All Amazing Babies

Marina stood in the doorway, greeting her parents with the same friendly face as always. Only the bright bruise under her eye betrayed what she so desperately didn’t want to talk about.“Mom, it’s okay, don’t pay attention,” she said quickly, noticing her mother’s attentive gaze.

Elena Igorevna sighed heavily.

“It’s your business, daughter. You have to live with it…”

Her father didn’t even greet his son-in-law. Silently, he went to the window and stared into nowhere, as if he hadn’t heard Marina mumbling something about a wardrobe and darkness:

“I just… yesterday night I was walking, accidentally bumped into something. Come on, Mom, Egor and I are fine!”

Fine? Marina herself clearly remembered what happened yesterday. Egor, already always on edge, didn’t just yell at her. When she dared to say she was tired of it all, he grabbed her robe collar so hard it almost ripped at the seams.

“Are you some kind of bastard who doesn’t remember who you owe your life to and that you don’t have to think about anything?!” he yelled, shaking her. “Forgot how I brought you home from bars when you ran off to that Denis? Forgot who loved you, you fool? I used to carry you in my arms!”Then — a sharp blow. Manly, as if to teach her a lesson. Stars flashed in her eyes, followed by pain… And Egor kept shouting curses.

“Yes, daughter, I understand. The wardrobe… darkness,” her mother muttered, though she knew perfectly well what had happened.

And she felt guilty. It was she who forced Marina to marry Egor! She was the one who drove Denis away from her daughter, thinking he was a bad influence.

“And judging by the bruise, daughter, your wardrobe seems to have fists,” Elena Igorevna said pointedly, glancing at her son-in-law.

Ivan Mikhailovich never turned from the window. He went out to the balcony to smoke. Unlike his wife, he never supported Egor. He seemed slippery to him. Proud and cloying. Yes, from a wealthy family, with an apartment, a car, connections, and prospects. But rotten inside

And now that rot showed itself — the bruise under his daughter’s eye.

Of course, Ivan Mikhailovich could have grabbed his son-in-law by the collar and punched him hard. But that would only lead to a scandal. And he didn’t want that. He barely restrained himself… Hence he went out to the balcony.He knew he would solve this problem differently. And he already knew how.

He talked on the

phone for a long time on that balcony…

Meanwhile, Marina served her mother coffee, and they chatted about nothing. After half an hour, her parents left.

Egor, who expected reproaches and a scandal, finally relaxed. He plopped down on the sofa, opened a beer, and even smirked. To him, the parents’ silence meant consent. Like, family is family, and bruises are part of life. No one steps on the heel. Right!

“See, Marinka, I told you — everything will settle down!” he said smugly. “Your parents are normal, sensible people. Not like you… Yesterday you attacked me with accusations! So what if I went out and drank? What’s wrong with that?”

He took a sip of beer and reached for some chips.

 

His happiness didn’t last long.Less than half an hour later, someone knocked on the door. Not rang — knocked. Hard and decisively. That confident knocking made Egor put down the can and tense up.

He went to the door, looked through the peephole… and turned pale.

Denis was standing on the threshold. His rival. Marina’s ex. The very one who once almost made her his wife but lost the chance. Handsome, tall, confident. In an expensive coat and with that very expression on his face that makes women sigh and men want to punch him.

“What do you want?” Egor barked, opening the door just enough to show irritation but not let him in.“Step aside,” Denis said calmly and simply pushed Egor aside with his shoulder.

Egor staggered back like a rag doll.

Marina got up from the couch, her eyes wide.“Denis…”

“Come on, come on, get ready,” he said shortly. “If you want — we’ll go to my place. If you want — to your parents’. But why do you need that bankrupt?”

“Who did you call bankrupt, scum?!” Egor exploded, but he remained stuck in the corner as if glued there.

He had his reasons to fear Denis.

“I called you, Egorushka. You,” Denis smiled calmly. “I didn’t want to interfere, didn’t meddle in your life. But when Marina’s father — by the way, a decent guy — called me and said you hit her… I just took your club.”

