s joking?

“Sash, are you serious?” my voice betrayed me and trembled. “Liz is on an IV, I haven’t slept all night. Maybe you could at least ask how she is?”

“Oh, come on, don’t start,” he waved me off. “You’re in the hospital, the doctors will take care of it. I’m just calling to say congrats. Can’t I joke anymore?”

“No, you can’t,” I replied sharply. “It’s not funny. Are you even planning to come? Or bring any groceries? We have nothing here, not even water.”

“I’ll think about it,” he grumbled. “Okay, gotta go, stuff to do.”

And he hung up. Not a word of love, no simple “hang in there,” not even a “happy birthday.” I sat with the phone in my hand feeling something inside me crack. But then I didn’t know it was only the beginning.

A couple of hours later, my mother-in-law called — Tamara Ivanovna. I always tried to treat her with respect, although her constant advice and interference in our lives often drove me crazy. I thought maybe now she would at least support me, say something encouraging.

“Anya, happy birthday, dear!” she started cheerfully. “How are you all? Is Lizochka alive and well?”

“Tamara Ivanovna, Liz is on an IV,” I answered tiredly. “Rotavirus, severe dehydration. I’m here alone, Sasha hasn’t even come.”

“Oh, here you go again,” she snorted. “Sasha is a man, it’s hard for him. He works, he’s tired. You know men — they need to rest.”

I was speechless. Rest? He’s sitting at home playing games while I’m here alone!

“Tamara Ivanovna, he’s not working, he’s playing tanks,” I couldn’t hold back. “And he hasn’t even asked how Liz is. Is that normal?”

“Anya, don’t make it worse,” she waved it off again. “All men are like that. Mine used to roam in his youth too, and we lived. And Sasha… well, he’s no good, but you’ll get used to it. By the way, we’ll find someone for you later. Don’t worry!”

I almost dropped the phone. What?! Now they officially suggest I accept cheating?!

“Tamara Ivanovna, are you serious?” I squeezed out. “You’re suggesting I…”

“Anya, don’t pretend to be a saint,” she laughed. “Everyone lives like this. Men cheat, wives endure. And then when the kids grow up, you find someone yourself. That’s life, girl.”

I silently hung up. My heart was pounding, my head spinning. What’s happening? Is it normal now to turn a blind eye to cheating and treat it as part of family life?

The days in the hospital dragged on, but Liz got better. They moved us to a regular ward, and I relaxed a little. But the more I watched Sasha, the less I understood who he was to me now. He almost stopped calling. Sometimes once a day, with obvious irritation:

“So, how are you? Getting discharged soon?”

No warmth, no involvement. Once my friend Katya messaged me. We had been friends since school, trusted each other like sisters. She often came to our house, played with Liz, helped when needed. She was always there.

Her message was short: “Anya, we need to talk. It’s about Sasha.”

My heart clenched immediately. I understood something had happened. I called back.

“Katya, what happened?” I asked, trying to keep calm.

“Anya, I don’t know how to say it…” she hesitated. “While you’re in the hospital, Sasha… he’s seeing Nastya.”

“Which Nastya?” I foolishly asked, though I already knew.

“Your friend Nastya. I saw them. At your home.”

I felt the world collapsing beneath my feet. Nastya — my longtime acquaintance, not the closest but still a friend I trusted. I considered her decent, honest. She often came to our home, brought Liz toys, treats, joked, laughed, chatted with Sasha… And now this.

“Katya, are you sure?” my voice betrayed me and trembled. “Maybe you misunderstood something?”

“Anya, I’m so sorry,” she replied softly. “I saw them kissing. At your home. You know, it was hardest for me to say this. But you must know the truth.”

I thanked Katya, hung up, and was left alone with this terrible knowledge. Inside, everything was turning upside down. I felt nausea, pain, destruction. As if not only my husband and “friend” had betrayed me, but the whole world.

Without thinking, I called Sasha.

“Can you explain what’s going on between you and Nastya?” I asked immediately, no preamble.

Silence. Thick, dense, like a wall between us.

“Anya, what are you stirring up now?” he finally grunted. “I’m a father, I don’t have time for myself. I need to rest. It means nothing.”

“Means nothing?!” my voice broke into a scream. I tried to hold back but couldn’t. “You’re sleeping with my friend while I’m in the hospital with our daughter! And that means nothing?!”

“Don’t yell,” he snapped irritably. “Everyone lives like that. Men are like that. And anyway, it’s your fault — all with the kid, all with the kid… We haven’t had anything for a long time, I need it too!”

I couldn’t listen to his voice anymore. I hung up. Tears poured from my eyes, but I knew I couldn’t let myself break. Liz was sleeping nearby — small, fragile, not yet realizing what her mother had been through. Her life was more important than this nightmare.

The remaining days in the hospital passed like through cotton. Liz started to recover, and I tried to piece myself together. My thoughts raced: how did I get here? Why did I tolerate Sasha’s laziness? Why did I stay silent when he didn’t help, when he didn’t want to be involved in his daughter’s life? Why did I let my mother-in-law plant the idea that this behavior of men is normal? And most importantly — how could I not notice that Nastya would turn out to be such a hypocrite? The one who played with my daughter, kissed her cheeks, called her “baby,” and then — just used the moment to be close to my husband.

I called my mother. She had always been my support, even when we argued or disagreed. I told her everything. Without embellishment, without pauses.

After listening, she was silent for a long time. Then she firmly said:

“Anya, listen to me carefully. You’re young, beautiful, you have a healthy, beloved girl. Why do you need a person who doesn’t value you? And this mother-in-law with her ‘everyone lives like this’? You deserve respect, care, love. Don’t stay put — leave. Right now.”

“But how?” I sobbed. “Liz, money, apartment…”

“I’ll help,” she said firmly. “I’ll come, take Liz to stay with me for a couple of days, and you start building your new life. File for divorce, find a job, rent a place. You’ll manage. You’re stronger than you think.”

And for the first time in a long time, I felt I could. That somewhere beyond the pain, there is a way out. That I’m not alone. That I have my mother, I have Liz, and I have a goal — to start over. And though it’s scary, though it’s unclear, this fear was no longer empty — it became part of something bigger.

When Liz and I were discharged, I decided to meet Nastya. Not for a scandal, not for revenge — just to understand who she was to me now. To hear from her how she could justify her betrayal.

We met at a cafe. She sat tensely, her eyes full of mixed emotions — guilt, shame, but also some strange confidence.

“Anya, I’m really sorry,” she began. “It was stupid, unexpected. He said you were almost divorced, that you didn’t love him, that he was lonely…”

“Nastya,” I interrupted coldly, “I was in the hospital with the baby. And you took advantage of that to sleep with my husband. This isn’t an accident. It’s a choice.”

She lowered her eyes. She had nothing to say.

“You came to our home, played with Liz, kissed her, laughed with us. And then — this. It’s not just ‘it happened.’ It’s your act. And you chose betrayal.”

She was silent. I stood up, put down my unfinished coffee, and left. That meeting became the final point in our relationship. After it, I understood: I don’t need excuses. I don’t need explanations. There are people you can trust. And there are those who taught me never to be naive again.

Now, months later, I can say: that birthday became a turning point in my life. I filed for divorce. Sasha tried to ask for forgiveness, insisted it was a “moment of weakness.” But I knew: if a person takes two steps away from family — they have long gone.

My mother helped me with Liz, I started working remotely, then got a job in an office. We rented a small but cozy apartment. It smells of children’s laughter, home comfort, hope. For the first time in a long time, I felt freedom — the kind I never even thought was possible.

My mother-in-law called a couple of times, trying to “reconcile” us. I stopped answering. Nastya sent messages, begged for forgiveness. I blocked her. Not because I wanted revenge. I just realized: people who don’t respect you and your child have no right to be near you.

Now I look at Liz, who is already running, laughing, calling me “mom” — and I understand: everything that happened was the beginning of something new. Yes, that birthday was the strangest, the most painful. But it taught me the main thing: I have the right to happiness. And I deserve it — for myself and for my daughter.

When Pasha was not even five years old, his world collapsed. His mother was gone. He stood in the corner of the room, stunned by confusion — what was happening? Why was the house filled with strangers? Who were they? Why was everyone so quiet, so strange, speaking in whispers and avoiding eye contact?

The boy didn’t understand why no one was smiling. Why they told him, “Stay strong, little one,” and hugged him, but did it as if he had lost something important. But he had simply not seen his mother.

His father was somewhere far away all day. He didn’t come near, didn’t hug, didn’t say a word. He just sat apart, empty and distant. Pasha approached the coffin and stared at his mother for a long time. She was nothing like she usually was — no warmth, no smile, no lullabies at night. Pale, cold, frozen. It was frightening. And the boy no longer dared to get closer.

Without his mother, everything changed. Gray. Empty. Two years later, his father remarried. The new woman — Galina — did not become part of his world. Rather, she felt irritation toward him. She grumbled about everything, found faults as if looking for an excuse to be angry. And his father was silent. Did not defend. Did not intervene.

Every day Pasha felt a pain he hid inside. The pain of loss. Longing. And with every day — he wished more and more to return to the life when his mother was alive.

Today was a special day — his mother’s birthday. In the morning, Pasha woke up with one thought: he needed to go to her. To the grave. To bring flowers. White calla lilies — her favorite. He remembered how they were in her hands in old photographs, shining next to her smile.

But where to get money? He decided to ask his father.

“Dad, can I have a little money? I really need it…”

Before he could explain, Galina rushed out of the kitchen:

“What is this now?! You’re already asking your father for money?! Do you even realize how hard it is to earn a salary?”

His father looked up and tried to stop her:

“Gal, wait. He hasn’t even said why yet. Son, tell me what you need?”

“I want to buy flowers for Mom. White calla lilies. Today is her birthday…”

Galina snorted, crossing her arms:

“Oh, really! Flowers! Money for them! Maybe you want to go to a restaurant too? Take something from the flowerbed — that’ll be your bouquet!”

“They’re not there,” Pasha answered quietly but firmly. “They only sell them in the store.”

His father looked thoughtfully at his son, then shifted his gaze to his wife:

“Gal, go get lunch ready. I’m hungry.”

The woman snorted unhappily and disappeared into the kitchen. The father returned to his newspaper. And Pasha understood: he wouldn’t get any money. Not a single word was said after that.

He quietly went to his room, took out an old piggy bank. Counted the coins. Not many. But maybe enough?

Without wasting time, he ran out of the house toward the flower shop. From afar, he saw the snowy white calla lilies in the window. So bright, almost magical. He stopped, holding his breath.

Then he decisively went inside.

“What do you want?” asked the woman seller unfriendly, eyeing the boy critically. “You probably came to the wrong place. We don’t have toys or sweets here. Only flowers.”

“I’m not just like that… I really want to buy. Callas… How much is a bouquet?”

The seller named the price. Pasha took out all his coins from his pocket. The amount was barely half the price.

“Please…” he pleaded. “I can work! Come every day, help clean, dust, wash floors… Just lend me this bouquet…”

“Are you normal?” the woman snorted with clear irritation. “Do you think I’m a millionaire to just give away flowers? Get lost! Or I’ll call the police — begging is not welcome here!”

But Pasha was not going to give up. He needed those flowers today. He started begging again:

“I’ll pay everything back! I promise! I’ll earn whatever is needed! Please understand…”

“Oh, look at this little actor!” shouted the seller so loudly passersby began to turn around. “Where are your parents? Maybe it’s time to call social services? Why are you wandering here alone? Last warning — get out before I call!”

At that moment, a man approached the shop. He happened to witness the scene.

He entered the flower shop just as the woman was yelling at the upset child. It struck him — he couldn’t stand injustice, especially towards children.

“Why are you yelling like that?” he asked the seller sternly. “You’re shouting at him like he stole something. And he’s just a boy.”

“And who are you anyway?” snapped the woman. “If you don’t know what’s going on, don’t interfere. He almost stole the bouquet!”

“Well, sure, ‘almost stole,’” the man raised his voice. “You attacked him like a hunter after prey! He needs help, and you threaten him. Have you no conscience?”

He turned to Pasha, who stood in the corner, shrinking and wiping tears from his cheeks.

“Hello, buddy. My name’s Yura. Tell me why you’re upset? You wanted to buy flowers but didn’t have enough money?”

Pasha sobbed, wiped his nose with his sleeve, and said in a quiet, trembling voice:

“I wanted to buy calla lilies… For Mom… She loved them very much… But she left three years ago… Today is her birthday… I wanted to go to the cemetery and bring her flowers…”

Yura felt his heart tighten inside. The boy’s story touched him deeply. He crouched down next to him.

“You know, your mom can be proud of you. Not every adult brings flowers on the

anniversary, and you, at eight years old, remember and want to do something good. You’re going to grow into a real person.”

Then he turned to the seller:

“Show me which calla lilies he chose. I want to buy two bouquets — one for him, one for me.”

Pasha pointed to the window display with the white callas shining like porcelain. Yura hesitated a little — those were exactly the flowers he had planned to buy. He said nothing aloud, just noted to himself: “Coincidence or a sign?”

Soon Pasha was already leaving the shop with the cherished bouquet in his hands. He treasured it like the most precious treasure and could hardly believe it had worked out. Turning to the man, he timidly offered:

“Uncle Yura… Can I leave you my phone number? I will definitely pay you back. I promise.”

The man laughed good-naturedly:

“I never doubted you would say that. But no need. Today is a special day for a woman who is dear to me. I’ve long awaited a moment to tell her my feelings. So, I’m in a good mood. Glad I could do a good deed. Besides, apparently, our tastes match — both your mom and my Ira loved these flowers.”

For a moment he fell silent, lost in thought. His eyes looked through space, recalling his beloved.

He and Ira were neighbors. They lived in opposite apartment entrances. They met foolishly and by chance — one day she was surrounded by hooligans, and Yura stood up to defend her. He got a black eye but didn’t regret it for a minute — that was when a sympathy between them began.

Years passed — friendship grew into love. They were inseparable. Everyone said: that’s the perfect couple.

When Yura turned eighteen, he was drafted into the army. For Ira, it was a blow. Before leaving, they spent the night together for the first time.

Everything was fine in service until Yura suffered a serious head injury. He woke up in the hospital without memory. Didn’t even remember his name.

Ira tried to call him, but the phone was silent. She suffered, thinking Yura had abandoned her. Over time, she changed her number and tried to forget the pain.

Months later, his memory began returning. Ira came back to his thoughts. He started calling, but no answer. Nobody knew that his parents hid the truth, telling the girl that Yura had left her.

Returning home, Yura decided to surprise Ira — bought calla lilies and headed to her. But he saw a completely different picture: Ira was walking arm in arm with a man, pregnant, happy.

Yura’s heart broke. He couldn’t understand — how was this possible? Without waiting for explanations, he ran away.

That very night, he left for another city where no one knew his past. Started a new life but couldn’t forget Ira. Even married, hoping for healing, but the marriage didn’t work out.

Eight years passed. One day, Yura realized: he could no longer live with emptiness inside. He must find Ira. Must tell her everything. And here he was again in his hometown, with a bouquet of calla lilies in his hands. And it was there that he met Pasha — a meeting that might change everything.

“Pasha… yes, Pasha!” Yura recalled, as if waking up. He stood by the shop, and the boy was still patiently waiting nearby.

“Son, maybe I can give you a ride somewhere?” Yura gently offered.

 

“Thanks, no,” the boy politely refused. “I know how to take the bus. I’ve been to Mom before… Not the first time.”

With these words, he hugged the bouquet tight to his chest and ran toward the bus stop. Yura watched him go for a long time. Something about this child awakened memories, evoked an inexplicable connection, almost kinship. Their paths crossed for a reason. There was something painfully familiar in Pasha.

When the boy left, Yura headed to the very yard where Ira had once lived. His heart pounded like a drum as he approached the entrance and cautiously asked an elderly woman living there if she knew where Ira was now.

“Oh, dear,” sighed the neighbor, looking at him sadly. “She’s no longer here… She died three years ago.”

“What?” Yura recoiled sharply, as if struck.

“After marrying Vlad, she never returned here. Moved to him. By the way, a good soul took her while she was pregnant. Not every man would do that. They loved each other, took care of each other. Then their son was born. And then… that’s it. She’s gone. That’s all I know, son.”

Yura slowly left the entrance feeling like a lost ghost — late, lonely, forever too late.

“Why did I wait so long? Why didn’t I come back even a year earlier?”

And then the neighbor’s words resurfaced: “…pregnant…”

“Wait. If she was pregnant when she married Vlad… then the child could have been mine?!”

His head spun. Somewhere here, in this city, maybe his son was living. Yura felt a flame ignite inside — he must find him. But first, he needed to find Ira.

At the cemetery, he quickly found her grave. His heart clenched with pain — love, loss, regret flooded at once. But even stronger shook him what lay on the tombstone: a fresh bouquet of white calla lilies. The very same, beloved flowers of Ira.

“Pasha…” Yura whispered. “It’s you. Our son. Our child…”

He looked at Ira’s photo on the stone, which gazed back, and softly said:

“Forgive me… For everything.”

Tears poured from his eyes, but he did not hold them back. Then he abruptly turned and ran — he had to return to the house Pasha had pointed to when they stood by the shop. There was his chance.

He rushed to the yard. The boy sat on the swings, thoughtfully swinging. It turned out that as soon as Pasha returned home, his stepmother gave him a scolding for being gone too long. He couldn’t stand it and ran outside.

Yura approached, sat down next to him, and hugged his son tightly.

Then a man came out of the entrance. Seeing a stranger next to the child, he froze. Then recognized him.

“Yura…” he said, almost without surprise. “I no longer hoped you would come. I guess you understand that Pasha is your son.”

“Yes,” Yura nodded. “I understand. I came for him.”

Vlad sighed deeply:

“If he wants to, I won’t stand in the way. I was never really a husband to Ira. Nor a father to Pasha. She always loved only you. I knew. Thought it would pass with time. But before she died, she confessed she wanted to find you. Tell you everything: about the son, about her feelings, about you. But she didn’t have time.”

Yura was silent. His throat tightened, and thoughts hammered in his head.

“Thank you… for accepting him, not giving him away.” He sighed deeply. “Tomorrow I will take his things and documents. But now… let’s just go. I have a lot to learn. Eight years of my son’s life lost. I don’t want to lose another minute.”

He took Pasha’s hand. They headed toward the car.

“Forgive me, son… I didn’t even know I had such a wonderful boy…”

Pasha looked at him calmly and said:

“I always knew Vlad wasn’t my real dad. When Mom told about me, she spoke of someone else. About another man. I knew one day we would meet. And here we are… we met.”

Yura lifted his son into his arms and cried — from relief, from pain, from immense, unbearable love.

“Forgive me… for having to wait so long. I will never leave you again.”

— School? Seriously? — Valentina Sergeevna grimaced as if from a toothache. — Artyom could have found a more decent wife.

I silently poured tea into the porcelain cups, trying not to spill. My hands trembled with anger, but I couldn’t show it to my mother-in-law.

Three months of marriage had taught me one thing — in this house, I would always be a stranger.

— Mom, stop it, — Artyom squeezed my hand under the table. — Katya is a wonderful wife.

— Wonderful? — my father-in-law smirked, looking up from his tablet. — Son, you could have chosen the daughter of our partners. But you brought home… a teacher.

He spat out the last word with such contempt as if I had done something shameful. I wanted to stand up and leave, but Artyom held my hand. — Dad, I love Katya. Isn’t that what matters?

— Love, — Valentina Sergeevna snorted. — In our circle, marriages are built on other grounds. But you have always been a romantic.

She glanced me over critically — from my simple blouse to my neatly tied hair. Her eyes showed open disdain.

— Katerina, dear, — my mother-in-law’s voice became sickly sweet, — what exactly do you teach at your… school?

— Literature and Russian language, — I answered calmly.

— Ah, literature! — she theatrically threw up her hands. — So you spend your days reading fairy tales to children?

— Mom! — Artyom raised his voice.

— What “mom”? I’m just curious about your wife’s profession. By the way, Katerina, you do understand what kind of family you married into? We have certain standards.

I took a sip of tea to buy time. A lump rose in my throat, but I managed to keep my voice steady:

— I understand, Valentina Sergeevna. I try to live up to them.

— Try? — she laughed. — Dear, you have no idea what it means to be a Morozov wife. This isn’t your typical school parents’ meetings.

My father-in-law nodded in agreement. Artyom squeezed my hand tighter.

— That’s enough, — he said sternly. — Katya is my wife, and I ask you to treat her with respect.

— Respect is earned, son, — my father-in-law put aside his tablet. — So far, all I see are the ambitions of a provincial girl who married well.

Tears welled in my eyes, but I forced a smile. I couldn’t show weakness. That’s all they were waiting for.

— I’m not a provincial girl, Viktor Petrovich. I was born and raised in Moscow, just like you.

— Moscow? — Valentina Sergeevna arched an eyebrow. — Which district, if you don’t mind me asking?

— Biryulyovo.

The couple exchanged glances, and a triumphant gleam flashed in their eyes. For them, Biryulyovo was synonymous with all things low-class. — I see, — my father-in-law drawled. — Well, the main thing is that you understand your place in this family.

— What place? — Artyom couldn’t hold back.

— The place of a wife who must match her husband’s status, — Valentina Sergeevna cut in sharply.

The week passed in tense silence. Artyom apologized for his parents and promised to talk to them, but I knew it was useless.

In their eyes, I would forever remain an upstart from Biryulyovo, who had her eyes on their money. Funny — they didn’t even know that I had fallen in love with Artyom long before I learned about his family’s wealth.