“What… what are you talking about?!” Egor croaked.

“Well, not exactly took it,” Denis smiled again. “Just the place you rent for your club belongs to my friend. A very good friend. In short, you will receive a notice of non-renewal of the lease. Got it? It’s already been delivered to your office.”Egor collapsed as if cut down.

“Plus, we recalculated your rent debts for six months. Remember, you were told: rent could increase when the club becomes profitable? Well, it went up six months ago. And the notice has been in your drawer for a long time — you just didn’t read it. Misha and I kept quiet, waiting for the debt to grow. Plus penalties, interest… You understand me? Now you officially owe a big, unpleasant sum. Want me to say the amount?”

Denis leaned toward Egor:

“And I know you don’t have money to pay this debt. Should have drunk less with your whores.”

Egor slumped into the chair, like a squeezed lemon.

“This is… a setup!” he muttered, eyes wide. “You… you planted those papers!”

“Think what you want,” Denis shrugged. “You can even sue. But your lawyer, it seems, quit. Or you fired him? Who’s going to defend you now — your bartender with the nose piercing?”Egor wanted to say something but only opened his mouth.

“Marina, let’s go. Don’t bother with your things. Everything you need, I’ll buy. And what you have here… you don’t deserve it. All sorts of rags from the market.”

“Denis, wait,” Marina said confusedly. “This all happened… so fast. I don’t understand…”

“Fast is when you get hit in the eye and still justify the one who hit you. Everything else is too slow.”

Denis held out his hand, and she took it.

“Are you guys out of your minds?!” Egor yelled. “This is my home! My wife!”

“Wife?” Denis repeated. “So you’re her husband who beats her, then hides behind a beer can and the TV? You’re not even a man, Egor. You’re a puff. Loud, momentary… nothing. You can’t even punch me in the face.”“But I… I…” Egor stammered.

“What? What?” Denis squinted. “Maybe you’ll go to court? Tell them about the bruise from the ‘wardrobe’? Or how your club failed because you drank instead of working, hoping for your daddy’s connections?”

Marina walked after Denis without looking back. Only at the door did she stop for a moment:

“Sorry, Egor. And goodbye.”

“Go to hell!” he yelled. “Yeah… sure, go to hell…”

And they left.

Two days passed. Egor sat in an empty apartment. The club was closed. The lease refusal papers were on the table, along with the debt notice.Denis turned out to be not just an ex but an ex with character and means. He just waited for the right moment to strike. And hit hard, painfully, and unerringly.

Meanwhile, Marina’s parents’ house was quiet. Her mother was cooking something in the kitchen, her father was flipping through a newspaper.

Then Marina entered the room.

“Hi,” she said.

“Where have you been, daughter? Did Egor look for you?” her father asked sternly.

“I… was with Denis.”

“So you left Egor?”

 

“Yes. I left.”

Her mother threw up her hands, and her father just nodded in agreement:

“That’s right! Right, daughter. And you know,” he said with a smile, “if that one ever comes near you again, I’ll break all his teeth.”

“Dad… did you call Denis?” Marina asked.

“Yes, I did. Who else?” her father winked. “He’s a decent guy. And a businessman — unlike that one.”

“That’s good! Good that you left that jerk!” her mother finished. “Forgive me, Marina, for almost ruining your life. Thank God you don’t have children from Egor…”

“Oh, Mom, you’ve got a sharp tongue!” her father chuckled. “But the main thing is she understood she was wrong.”

Meanwhile, Denis stood by the gate, leaning against his black SUV. He was smiling… smiling and knowing. Just certain that no one would ever hit Marina again.

Well, except with love and pleasant surprises. But that’s a completely different story…

Lera sat on the floor in the small room, moving baby things from one box to another. At eight months pregnant her back ached, her legs were swollen, but she didn’t want to stop what she’d started. Tiny onesies with bunnies, soft swaddles, rattles—everything lay around her, waiting for its time.