We met in a bookstore, argued about Dostoevsky, laughed at the same jokes. Back then, he was just a guy in worn jeans with kind eyes.

Mother-in-law called Thursday morning while I was preparing for lessons.

— Katerina, come by at four today. We need to have a serious talk.

The tone promised nothing good. I left the last lessons early, though the principal gave me a sharp look — midterm period, tests coming up.

But family was more important, I told myself, though inside I was gripped by a bad feeling.

The Morozov mansion greeted me with oppressive silence. The staff seemed to have vanished; even the usually bustling housekeeper Marina didn’t show.

Valentina Sergeevna waited in the living room — perfect hairstyle, expensive suit, cold smile.

— Sit down, Katerina. Tea?

I shook my head. My throat tightened so much not even a sip of water could pass.

— I have thought long about how best to say this, — she leaned back in her chair, studying me. — You’re not a fool, you must understand — this marriage is a mistake.

— A mistake for whom? — I replied calmer than I expected.

— For everyone. But especially for Artyom. He is the heir to an empire, and you… — she grimaced. — You’re dragging him down.

Anger surged from deep inside, a hot wave. How much more humiliation must I endure? But I stayed silent, letting her speak. — I’m prepared to make you an offer, — Valentina Sergeevna leaned forward. — Five million for a divorce. Quietly, without scandals. Tell Artyom you’ve fallen out of love.

— No.

— Ten million.

— Valentina Sergeevna, I am not for sale.

Her face twisted. The mask of a noble lady slipped, revealing her true nature. — Then listen carefully, — her voice hardened like a blade. — If you want to stay in this family, remember: you must be a servant to my husband, cook, clean, fulfill any whim.

No claims to inheritance, no children without my permission. You will be a shadow, understand?

I stared at her, unable to believe my ears. A servant? In the twenty-first century? Inside I boiled with outrage, but my face remained calm. — And if I refuse?

— Then I will do everything to make Artyom leave you. I have my ways, believe me. Infidelity can be easily fabricated, especially with a simpleton like you.

She stood, signaling the audience was over. I got up after her, legs trembling with rage.

— Think it over, Katerina. You have a week.

After leaving the mansion, I stood by the car for a long time trying to calm down. My hands shook so much I couldn’t fit the key in the lock.

Tell Artyom? He wouldn’t believe. Or if he did, what would it change? Valentina Sergeevna was right — she had power, money, connections.

I decided to drive around, clear my head. I turned toward the mall — maybe coffee would help. I walked across the parking lot, lost in thought, when I saw a familiar silhouette. Valentina Sergeevna was getting out of a silver Mercedes.

But not alone. A tall man held her by the waist, she laughed, throwing her head back. That was definitely not Viktor Petrovich.

Instinctively, I hid behind a pillar. My heart pounded wildly. They walked toward the restaurant entrance, and the man whispered something in her ear.

Valentina Sergeevna playfully hit his shoulder, then pulled him by the tie and kissed him.

My phone was in my hand before I could think. Click, click, click — the camera captured every movement.

They went into the restaurant, and I was left standing, staring at the screen. Here she was, Mrs. Morality, lecturing me about decency.

All the way home I pondered what I had seen. Should I use this? Stoop to blackmail?

But wasn’t she going to do the same to me? My eyes stung from tears — not from hurt, but from helplessness. How had I ended up in this nightmare?

Family dinner next Friday. The Morozov tradition — gather once a week, discuss business, plans. I usually tried to stay unnoticed, but today was different.

My purse held the phone with photos, and my soul held determination.

— Katerina has lost a lot of weight, — Viktor Petrovich noted, cutting his steak. — Artyom, aren’t you being hard on your wife?

— Dad, what makes you say that? — Artyom looked at me surprised.

— Just a lot of work, — I muttered.

— Ah yes, school, — Valentina Sergeevna smirked. — By the way, have you thought about my offer?

I looked up at her. She sat opposite — the perfect wife, perfect mother, perfect lie. — What offer? — Artyom asked.

— Just women’s talk, — the mother-in-law waved it off. — Katerina, you remember our agreement? About your place in the family?

Viktor Petrovich was distracted by his phone, Artyom frowned, sensing a trap. I pulled out my phone.

— I remember, Valentina Sergeevna. But first, I want to show you something interesting.

— What is it? — she paled when she saw the screen.

— This is you last week. With a very… close friend, as I understand.

The phone went around the table. Viktor Petrovich froze, fork in hand, staring at the photo of his wife in the arms of a stranger.

Artyom whistled. Valentina Sergeevna slowly turned crimson.

— How dare you…

— And how dare you suggest I be a servant? — I stood up, leaning on the table. — Threaten to frame me for betrayal? You care so much about the family’s reputation, yet you…

— What’s going on? — Viktor Petrovich finally found his voice. — Valentina, explain!

— This… this isn’t what you think…

— Not what? — he threw the phone on the table. — Thirty years of marriage, and you…

The rest was drowned in shouting. Valentina Sergeevna tried to justify herself; Viktor Petrovich didn’t listen.

Artyom squeezed my hand under the table; his eyes showed shock and… pride? For me?

— Let’s get out of here, — he whispered.

We left them to argue. On the porch, Artyom hugged me tightly. — Forgive them. Forgive me. I should have protected you earlier.

— No need, — I buried my face in his shoulder. — I handled it myself.

And it was true. For the first time in all these months, I felt not like a victim, but like a person who could stand up for herself.

Maybe the methods weren’t the most noble, but did they ever play noble?

We went to our apartment, leaving the Morozov mansion behind. In the morning, Artyom received a message from his father — divorce, property division, Valentina Sergeevna was moving out.

And also an invitation to lunch, just the two of us. Signed: “Forgive the old fool. You turned out stronger than we thought.”

I read the message twice. Stronger. Yes, perhaps they made me that way. Taught me to fight for my happiness, not to give up, not to bend. Thanks to them for that lesson.

— You decided to buy Mom an apartment? — Alisa looked at her husband with confusion. He was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing a somewhat guilty expression.

Kolya nodded, avoiding her gaze.

— Yes, I decided. She’s just a million short, and we’ve almost saved that much.

— What do you mean, “decided”? — Alisa’s voice rose. — We’ve been saving for our own apartment for four years! We were already looking at options, choosing a neighborhood!

— Alisa, think about it yourself. Mom has been suffering all her life in a communal apartment. Neighbors drink, yell at night. She deserves a decent place.

Alisa sat down opposite her husband. Her hands trembled with indignation.

— And what about us? Don’t we deserve that? We’re young, want children, and live in this tiny one-room flat! I’ve already told all my friends we’ll be moving soon!

— Mom’s alone. She’ll retire soon; her salary is pennies. We’re young; we can save more later.

— Save more? — Alisa jumped up. — Do you realize how long that will take? We put aside forty thousand a month, deny ourselves everything!

Kolya finally looked up at her. His eyes showed firm resolve.

— Tomorrow I’m transferring the money to Mom for the apartment. The decision is made.

The next days in their small apartment were heavy with silence. Alisa didn’t speak to her husband, only nodded at his attempts to start a conversation. Kolya pretended everything was fine, but she saw how nervous he was.

On Friday evening, she couldn’t take it anymore and called her sister Svetlana.

— Sveta, can I come over? Things are really bad at home.

— Of course, come. What happened?

An hour later, Alisa sat in her sister’s kitchen telling her what happened. Svetlana listened, occasionally shaking her head.

— Can you imagine? He didn’t even consult you! Just put you in front of a fait accompli!

— And what does Alexandra Mikhailovna say?

— She’s happy, of course. Says she didn’t expect such care from her son. But she’s silent about the fact that now we have problems.

Svetlana poured tea into two mugs and sat opposite her sister.

— Listen, maybe he’s right? After all, it’s his mother…

— Are you against me too? — Alisa felt a lump rise in her throat.

— No, no. I’m just trying to understand his logic. Although I agree — such a decision should have been discussed with the wife.

At that moment, Igor, Svetlana’s husband, entered the kitchen. He overheard the end of the conversation and joined in.

— What’s this about?

Svetlana briefly recounted the situation. Igor thoughtfully shook his head.

— You know, Alisa, if I were Kolya, I’d do the same. Parents are sacred. They raised us; now it’s our turn to take care of them.

— But we had plans! — Alisa exclaimed. — We had plans and dreams!

— Plans can change. But we have only one set of parents.

Alisa felt despair wash over her. Even her relatives didn’t understand her position.

At home, another conversation with Kolya awaited her. He sat on the sofa in the living room, clearly waiting for her.

— Where were you?

— At Sveta’s. I was telling her what a wonderful husband I have.

— Alisa, enough! We’re not poor; we’ll save up again.

— When? In five years? Ten? — her voice broke. — What if we have children? Then there will be nothing to save at all!

— If we have children, we’ll solve the housing issue then. We’ll ask our parents for help.

— Which parents? Yours, who will buy an apartment with our money? Or mine, who gets pennies on her pension?

Kolya stood and went to the window.

— You’re selfish, Alisa. You only think about yourself.

— And you only think about Mom! You forgot you have a wife!

— I didn’t forget. But a wife should understand and support her husband.

— Support what? That our plans go down the drain?

Kolya turned to face her. In his eyes, she saw a coldness she had never noticed before.

— Mom spent her whole life on me. She raised me alone after Dad left. Worked two jobs so I could study properly. Now it’s my turn.

— And what, I’m a stranger? We’ve been together five years, married for three!

— Mom is Mom. And wives… — he didn’t finish, but Alisa understood.

— What about wives? Finish your sentence!

— Nothing. I’ll transfer the money tomorrow. Period.

In the morning, Kolya left for work without saying goodbye. Alisa sat down at the computer and opened the banking app. Their joint account showed one million eight hundred thousand rubles — the result of four years of saving.

She remembered how they started saving. Back then they lived in an even smaller apartment, renting a room in a communal flat. Every month they calculated to the last kopek how much they could save. They gave up cafes, movies, new clothes. They dreamed of their own home.

Kolya used to say they were a team. That together they would achieve everything. But now he makes decisions alone.

At lunch, her mother called.

— Alisochka, how are you? Your voice sounds sad.

— Oh, Mom. Just tired from work.

— And Kolya? Haven’t seen your son-in-law in a while.

Alisa didn’t tell her about the problems. Mom already worried about every little thing.

— Kolya is fine. Works a lot.

— Good. When are you going to buy your apartment? I remember you said soon.

— Still saving, Mom.

After the call, Alisa felt worse. She had told everyone about their plans, and now she would have to explain why nothing worked out.

In the evening, Kolya came home silent and immediately sat at the computer. Alisa saw him open the banking app and start arranging a transfer.

— Are you serious about this?

— Serious.

— Kolya, let’s talk again. Maybe we could give Mom half the sum? At least try to find a compromise.

— No. She needs a million. She has eight hundred thousand; the rest is missing.