The nursery was small but cozy. Lera had chosen a light blue for the walls, bought a white crib with carved headboards, and hung a mobile with plush bears above it. The changing table stood by the window next to a dresser for baby clothes. Everything had been thought out down to the smallest detail.

Her husband, Artyom, came into the room, leaned against the doorframe, and took in the setup.

“Not bad,” Artyom nodded, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. “You put the table in a good spot.”

Lera looked up and smiled.

“Really? I was wondering if maybe I should move it to the other wall…”

“It’s fine. Don’t stress.”

Artyom turned and went back to the living room without even offering to help gather the scattered things. Lera sighed and kept sorting the footed pants by size. She was used to it—her husband never really got into the details; he’d nod approvingly when required, and that would be the extent of his involvement.

Her phone rang while she was going through the crib covers. Her mother-in-law’s name—Tamara Ivanovna—lit up the screen. She called every day, sometimes twice. Lera grimaced but picked up.

 

“Hello, Tamara Ivanovna.”

“Hello, Lera. Well, how are things? Still sitting in that nursery?”

“Yes, just finishing the last touches. I laid out the toys, put the cover on the mattress…”

“Oh, why do you need all that nonsense?” her mother-in-law cut her off. “Babies grow fast; in six months you’ll throw it all out. Why waste money?”

Lera pressed her lips together. This was far from the first time they’d had this conversation.

“Tamara Ivanovna, I want everything to be pretty and comfortable for the baby.”

“Comfortable!” her mother-in-law snorted. “You’d be better off saving the money. When I raised little Artyom—no toys for a thousand rubles, no designer cribs. And look, he turned out just fine.”

Lera rolled her eyes and stepped away from the crib, settling into the chair by the window. There was no point arguing. Tamara Ivanovna always knew better than everyone how to live, what to buy, and how to raise children.

“I saw those swaddles you bought at the store yesterday,” her mother-in-law continued. “Way overpriced! And why? Get the regular chintz ones—Soviet babies slept in them and they were fine.”

“Okay, Tamara Ivanovna,” Lera answered tiredly. “I’ll think about it.”

“Do think. Otherwise you’ll be complaining later that you don’t have enough money.”

After the call, Lera set the phone on the windowsill and looked outside. The autumn wind chased yellow leaves around the courtyard, the sky was covered with gray clouds. Her mood soured instantly. Her mother-in-law could wipe out all her enthusiasm with a single phone call.

The next day Lera was back at it in the nursery. She arranged shirts on the shelves, hung a terry towel with a duck-hood on a hook, and set jars of powder and cream on the dresser. Everything looked sweet and homey. Lera imagined bathing the baby, changing his diapers, rocking him to sleep—and warmth spread through her.

Artyom peeked into the room closer to evening, glanced at the shelves, and nodded.

“Looks tidy. Good job.”

“What do you think, should I get a night light too?” Lera asked. “So I don’t have to switch on the overhead light when I’m up at night.”

“Go ahead, if you want. You know better what you need.”

Artyom left again. Lera winced. “You know better” was her husband’s stock phrase for anything to do with the baby. As if it was only her concern.

A week later, the doorbell rang. Lera opened it and froze on the threshold. On the landing stood Tamara Ivanovna with a huge bag in one hand and a folder of documents in the other. Her face was glowing, her eyes bright with excitement.

“Lerochka, hello! Well, aren’t you happy to see me?”

“Hello, Tamara Ivanovna,” Lera mumbled, taken aback. “You didn’t say you were coming…”

“Why would I? I’m going to be here all the time now!”

Her mother-in-law walked into the apartment without waiting for an invitation, dropped the bag on the hallway floor, and unzipped her coat.

“Where’s Artyom? Still at work?”

“Yes, he’ll be back in an hour.”

“Perfect, then I’ll tell you everything right away. Sit, there’s news!”

Tamara Ivanovna went into the living room, settled on the couch, and patted the spot beside her. Lera slowly perched on the edge, feeling anxiety rise inside her.