— And what about us? Don’t we need a decent apartment?

— We do. But it’s not urgent.

Alisa sat next to her husband and put her hand on his shoulder.

— Kolya, please. This is our shared dream. Our future.

He gently removed her hand.

— My decision is final.

— Then so is mine.

— Which one?

— I’m leaving.

Kolya looked up from the computer and stared at his wife.

— Where are you going?

— Away from you. I can’t live with someone who doesn’t respect me.

— Come on! Breaking up over money?

— Not over money. Over the fact that you made a decision for the two of us. Because my opinion doesn’t matter to you.

Kolya turned back to the screen.

— As you wish. I’ll transfer the money anyway.

Alisa started packing. Kolya sat in the same position, pretending not to notice. When she closed the suitcase, he finally turned.

— You think I’ll try to stop you?

— I don’t think so.

— Good. I need a wife who supports me, not one who makes a scandal over every little thing.

— Little things? — Alisa stopped at the door. — Two million rubles and broken plans are little things?

— Compared to what Mom did for me — yes, they are.

— I see. Then live with Mom.

Alisa grabbed her suitcase and headed for the door. Kolya shouted after her:

— Fine, be that way! I don’t need a wife like that!

The door slammed.

Svetlana welcomed her sister without questions. She made her comfortable on the fold-out sofa in the nursery and said she could stay as long as she needed.

— Won’t Igor say anything?

— What would he say? She’s my sister; I have the right to take her in.

In the morning, Alisa woke up to children’s laughter. Her nephews were playing in the next room, unaware of the drama unfolding in their house.

At breakfast, Svetlana asked:

— What will you do now?

— I don’t know. I’ll go to work, and we’ll see.

— Will you talk to Kolya?

— Not ready yet. Let him transfer the money first. I want to see how he likes living with Mom.

— Maybe he’ll come to his senses?

— I doubt it. You heard how he shouted yesterday.

A week later, Alisa learned from mutual acquaintances that Kolya transferred the money to Alexandra Mikhailovna. She had already begun buying a one-room apartment in a new building on the city outskirts.

Kolya tried to call, but Alisa didn’t answer. Then he started sending messages:

“Alisa, let’s talk. This is silly.”

“We’re adults. We can solve this.”

“I miss you. Come home.”

She read the messages but didn’t reply. Her anger at her husband didn’t fade; it only grew.

At work, colleagues noticed Alisa had become distracted and sad. Sergey from the neighboring department offered tea and conversation several times, but she refused.

— Alisa, if you want to share your troubles, I’m ready to listen, — he said once after a meeting.

— Thanks, Sergey. But I’m not ready to talk yet.

— I understand. I recently went through a divorce myself. I know how it feels.

Alisa looked carefully at her colleague. Sergey was a pleasant man in his thirties, always polite and tactful. There were rumors about his divorce, but no details were known.

— Was it hard?

— Very. But life goes on. The main thing is not to close yourself off.

A month passed. Alexandra Mikhailovna got the keys to the new apartment and invited her son to help move. Kolya took time off and spent several days carrying his mother’s things.

Meanwhile, Alisa rented a room in an apartment near work and started divorce proceedings. The lawyer explained that during asset division, she was entitled to half the savings, but the money was gone.

— So, your ex-husband will have to compensate you half the amount, — said the lawyer.

— And if he doesn’t have the money?

— Then you can demand half the value of the apartment bought with your joint funds.

— The apartment is in my mother-in-law’s name.

— That complicates things. But it’s worth trying.

Alisa knew the court battle could drag on for years, and it was not certain she would get anything.

Kolya continued trying to mend things. He came to her workplace, waited near her home. Colleagues started gossiping, but she ignored both him and the rumors.

— Alisa, how long will you sulk? — he said one day, catching her near the office. — Talk to me normally.

— We have nothing to talk about.

— What do you mean, nothing? We lived together for five years!

— We lived together, and that’s enough. Go to your mother; she’s living in a new apartment thanks to you now.

— Mom’s not involved here!

— Very much involved. You chose between us; the choice was made.

Kolya tried to take her hand, but Alisa pulled away.

— I thought you’d understand. In time, you’d forgive.

— I won’t forgive. There’s nothing to understand. You showed me who’s more important to you.

— Alisa, that’s my mother!

— And who am I? Some random person?

Kolya looked at his ex-wife helplessly.

— You’re something else…

— What else? Explain.

— Well… you’re young and healthy. You have your whole life ahead. And Mom’s old and alone.

— I see. So as long as I’m young and healthy, I don’t need any care.

— That’s not what I meant!

— What did you mean? That my interests are less important than Mom’s?

Kolya fell silent. Alisa realized he himself couldn’t articulate his position.

— Goodbye, Kolya. Don’t come again.

Six months passed. Alisa got used to her new life. The room was small, but it belonged only to her. No one made decisions for her or presented facts.

Work was going well. Sergey became a good friend. They often ate lunch together and sometimes went to the movies. Nothing serious, but Alisa felt calm and comfortable around him.

— Have you thought about remarrying? — Sergey asked once during lunch.

— Not yet. I want to finalize my divorce first, then I’ll see.

— That’s right. No rush. After my divorce, I didn’t date for a year. I needed to understand what I want from life.

— And did you?

— Yes. I want a family, but with the right person. Someone with shared goals and understanding.

Alisa nodded. She was beginning to understand what she wanted too — and it wasn’t going back to Kolya.

One evening, there was a knock at the door. Alisa opened and saw Kolya. He looked tired and confused.

— Can I come in?

— Why?

— We need to talk.

Alisa reluctantly let her ex-husband in. He looked around and sat on the only chair.

— How are you living?

— Fine. What’s happened?

Kolya was silent, then sighed.

— Mom kicked me out.

— What?

— She met a man. Mikhail Ivanovich, a widower. They decided to live together, and I was told it’s time to live independently.

Alisa felt a surge of schadenfreude but held back.

— And now?

— I’m renting a room in a communal apartment. No money for a normal place — spent everything on Mom’s apartment.

— I see. And why are you telling me this?

Kolya looked at her pleadingly.

— Alisa, I realized I was wrong. I made a mistake. Let’s try again.

— Try what?

— To live together. I’ve changed, understood a lot.

Alisa sat on the bed opposite him.

— What exactly have you understood?

— That important decisions can’t be made alone. That family is about two people.

— And?

— That I lost the dearest person because of my stubbornness.

Alisa was silent. Kolya continued:

— Mom said I’m an adult man and must take care of myself. And you said the same. But I didn’t listen.

— I did.

— Forgive me, Alisa. Let’s start over. We’ll save for an apartment again, plan the future.

— With what money? You spent it all.

— We’ll find a way. Maybe take a loan…

Alisa shook her head.

— It’s too late, Kolya.

— Why too late? We loved each other!

— We did. Past tense.

Kolya stood and went to the window.

— I know I acted badly. But people have the right to make mistakes.

— They do. But not all mistakes can be fixed.

— Alisa, please…

— Kolya, when you shouted “Good riddance,” did you really mean it?

— I was angry…

— Answer me honestly. Did you?

Kolya lowered his head.

— Yes. At that moment, I did.

— See. I remember it. And I realized I wasn’t that important to you.

— Now I see I was wrong!

— Now — that’s when it’s bad for you. When things were good with Mom in the new apartment, you didn’t think about me.

Kolya tried to argue, but Alisa raised her hand.

— Don’t lie. In a year, you called only a few times in the first month. Then stopped.

— I thought you didn’t want to talk…

— I didn’t. And I still don’t.

Kolya sat for another half hour trying to convince his ex-wife to give him a second chance. He talked about how lonely he felt, how he understood his mistakes, how he’d changed.

Alisa listened silently. Inside, there was neither anger nor pity. Only indifference to the person who had once been dear to her.

— I don’t give traitors a second chance, — she finally said.

— I’m not a traitor!

— You are. You betrayed our plans, our dreams, our trust.

— But I explained why…

— Explanations don’t justify betrayal.

Kolya stood.

— So, it’s all over?

— It ended a year ago. You just realized it now.

— What if I wait? Maybe you’ll change your mind with time?

Alisa walked to the door and opened it.

— Don’t waste your time. I have a new life now.

— What new life? That guy you were seen with?

— None of your business.

Kolya lingered in the doorway.

— Alisa…

— Goodbye, Kolya.

He left, and Alisa closed the door. She sat in silence for a long time, thinking about the conversation. Strange, but she felt no strong emotions. It was like talking to a stranger.

The next day at lunch, Sergey asked:

— How are you? You look calm.

— Yes, I think I finally closed one chapter.

— That’s good. So, ready to start a new one?

— Yes. But no rush. I want to enjoy freedom first.

— I understand. And do you know what I realized after my divorce?

— What?

— That the most important thing in a relationship is respect. Love can fade, but respect should remain.

— Wise words.

— From bitter experience. My ex-wife also ignored my opinion. Though our situation was reversed — she spent our savings on her parents without asking.

Alisa looked surprised.

— Seriously?

— Seriously. That’s why I understand how you felt. When a loved one makes important decisions for you — it’s painful and humiliating.

— Exactly.

— But the main thing is you didn’t agree with it. Many women would have accepted, thinking family is more important than principles.

— I decided principles are more important than a fake family.

— And you did right.

Several months passed. Alisa fully settled into her new life. She finalized the divorce, got her share from selling their old furniture, and even some money through court — it turned out Kolya took a loan for Mom’s apartment, and by law half the debt passed to Alisa. But legally half the apartment was also hers.

Kolya tried to contest this but failed. He ended up selling his share to Alexandra Mikhailovna for a symbolic sum so Alisa could get compensation.

— Justice prevailed, — said Svetlana when Alisa told her about the court decision.

— It’s not about that. I just want everything to be fair.

— And now? Will you buy a new apartment?

— Not yet. I want to live for myself, travel. Then I’ll see.

Once, Alisa accidentally met Kolya at the mall. He was buying groceries and looked tired.

— Hi, — he said uncertainly.

— Hi.

— How are you?

— Good. And you?

— Okay. Working, living.

They stood in awkward silence.

— Alisa, are you… happy? — Kolya finally asked.

— Yes. And you?

— Don’t know. Probably not.

— Sorry.

— Aren’t you angry with me?

Alisa thought.

— No. The anger’s gone. Now I understand it was for the best.

— For the best?

— Yes. We were incompatible people. We just didn’t realize it right away.

— What if I hadn’t given the money to Mom then?

— Sooner or later, another situation would have come up. You would have made another important decision without me. Or I would have realized you don’t respect me as an equal.

Kolya nodded.

— Probably you’re right.

— I’m not angry, Kolya. But I don’t want to come back. I have a new life now.

— I understand. Thanks for being honest.

— Good luck.

— You too.

They parted ways.

That evening, Alisa sat in her room thinking about the meeting. Strange, but she felt no strong emotions. Kolya had become just a person from her past she was once connected to.

The phone rang. It was Sergey.

— Hi! How about a movie tomorrow night?

— Gladly. What are we watching?

— There’s a comedy that’s supposed to be very funny.

— Great. I need some positive vibes now.

— Did something happen?

— I met my ex-husband. But it’s okay, no drama.

— That’s good. So it’s really all in the past?

— Really all in the past.

After the call, Alisa went to the window and looked at the evening city. A year ago, she thought her life had collapsed. Now she understood — life was just beginning. Real life, where she makes decisions and takes responsibility for them herself.

She truly didn’t give traitors a second chance. And she was right.

Vika was waving a printout of bank transactions in front of her husband’s face.

Andrey sat at the kitchen table, staring into his phone. He wore a wrinkled T-shirt with the logo of some long-forgotten rock band, and he clearly hadn’t slept well — shadows lay under his eyes, and his stubble grew uneven patches.

“You made a luxurious renovation for your mother, and now you demand 300,000 from me?”

“Vik, why are you starting this? That was our joint money,” he muttered without looking up.

“Joint?” Vika exhaled loudly and sat down opposite him. “Andryush, darling, remind me, when was the last time you contributed your share to the joint budget? Three months ago? Four?”

She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was tied in a careless ponytail with strands escaping to frame her tired face. She wore a house robe with a small floral pattern — a gift from her mother-in-law last March 8.

“I told you, I’m quiet on orders right now,” Andrey finally looked up. “You know how freelancers are.”

“I know,” Vika nodded. “That’s why I haven’t touched our safety cushion. And what did you do? You took it all and spent it on your mother’s apartment renovation!”

“Not all of it,” Andrey objected. “Besides, she’s my mother, I have to help her.”

“You have to,” Vika repeated. “But I’m not ‘have to,’ right? Not to me? Not to our future child?”

Andrey flinched and stared at his wife with wide eyes.

“What child?”

Vika silently took a pregnancy test with two lines out of her robe pocket and placed it on the table between them.

“This one.”

Silence hung in the kitchen. Somewhere outside a car hummed, a dog barked in the yard. Andrey looked at the test as if it were a bomb with a ticking timer.

“Why… why didn’t you tell me right away?” he finally squeezed out.

“Because I found out last night. I wanted to surprise you today, I even bought tiny booties…” Vika’s voice trembled. “And in the morning, I saw that three hundred thousand had been withdrawn from the card. Everything we saved for the down payment on the apartment.”

Andrey rubbed his temples with his palms.

“Mom called, said the pipe burst, flooded the neighbors downstairs… I couldn’t refuse.”

“Couldn’t refuse,” Vika echoed. “But couldn’t you ask me?”

“You wouldn’t have allowed it.”

“Of course I wouldn’t have! We saved that money for two years! Two years I skimped on everything, bought clothes at second-hand stores, gave up vacations…”

“Mom will pay it back,” Andrey said quietly.

“When? How? She’s retired!”

“She’ll sell the dacha.”

Vika laughed sharply, not happily.

“The dacha? The very dacha she’s been trying to sell for three years? Andryush, wake up! Your mother will never return that money, and you know it perfectly well.”

“Don’t you dare speak like that about my mother!”

“And don’t you dare spend our money without telling me!”

They stood facing each other like boxers in a ring. Vika was breathing heavily, her hands trembling slightly. Andrey clenched his fists, his jaw tensed.

“You know what,” Vika suddenly said, her voice turning icy steel. “If you think you have the right to handle our joint money on your own, then I will make a unilateral decision as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m moving to my parents. I’ll think about whether I want to raise a child with a man who puts his mother above his own family.”

“Vika, don’t say that…”

But she was already leaving the kitchen. Andrey heard the bedroom door slam and the rustle of bags — his wife was packing.

He stayed sitting at the table, staring at the pregnancy test. Two pink lines blurred before his eyes.

Vika’s parents’ apartment was on the other side of the city, in an old residential district. A five-story Khrushchyovka building, third floor, windows facing a noisy street. Vika stood at the doorstep with two bags in her hands, and her mother looked at her with worry.

“Sweetheart, what happened?” Galina Petrovna was a short, plump woman with a kind face and perpetually anxious eyes.

“Mom, can I stay with you for a while?”

“Of course, come in! Dad!” she called into the depths of the apartment. “Vika is here!”

Her father came out — a big man with a gray beard, wearing a stretched-out sweater and house slippers.

“Vikul? Where’s Andrey?” he frowned, noticing the bags in his daughter’s hands.

“We had a fight, Dad.”

The parents exchanged glances. The mother took the bags from Vika, the father hugged her shoulders and led her to the kitchen.

“Tell us,” he commanded as he sat her down at the table. “Mom, boil the kettle.”

Vika told them everything: about the money, the mother-in-law’s renovation, the test. The parents listened silently, the mother occasionally gasping and shaking her head.

“Oh, Andryusha, Andryusha,” the father sighed when Vika finished. “I told you, remember? Mama’s boy. Such a man should only be in kindergarten, not start a family.”

“Dad, don’t start,” Vika asked wearily.

“What not start?” her father went on. “How many times did I tell you: look closer at him! Always running errands for mom. Bring her groceries, change the bulb, and now the renovation with your money…”

“Seryozha, enough,” his wife interrupted. “Don’t you see the poor girl is already struggling?”

“I see! That’s why I say it!” he slammed his fist on the table. “Three hundred thousand! I worked half my life to earn that!”

Vika covered her face with her hands. She wanted to cry but tears wouldn’t come. Inside was only emptiness and exhaustion.

“Sweetheart,” her mother sat down next to her, hugging her shoulders. “Have you thought about it… about the baby?”

“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t know anything. I’m thirty-two, it might be my last chance. But raising a child alone…”

“Who said you’d be alone?” her father objected. “We’ll help! Won’t we, dear?”

“Of course, we’ll help,” Galina Petrovna nodded. “With money, with upbringing. You’re not alone, sweetheart.”

Vika looked at her parents — so dear, already so old. Father was sixty-eight, mother sixty-five. What help? They barely made ends meet on their pensions.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ll think about it.”

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Andrey. Vika declined the call.

“Let him call,” said her father. “No pride needed. You have to talk, clear things up.”

“I’ll talk tomorrow. Not today.”

The phone vibrated again. A text: “Vika, let’s talk. I’ll explain everything. Please.”

She turned off the phone and put it on the table.

“Mom, can I lie down? My head is spinning.”

“Of course, of course! Let’s go, I’ll make your bed.”

Her room was almost the same as in her school years. The same wallpaper with tiny roses, the same desk by the window, the same bed with iron rails. Only instead of posters of favorite singers, the walls now held her mother’s embroidery.

Vika lay on top of the bedspread, curled up. Her belly was empty and heavy at the same time. She put her hand on her stomach — inside, a new life was beginning. A life she so wanted. But not like this. Not in quarrels, not in resentment, not in uncertainty.

Outside, cars roared. Somewhere music played, teenagers laughed. Life went on, indifferent to her worries.

Andrey sat in the empty apartment staring at the ceiling. A beer bottle was in his hand — the third of the evening. On the table lay his phone with a dozen missed calls from Vika.

The door opened — his mother entered. A tall, thin woman with a short haircut and a determined face. She carried bags of groceries.

“Andryusha, why are you sitting in the dark?” she clicked the light switch. “What’s this mess? Where’s Vika?”

“She left,” Andrey answered dully.

“Left? Where?”

“To her parents. We had a fight.”

His mother put the bags on the table and sat beside him.

“About what?”

“About money for your renovation.”

Elena Sergeyevna pursed her lips.

“I told you I would pay it back. As soon as I sell the dacha…”

“Mom, Vika is pregnant.”

There was a pause. She looked at her son as if seeing him for the first time.

“Pregnant? And you didn’t tell me?”

“I just found out today. She wanted to surprise me, and then…”

“And then you took and spent your joint savings without telling her,” the mother finished. “Andrey, how could you?”

He looked at her in surprise.

“You asked me to help!”

“Yes, I did. But not at the expense of your family! I thought you had free money. If I’d known it was your savings for the apartment…”

“What good is that now?” Andrey finished his beer and reached for another bottle.

“Enough,” his mother took the bottle away. “Getting drunk isn’t the answer. You have to go to Vika and apologize.”

“She’s not answering the phone.”

“Then go to her parents. Today, now!”

“Mom, it’s already ten at night…”

“So what? Your wife is pregnant and left you, and you’re going to choose the time? Get up, wash your face, and go. Immediately!”

Andrey knew this tone. When his mother spoke like that, arguing was useless. He got up, staggering.

“And buy flowers,” she called after him. “Good flowers! And don’t you dare show up drunk!”

There was a doorbell when Vika was already falling asleep. She heard her father go open the door, the clatter of a chain lock.

“Andrey? What are you doing at this hour?”

“Sergey Mikhailovich, sorry. May I talk to Vika?”

“She’s already asleep.”

“I’m not sleeping,” Vika came out, buttoning her mother’s robe. “What are you doing here?”

Andrey stood in the doorway with a huge bouquet of roses. He looked pitiful — wrinkled, red-eyed, unshaven.

“Vika, forgive me. I was wrong. Completely wrong. I should have asked you, consulted…”

“You should have,” Vika agreed. “But you didn’t.”

“Let him in,” her mother intervened. “No need to argue in the stairwell. The neighbors are asleep.”

Andrey stepped inside, awkwardly shuffling in the hallway. He handed Vika the flowers.

“Here.”

She took the bouquet mechanically, not knowing where to put it. Her mother came to the rescue — took the roses and carried them to the kitchen.

“Let’s go to the room,” her father commanded. “Mom’s making noise in the kitchen.”

They sat in the living room — Vika with her parents on the couch, Andrey opposite in an armchair. The atmosphere felt like a court hearing.

“I talked with Mom,” Andrey began. “She didn’t know it was our savings. She thought I had free money. She’s ready to sell the dacha and pay it all back.”

“When?” asked the father.

“This summer. She already put up an ad.”

“This summer,” Vika repeated. “And the baby will be born in eight months. Where will we live? In your one-bedroom with four people — you, me, the baby, and your mom?”

“Mom won’t live with us!”

“No? Then who’ll make you breakfast? Iron your shirts? Remind you to get a haircut?”

“Vika, that’s not fair…”

“Not fair?” She stood up, crossing her arms. “You know what’s not fair? That for two years I saved every penny, denied myself everything, dreaming of our own home. And you spent it all in one go! And didn’t even ask me!”

“I told you — I’ll pay it back! Mom will sell the dacha…”

“It’s not about money!” Vika shouted. “It’s about trust! Respect! That you made a decision for both of us without consulting me!”

“But she’s my mother…”

“And who am I? A random neighbor?”

They looked at each other across the room. Tears shone in Vika’s eyes, Andrey clenched and unclenched his fists.

“Maybe some tea?” Galina Petrovna offered uncertainly as she entered.

“No tea, Mom,” Vika waved her off. “Andrey, I’m tired. Go home. I need time to think.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. A week, two… I need to decide if I want to be the wife of a man who always puts his mother above me.”

“That’s not true!”

“Really? Then say this: if your mother needed that money for an operation, a vital operation, I’d understand. But renovation? She could have taken a loan, waited to sell the dacha, found another solution. But you didn’t even think about alternatives. Mom asked — son gave. And the fact that the son has a pregnant wife and plans for an apartment — doesn’t matter.”

Andrey was silent. He had nothing to argue.

“Go,” Vika repeated. “I’ll call when I’m ready to talk.”

He stood, stepped toward her, but stopped when he met her father’s eyes. Sergey Mikhailovich looked disapprovingly, as if saying, “Don’t you dare touch her now.”

“I’ll wait,” Andrey said and left.

When the door closed behind him, Vika collapsed onto the couch and burst into tears. Her mother hugged her, stroked her head, whispered soothing words. Her father paced the room, clenching his fists.

“Don’t cry,” he finally said. “He’s not worth your tears. Stay with us, we’ll feed you and the baby.”

“Dad, I love him,” Vika sobbed.

“Love is one thing, but how do you live? Today he did a renovation for his mom, tomorrow he’ll buy a car, the day after he’ll go on vacation. And where will you and the baby be?”

“Seryozha, don’t exaggerate,” his wife scolded. “The boy’s young, he made a mistake. Maybe he’ll come to his senses.”

“He’ll come to his senses,” the father grumbled. “Mama’s boy. Such men belong in the sandbox.”

A week passed. Vika lived with her parents, went to work, pretended everything was fine. Colleagues noticed her paleness and dark circles but tactfully didn’t ask. Only Lenka, her best friend and HR colleague, couldn’t hold back.

“Vik, did you split with Andrey?” she asked over lunch at a cafe.

“Sort of,” Vika replied evasively, picking at her salad with a fork.

“Why?”

Vika told her story. Lenka listened, shaking her head.

“Wow,” she whistled. “Three hundred thousand! For that money, you could have bought half an apartment on a mortgage.”

“You could have,” Vika agreed. “Now you can’t.”

“What are you thinking of doing?”

“I don’t know. My parents offer to keep me, raise the baby together. But they’re almost seventy, what help are they?”

“And what about Andrey?”

“He calls every day. Writes. Promises to fix things, swears it won’t happen again.”

“Do you believe him?”

Vika shrugged.

“I want to believe. But how? He doesn’t even understand what the problem is. He thinks it’s about money. He’ll pay it back and everything will be fine.”

“But it’s not about money?”

“Not only. It’s about priorities. I thought we were a family. But it turns out his family is him and his mother. And I’m just an app.”

Lenka was silent, stirring her coffee.

“You know what I’ll tell you? Men are all like that. Mine goes to his mother every weekend, helps her at the dacha. I used to be mad, but then I realized — it’s useless. I accepted it.”

“And you live?”

“I do. Ten years already. Two kids. Happy? Don’t know. But stable.”

“Stable,” Vika repeated. “And love?”

“Love?” Lenka smirked. “Vik, we’re in our thirties. What love? Chores, kids, mortgage. Romance ended ten years ago.”

Vika looked out the window. Snow fell, passersby wrapped in scarves hurried about. Somewhere there, in their apartment, Andrey was probably sitting at the computer, trying to work. Or lying on the couch, watching series. Alone.

She felt sorry for him. And herself. And their unborn child.

“Alright,” she said. “I’m going to work. Thanks for lunch.”

“Vik,” Lenka called after her. “Think carefully. There might not be a second chance. At our age, finding a decent man is like winning the lottery.”

Vika nodded and left the cafe.

That evening, Elena Sergeyevna came to Vika’s parents’ house. Galina Petrovna opened the door and was taken aback — a stately woman in an expensive coat with perfect hair and manicure stood on the doorstep.

“Good evening. I’m Andrey’s mother. May I speak with Vika?”

“Come in,” Galina Petrovna stepped aside. “Vika! Someone’s here for you!”

Vika came out and froze. She had seen her mother-in-law only a few times — at the wedding, birthdays, New Year. Elena Sergeyevna always kept a polite distance, as if to say, “You’re not quite right for me, but I tolerate you for my son’s sake.”

“Hello, Vika,” the mother-in-law took off her gloves. “We need to talk.”

They sat in the living room. Vika’s parents tactfully went to the kitchen, though her father clearly wanted to stay.

“I came to apologize,” Elena Sergeyevna began. “And to clarify the situation.”

Vika was silent, waiting.

“Andrey didn’t tell me he was taking your joint savings. I thought he had free money. If I had known…”

“What would have changed?” Vika interrupted. “Would you have refused?”

Elena Sergeyevna was silent.

“Probably not,” she admitted honestly. “It was a critical situation. But I would have suggested other options. A loan, for example. Or I would have pawned some gold.”

“Gold?”

“I have jewelry. An inheritance from my mother. I’m saving it for Andrey, for his future family,” she looked at Vika. “For you and your child.”

Vika felt a lump rise in her throat.

“I didn’t know…”

“You don’t know a lot,” Elena Sergeyevna took an envelope from her purse. “Here’s one hundred fifty thousand. Half the sum. The rest I’ll give as soon as I sell the dacha.”

“I can’t…”

“You can and you must. It’s your money. I had no right to take it, even unknowingly.”

Vika took the envelope with trembling hands.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Better say — will you come back to my son?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s wasted away. Doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, can’t work. You know, I always thought he was independent, grown-up. But it turns out, he can’t live without you.”

“Without me or without someone to take care of him?”

Elena Sergeyevna smiled — unexpectedly warm, humanly.

“You know, I thought the same at first. That he married so I’d let him go to another woman. But no. He loves you. Really. He just… how to say it? Doesn’t know how to set priorities properly. Maybe it’s my fault. I raised him alone, spoiled him.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want grandchildren. And I want them to have both mom and dad. Together.”

They sat silently. The clock ticked behind the wall, dishes clinked in the kitchen — Vika’s parents clearly listened to the conversation.

“I’ll think about it,” Vika finally said.

“Think. But don’t drag it out. Men are like children. Without supervision, they spoil quickly.”

Elena Sergeyevna got up and put on her gloves.

“And one more thing, Vika. I understand you might not come back. That’s your right. But know — the door is always open. For you and the baby. You are my family, whether you want it or not.”

She left, leaving Vika alone. She sat holding the envelope with money, thinking. About how life is more complicated than it seems. About how there are no perfect people. About how love is not just romance but also the ability to forgive.

Three days later, Vika called Andrey.

“Hi,” she said.

“Vika!” His voice was hoarse, as if from a cold. “How are you? How do you feel?”

“Okay. Morning sickness started.”

“Do you need anything? I can bring…”

“Andrey, let’s meet. We need to talk.”

“Of course! Where? When?”

“Tomorrow after work. At our café on Arbat.”

“I’ll be there. Definitely.”

Vika hung up and looked at the pregnancy test still lying on her nightstand. Two lines. Two lives — hers and the baby’s. Or maybe three? Time would tell.

The café on Arbat was their place. They met here five years ago — Vika came with friends, Andrey sat at a neighboring table with a laptop. The friends left, and they talked until closing.

Now Andrey sat at the same table, nervously twisting a napkin. He had lost weight in those days, shadows lay under his eyes. He wore the same sweater she gave him last birthday.

“Hi,” Vika sat opposite him.

“Hi. You look great.”

“Lying. I saw myself in the mirror.”

They fell silent. The waitress brought menus, but both waved her off — they weren’t hungry.

“Two teas, please,” Vika asked. “Green and black.”

“You drink green now?” Andrey was surprised.

“It’s recommended for pregnant women. Less caffeine.”

Silence again. Outside, people walked, shop windows glowed, a street musician played. Typical Moscow life.

“Your mother came,” Vika said.

“I know. She told me.”

“And brought money. Half.”

“I brought something too,” Andrey pulled a folder out of his backpack. “The contract. I sold the car.”

“What? Why?”

“Because family is more important than a piece of metal on wheels. Here’s one hundred eighty thousand. With Mom’s — three hundred thirty. Even more than before.”

Vika looked at the documents, not believing her eyes.

“But you loved that car…”

“I do. But I love you more.”

Tea was brought. Vika warmed her hands on the cup, gathering her thoughts.

“Andrey, it’s not just about money. You understand that?”

“I do. Now I do. I should have asked you, discussed it. We’re family.”

“And your mother?”

“Mom is mom. I will help her, it’s my duty. But not at the expense of our family. Never again.”

“Promise?”

“I swear.”

Vika reached out her hand across the table. Andrey covered it with his palm.

“You know,” she said, “my dad says you’re a mama’s boy.”

“Probably I was.”

“And that love is not just roses and dates. It’s also chores, compromises, and the ability to listen to each other.”

“I’m ready to learn.”

“And I’m ready too. But we have one condition.”

“What?”

“All important decisions — only together. Whether it’s money, raising the child, helping parents — it doesn’t matter. Only together. Deal?”

“Deal.”

They sat holding hands, looking at each other. There was hope in Andrey’s eyes, cautious joy in Vika’s.

“And one more thing,” she added. “We’re renting an apartment. Separate. To live as three — you, me, and the baby. Without moms, dads, or other relatives.”

“Agreed. When do we move?”

“Not so fast. First, we find the right place. With a nursery, in a good neighborhood, near a park…”

“With a balcony,” Andrey added. “You always dreamed of a balcony.”

“With a balcony,” Vika smiled. “And windows not facing the road.”

“And decent neighbors.”

“And a store nearby.”

They began making plans — timidly, cautiously, as if afraid to scare off the fragile truce. But with every word it became easier, warmer, more familiar.

“Vik,” Andrey suddenly said, “what shall we name the baby?”

“I don’t know yet. Too early.”

“If it’s a girl, maybe Sonya? After your grandmother?”

Vika felt tears well up. Good tears.

“And if it’s a boy?”

“Not Andrey,” he said firmly. “One Andrey in the family is enough.”

They laughed — for the first time in days.

They returned to Vika’s parents together. Walking slowly, hand in hand. Snow crunched underfoot, streetlights cast long shadows.

“You know,” Andrey said, “I thought about these days… We could have lost everything. Because of my foolishness.”

“Not just yours. I wasn’t perfect either — ran away, slammed the door. Could have talked calmly.”

“You had the right to be upset.”

“I did. But family is not about rights. It’s about the ability to compromise.”

They stopped at the entrance. Lights burned in the windows — the parents were waiting.

“Your father will kill me,” Andrey sighed.

“He won’t. He’ll grumble and calm down. The main thing is to behave confidently.”

“Easy to say…”

Vika turned to him, put her hands on his shoulders.

“Andrey. We will manage. Really? We’ll manage everything — chores, parents, the baby?”

“We will,” he said firmly. “Definitely will.”

They went up to the third floor. Voices could be heard behind the door — Vika’s parents were arguing about something.

“Ready?” Vika asked, taking out the keys.

“Ready.”

The door opened. Galina Petrovna stood in the doorway with a kitchen towel in her hands.

“Oh, Andryusha!” she exclaimed. “We thought… Seryozha, come here! The kids are back!”

Her father came out. He looked at Andrey askance, muttered:

“Well, prodigal son, you’re back?”

“Sergey Mikhailovich, I…”

“Quiet. Eat first. Mom made pelmeni, they’re cooling. Then we’ll talk.”

And as they went to the kitchen, Vika caught her father’s glance and saw relief in it. He grumbled for show but was glad his daughter wasn’t alone.

At the table, the four of them ate pelmeni, drank tea, and talked about trifles. About the weather, prices, the neighbor from the fifth floor who got a dog again. A normal family dinner.

“By the way,” Galina Petrovna said, “there’s an apartment downstairs becoming available. Marya Ivanna is moving to her daughter. Maybe you should look? She’ll rent it cheaply, I’m sure.”

Vika and Andrey exchanged looks.

“We’ll look,” Andrey said. “Definitely.”

“Just one thing,” her father waved his fork, “no tricks. The contract must be normal, legal. And pay on time.”

“Of course, Sergey Mikhailovich.”

“And bring the grandchild to me. At least every week.”

“Dad, what grandchild? Maybe a granddaughter,” Vika smiled.

“A granddaughter it is. The main thing is healthy. And looks like grandpa, not that… programmer.”

“Seryozha!” his wife scolded him.

“What? Just stating facts. Genes are a powerful thing.”

Andrey smiled. Under the table, Vika squeezed his hand. Everything will be fine. Not immediately, not easily, but it will be.

Snow fell outside, covering the city with a white blanket. Somewhere in this city was an apartment that would become their home. Somewhere awaited work, friends, new challenges, and joys. Meanwhile, they sat at the family table, drinking tea and making plans.

Because family is not about perfect people. It’s about those who are near. Who are ready to forgive, learn, change. Who choose love every day anew, despite offenses and disappointments.

And when Vika placed her hand on her belly, where a new life grew, she knew for sure: this baby would have a family. Not perfect, but real. A dad who will learn to set priorities. A mom who will learn not to run from problems. And two grandmothers, and two grandfathers, who will argue over whose genes are stronger.

A normal family. A normal life. Normal happiness.

And that’s all she needs.

On the city streets, where the pavement was covered with a thick carpet of golden and crimson leaves, late autumn had settled. The air was clear and cool, with a slight fragility, as if it could shatter in your hands like glass. The sun no longer warmed as generously as in summer, but its rays still found their way through the dense veil of clouds, leaving soft patches of light on the ground. The leaves, like little winged creatures, twirled in the air, rustling under the feet of passersby — a hollow accompaniment to solitary thoughts.

Twelve-year-old Vanya hurried home after school, wrapped in a warm wool scarf that his mother had knitted for him last winter. He tucked his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and lowered his head slightly so the wind wouldn’t hit his face. On the way, he thought about the hot tea waiting for him at home, the smell of freshly baked pancakes, and how his mother would greet him with a smile and the question: “Well, son? How was your day?” He dreamed of being there soon, in that coziness where everything was — love, care, warmth, and domestic happiness.

But fate had other plans.

Near a small grocery store, which always caught attention with its bright sign and the aroma of fresh bread, Vanya noticed an elderly woman. She stood by the cash register, counting small coins in her palms, while the shop assistant waited patiently without showing any impatience. The woman was dressed in an old, worn coat that had clearly served her faithfully for many years. Her hair was tucked under a headscarf, and her hands trembled — whether from cold or age, it was hard to tell.

“I’m two rubles short…” she said in a quiet voice, almost a whisper, in which one could hear not only confusion but also pain.

Vanya involuntarily slowed down. His gaze slipped over the woman’s basket: it contained only bread, a pack of tea, and some milk. Nothing extra. Only the essentials. Something stirred inside him, as if someone had gently touched his heart.

He stepped closer.

“I’ll pay the rest,” he said, pulling two coins out of his pocket.

The woman looked at him surprised. In her eyes, clouded by years of life, something alive flickered — hope, gratitude, or simply a human connection that is sometimes more important than money.

“Thank you, dear…” she whispered. “You’re a kind boy.”

Those words hung between them like the first drops of rain before a storm. Vanya was about to leave, but the woman gently took his hand. Not strongly, but enough for him to understand — this was important.

“Come inside,” she asked. “I want to thank you.”

He wanted to refuse. His mother always said, “Don’t go to strangers.” But there was something in her gaze… something more than simple gratitude. It was an invitation to another world, a world where time slows down and the heart grows wider.

And he agreed.

Currant Leaf Tea

Her home turned out to be small but cozy. It seemed to hold the warmth of all the years lived. It smelled of herbs, dried flowers, and something else — something very ancient and kind. On the windowsills were pots of geraniums, blooming even in this late season. It seemed they knew a kind soul lived here.

“My name is Anna Petrovna,” the woman introduced herself, seating Vanya at the wooden table.

She placed an old teapot on the table and took a canvas bag out of the cupboard.

“These are currant leaves, I picked them myself in summer,” she said, pouring boiling water over the fragrant leaves. “In summer they smell like sunshine, and in winter they remind of warmth.”

The tea turned out unusual — slightly astringent, with a light tartness and a delicate aftertaste. It warmed not only the body but also the soul. They drank tea in silence, broken only by the crackling of firewood in the fireplace and Vanya’s occasional questions:

“How long have you lived here?”

“Since the beginning. This house was left to me by my husband. He passed away a long time ago… But every corner here remembers his footsteps.”

Anna Petrovna took out an old album with yellowed pages and neat inscriptions.

“This is me,” she showed a photo where a young woman in a white dress stood by the river, smiling at the sun.

Vanya couldn’t believe it. The photo showed a beautiful, smiling girl with clear eyes and a lively gaze.

“Is that… you?”

“Yes,” the grandmother nodded. “Time runs fast, boy. Today you’re young and strong, but tomorrow… tomorrow you’ll be just like me.”

She sighed, recalling times when she could run barefoot through the fields, when every morning began with a song and joy. Then she stood up and approached an antique chest of drawers. Opening a secret drawer, she took out a small wooden box adorned with carvings.

“Take it. But open it only at home.”

The Mystery of the Medallion

Vanya couldn’t resist. As soon as he left the grandmother’s house, he sat on a bench near the playground and opened the box. Inside lay a small silver medallion. His heart beat faster. He carefully pressed the clasp — and the medallion opened.

Inside was the very same photograph. Young Anna Petrovna smiled at him from the past. But the most amazing thing was something else: in her eyes shone the same kindness as now. The same wisdom. The same love for life.

Suddenly Vanya understood that people do not age inside. Their souls remain the same — bright, alive, just hidden behind wrinkles and gray hair.

He carefully closed the medallion and went home, holding it in his palm. Now he knew that kindness is not just a word. It’s what connects people through the years.

A New Beginning

The next day, Vanya came again to Grandma Anna. This time he brought a bag with warm mittens knitted by his mother and a new photo album.

“Let’s fill it with new pictures,” he said, handing over the album.

And she smiled. Just like in that old photo — sincerely, brightly, with love.

From that day on, they started meeting often. Sometimes they simply drank tea, sometimes Vanya helped her with shopping, and sometimes they looked through old photos together, sharing stories. He learned about her youth, about the war, about first love, about losses and victories. And she learned about school matters, friends, first hobbies, and dreams.

Thus began their friendship. A friendship that taught the boy the most important thing: kindness given from the heart always comes back. Always.

That evening I stayed in the kitchen longer than usual. Sergey was already asleep, but I couldn’t tear myself away from my phone — scrolling through the statement from our joint card. Something was wrong.

“Seventy thousand… Another fifty… And here,” I muttered under my breath, taking a sip of cold tea. “What does this mean?”

I grabbed a calculator and totaled it up — almost half a million in three months. My mouth went dry. I always knew Sergey and I had different attitudes toward money, but this…

I was about to go to bed but couldn’t hold back. I went to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed:

“Sergey, are you asleep?”

“Mm?” He lifted his head from the pillow. “What’s wrong?”

“Listen, I’m looking at our card…” I started cautiously. “Can you explain where all our money is going? In such amounts?”

Sergey immediately straightened up and sat on the bed. In the dark, I could see him rubbing his face — a habit from his university days when he didn’t want to tell the truth.

“Anya, you know… Dima’s situation is tough right now. He’s starting a business, I’m helping a bit.”

“A bit?” I handed him the phone. “Look for yourself. Do you think this is ‘a bit’?”

“Listen,” he tried to put his arm around me, but I pulled away. “It’s all temporary. He’ll get back on his feet and pay it back. You know my brother…”

Exactly. I’ve known him for fifteen years. His endless schemes, promises to pay it back. One time he gets into cryptocurrency, another time he starts some MLM company… And then we clean up the debts and pretend nothing happened.

“Alright,” I got up. “Sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Anya, don’t be mad,” his voice took on a pleading tone. “He’s my brother. I can’t just abandon him.”

I left the bedroom and closed the door behind me. In the kitchen, I turned off the kettle that had been boiling all this time. A silly thought kept spinning in my head: “So I’m the one who can be thrown under the bus?”

The phone in my hand quietly vibrated — another notification from the card. Another transfer. I didn’t even look; I just turned off the phone. It felt like some black cat had sneaked into the house and was lurking in the corners. You can’t see it, but you know it’s there, nearby.

In the morning, I woke up early on purpose. Made Sergey coffee the way he likes it. Packed breakfast for work. He wandered around the apartment looking dazed, trying to catch my eyes. And I stayed silent. I knew this was just the beginning. Either we sort this out, or… I didn’t want to think about the “or.”

A week later, I was gathering laundry when I felt a piece of paper in Sergey’s jacket pocket. I wanted to throw it away, but my hand hesitated — the folded sheet bore a bank logo.

I slowly sat down on the bed’s edge. A loan agreement. For one million two hundred thousand rubles. Signed a month ago.

My ears buzzed. I remember sitting there, crumpling the paper, trying to take a deep breath. Thoughts racing: “It can’t be… He couldn’t… Without me knowing…”

Sergey came home from work as usual — at seven. I heard him taking off his shoes in the hallway, jangling keys. His familiar footsteps in the corridor…

“Oh, you’re home?” He peeked into the bedroom. “I thought…”

And stopped short. I was still sitting there, on the edge of the bed. The ill-fated agreement lying beside me.

“What’s this?” His voice was strange, dry. “Explain this to me.”

Sergey leaned against the doorframe. Silent. Only his jaw muscles twitched.

“I’m asking — what’s this loan about?” I stood up. “Why am I finding out about this… like this?”

“Anya…”

“Don’t call me that!” I didn’t expect to snap, but I did. “A million! You took a million and didn’t tell me! This is our family, our shared money! How could you?”

“What was I supposed to do?” He suddenly raised his voice too. “You wouldn’t understand! Dima urgently needed money, the situation was…”

“What situation?” I crumpled the agreement. “Another one of his ‘brilliant businesses’? Or sports betting? Or another financial pyramid scheme?”

Sergey was silent. I saw his jaw muscles twitch, fingers tremble.

“Do you even realize what you’ve done?” I stepped closer. “We were saving for renovations. For a vacation. Mashka’s going to college next year! And you…”

“I thought it through!” He almost shouted. “Dima promised to pay back in three months! With interest!”

I laughed hysterically:

“Promised? Sergey, wake up! When has he ever kept his word? When has he ever paid back a single kopek?”

Silence filled the room. I could hear water dripping from the kitchen faucet. Tick-tick-tick. Like a clock counting down the time of our family life.

“You know what’s the worst?” I spoke very quietly now. “Not the loan. Not the money. But that you lied to me. Every day, every minute… Looked me in the eyes and lied.”

Sergey flinched as if hit:

“I didn’t lie! I just… didn’t tell you.”

“Really?” I held up the agreement. “And this? ‘Didn’t tell’? You waited until I went to my mom’s for three days! You deliberately arranged everything so I wouldn’t find out!”

He was silent. What can you say? The truth is harsh, prickly. You can’t cover it up with pretty words.

“And how many more?” I looked him in the eyes. “How many more loans did you ‘not tell’ me about? Maybe there are more debts? Tell me since you started.”

Sergey sank onto a chair, holding his head in his hands:

“Sorry… I just wanted to help. He’s my brother…”

“And what about me?” My voice broke. “Who am I to you, Sergey?”

At that moment his phone rang. The screen showed “Dimon.” Sergey reached for it, but I was faster:

“Hello, Dima? Hello, dear relative. How’s business? Thriving? When are you going to pay your debts?”

Silence on the line. Then hurried beeps.

“That’s the whole conversation,” I threw the phone on the bed. “That’s your brotherly love.”

I left the room, slammed the front door. Threw a jacket on over my T-shirt and went outside. I needed fresh air. I needed to decide how to live next.

And in my head spun and spun: “I just wanted to help… He’s my brother…” And me? Our family? Are we strangers now?

I stayed at my mom’s for three days. The phone exploded with calls — Sergey, mother-in-law, even Dima showed up. I didn’t pick up. I wanted silence, to understand what to do next.

“Daughter,” my mom sat beside me on the couch, “maybe you should talk to him? He’s not a boy anymore, he’ll understand…”

I shook my head. I knew — it was too soon. Inside still too much pain, too much sting.

Then the mother-in-law called. I answered automatically without looking at the screen.

“What have you done?” Her voice dripped venom. “Such a scandal over some money! Your husband is helping his own brother, and you…”

“Some money?” I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white. “Lyudmila Petrovna, do you even know how much your youngest son has already taken from us? Two and a half million! Including loans! That’s ‘some money’?”

“And what did you think?” She snorted. “Family should help each other! Back in our day…”

“No,” I interrupted. “No more. Enough. Tell Dima to pay back the money. All of it. Down to the last kopek.”

“How dare you!” She yelled. “We pulled you out of your village, and you…”

I hung up. My hands shook. My temples throbbed.

That evening Sergey came over. Thinner, gaunt. Standing in the hallway, twisting some bag in his hands.

“Can we talk?” He asked quietly.

We sat in the kitchen. Between us, cooling cups of tea. Fifteen years of breakfasts and dinners at this table, making plans…

“I get it,” he looked into his cup. “You’re right. This has to stop… all of it.”

“Really?” I smiled bitterly. “Does your mother know about your decision?”

“What does mom have to do with it?” He grimaced. “I decide for myself.”

“Yeah? Then who called me yesterday? Who said I’m ungrateful? That I have to understand family is sacred?”

He was silent. Suddenly I realized — this is it. The time for the last conversation. The last chance.

“Choose, Sergey,” I looked him in the eyes. “Either your brother stops being a black hole for our money, or I file for divorce. And yes, I’m serious.”

“You… what?” He paled. “Anya, are you crazy? Because of money…”

“Not money!” I slammed my hand on the table. “Because of lies! Because you let them rope you in! Because your brother’s fantasies are more important to you than our future!”

The phone on the table lit up. “Dimon.” Again.

“Well?” I nodded at the screen. “Go ahead, answer. Tell him his sister is evil and forbids him from helping his brother. Tell him that I…”

“No,” he took the phone and pressed “hang up.” “No more.”

I stopped mid-sentence. He repeated quietly:

“No more, Anya. I really get it now. Dima… he’ll never change. But I could lose you. And I don’t want that.”

At that moment the phone exploded with message notifications. One after another, from his entire family. I saw the lines run: “How could you!”, “Brother’s in trouble!”, “You’re a traitor!”…

Sergey turned even paler. Then decisively turned off the phone.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I really thought I was helping him. That soon, just a bit more, and he’d make it… But it was only me who succeeded. There’s a hole in my pocket, right?”

I nodded silently. A lump stuck in my throat.

“Forgive me,” he reached across the table, gently touched my fingers. “I’ll fix everything. Honestly.”

I looked at his hand. Those familiar fingers, known down to the last detail. Fifteen years… Can you forgive? Can you forget?

“We’ll see,” I said quietly. “We’ll see.”

I watched Sergey those days. He looked gaunt, dark circles under his eyes. Often went out to smoke on the balcony at night — a bad habit he seemed to have quit a year ago.

That evening he stood there longer than usual, hunched over, staring into the dark. I went out and draped a blanket over his shoulders:

“You’ll catch a cold.”

“Dima called today,” he said without turning around. “Asked for a loan. Said it’s urgent.”

I froze. My heart skipped a beat.

“And what did you do?”

“I said no,” he stubbed out his cigarette. “First time in my life I said no to my brother.”

I was silent. I knew he needed to vent.

“You know what he said? ‘Alright, I’ll go to Aunt Valya, she always helps.’ Just like that. Didn’t even ask how I was. Didn’t wonder why I refused…”

His voice trembled. I gently hugged his shoulders:

“Sergey…”

“Twenty years,” he seemed not to hear me. “Twenty years I was his ATM. Not a brother — an ATM. And I kept hoping… Believing…”

He abruptly turned and went into the room. I heard him rummaging in the closet, muttering to himself. Then he came back with a worn-out box:

“Look.”

In the box were papers. IOUs, loan agreements, some letters… Twenty years of helping “brother.”

“I kept it all,” Sergey sifted through the sheets with trembling fingers. “I thought — when he pays back, I’ll get it back… But he doesn’t even remember how much he owes. I asked today — he laughed. Said, ‘Bro, what are you talking about? We’re family!’”

He suddenly crumpled the papers in his hands:

“Family… And when I was in the hospital three years ago? Who came? No one! You were the only one there. And when I got a promotion? Who was happy? Only you…”

I took the papers, smoothed them out:

“Shh… Calm down.”

“Mom called,” he gave a crooked smile. “You know what she said? ‘Dima’s always been weak; you’re the older one, you have to help.’ And that our daughter is going to college — doesn’t matter. That you work two jobs to pay off the loan — doesn’t matter…”

He sank onto the couch, holding his head:

“What a fool I was, Anya… What a fool…”

At that moment the phone chimed. A message from Dima: “Bro, what’s wrong? You mad? Let’s meet, talk. There’s a way to make a million in a month!”

Sergey looked at the screen, then at me:

“You know what’s the scariest? I would’ve believed that before. Rushed to save, to help… But now I look at this message and… feel nothing. Nothing at all.”

He slowly typed a reply: “Sorry, bro. I can’t help anymore. Never.” And hit “send.”

We sat in silence. Outside, the city hummed at night. Somewhere far off a car honked. And we just sat, holding hands, silent.

I felt the tension leaving his shoulders, his breathing even out. Like the burden he carried all those years finally dropped from his back.

“You know,” he said suddenly, “I really thought it was supposed to be this way. That I was obligated… But now I see — I owe no one anything. Except us. Except our family.”

I nodded silently. What can you say? Sometimes the most important lessons come through pain. Through disappointment. Through loss.

The phone didn’t ring anymore. Not that night, not the next day. Dima looked for a new “ATM.” And we… we began living anew. Without guilt. Without endless debts. Without sticky fear of tomorrow.

Three months passed. Sergey and I sat in the kitchen, sorting receipts and planning the budget — our new Sunday family tradition.

“So, we made an early payment on the loan,” I jotted down. “Looks like we’ll pay it off in a year…”

“Remember how I freaked when you suggested tracking everything?” Sergey smiled, pouring me tea. “Seemed like a fuss, no need for such control…”

I shook my head:

“Yeah, and now you count every penny yourself. A real accountant!”

“You know,” he put down his cup, “I was thinking… Maybe it’s time to look for our own place? Mashka finishes school next year, moves to dorm… And we could slowly save for a down payment…”

I froze with pen in hand. Before, every savings talk hit the wall of “brother needs it more.” But now…

“You think we can manage?”

“I already calculated,” he pulled out his phone and opened the calculator. “Look: if we cancel the gym membership, switch to a cheaper phone plan…”

His phone dinged. A message from Mom: “Son, Dima’s in big trouble. Maybe meet and talk?”

Sergey silently showed me the screen. Then just as silently deleted the message.

“You know what’s the most surprising?” He returned to calculations. “I don’t feel guilty anymore. At all. Like… healed.”

I looked at his calm face, confident hands, and thought — this is real happiness. Not in big money, not in expensive things. But in this — shared plans, common goals, the ability to hear each other.

“Hey,” he suddenly perked up, “how about a trip to the sea for May holidays? Not as usual — to your mom’s village… But really to the sea! I figured — if…”

And he dove back into calculations while I watched him and smiled. Before me sat a different man. Not the worn-down husband burdened by endless obligations, not the guilty “older brother,” but a confident man who finally learned to distinguish real family from manipulation.

The phone on the table was silent. Somewhere out there, in another life, his brother was looking for new money sources, his mother sending accusing messages, and we… we were learning to live differently. Making plans. Dreaming.

“Anya,” Sergey suddenly looked up at me, “thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not giving up back then. For opening my eyes. For just… being there.”

I reached across the table and squeezed his hand:

“You know, this is only the beginning. We have so much ahead!”

He smiled — that very smile I fell in love with twenty years ago:

“The beginning… Exactly. The right word.”

Outside, the spring sun was shining. On the windowsill, a flower I bought a week ago was blooming — the first time in a long time I spent money just for myself, for the soul. In the next room, Mashka was preparing for exams, occasionally humming to herself.

A simple Sunday morning. An ordinary spring day. But for us, it was more than just morning. It was a new start. A new life. And it was worth it.