“So, listen,” her mother-in-law began, opening the folder. “I sold my apartment! We closed the deal yesterday, I got the money. Now I’m moving in with you—for good!”

Lera blinked a few times, trying to process what she’d heard.

“What do you mean… for good?”

“Just like that!” Tamara beamed. “I’ll live with you and help with the baby. It’s your first, you have no experience. I know everything; I’ll teach you.”

Lera felt her heart start pounding. A two-room apartment. One bedroom for her and Artyom, the other—the nursery. Where would her mother-in-law live?

“Tamara Ivanovna, but we… The apartment is small, two rooms. We’ve already set up the nursery…”

“Exactly!” her mother-in-law cut her off without losing any enthusiasm. “I’ll live in the nursery. The baby will be in your room at first anyway; why does he need his own room in the first months?”

Lera opened her mouth, but the words stuck in her throat. Her mother-in-law went on as if she didn’t notice her shock:

“I’ve thought it all out. We can move the crib into your bedroom for now—there’s enough space. And I’ll put my things in the nursery. Convenient, right?”

“But I spent so much time…” Lera began.

“Oh come on, it’s no big deal! We’ll move things around later when the baby’s older. What matters now is that I’m nearby. You won’t manage on your own; you need help.”

Tamara set the documents on the coffee table and leaned back, clearly pleased with herself.

“And actually, you know what I think?” she added, lowering her voice confidentially. “Maybe you shouldn’t fuss over the baby so much. Give birth and leave him in the hospital for a couple of weeks; let them take care of him there. In the meantime I’ll get settled, prepare everything properly. You’ll be tired after the delivery—you need to rest.”

Lera shot to her feet so fast her head spun. She grabbed the armrest to keep from falling.

“What?!” Lera gasped. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t mean anything bad,” Tamara waved a hand. “I’m thinking of your convenience. The first days are the hardest; why should you deal with a newborn right away? I’ll help—I’m experienced. You don’t know anything about raising kids.”

Lera stood in the middle of the room, staring at her mother-in-law in disbelief. Blood rushed to her face; her fingers curled into fists. Was Tamara seriously suggesting they leave a newborn at the hospital so she could take over the nursery?

“Tamara Ivanovna, this is my child,” Lera said in a low voice. “And I’m not abandoning him anywhere.”

 

“Who said ‘abandon’?” her mother-in-law protested. “I’m talking about help! You’re young and inexperienced; it’ll be hard for you. And I know how to do things right. I raised Artyom on my own, without all these modern gimmicks. And he turned out just fine.”

Lera turned and left the room, unable to continue. She locked herself in the bathroom, turned on the cold water, and held her hands under the stream. It was hard to breathe; her thoughts were tangled. Was this really happening?

Her mother-in-law had sold her apartment. She intended to live with them. In the nursery. The room Lera had spent two months preparing. And she was suggesting leaving the baby in the hospital.

Footsteps sounded outside the door.

“Lera, why are you offended?” Tamara’s voice was peevish. “Come out; let’s talk properly.”

“I need to be alone,” Lera said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Oh, here we go. Pregnant women are always so touchy. Fine, I’ll put the kettle on.”

Lera heard her go to the kitchen and exhaled. She had to wait for Artyom. He had to do something. It was his mother; let him explain to her that this was impossible.

When Artyom came home from work, Tamara was already making herself at home in the kitchen. She’d made tea, sliced bread, and taken sausage out of the fridge.

“Mom!” Artyom was surprised. “Where did you come from?”

“Surprise, son!” Tamara hugged him and kissed his cheek. “I’m going to live with you now. I sold my apartment; I’m moving in for good.”

Artyom frowned.

“What do you mean, for good? We didn’t talk about this…”

“What’s there to talk about? I’ll help with the baby. Lera can’t manage alone; she has no experience. I know everything—I’ll teach her how to change diapers, feed him, put him down. It’ll be easier for you both!”

“But where are you planning to live?” Artyom looked around as if searching for a trick.

“In the nursery. The baby will sleep with you for the first few months anyway; why does he need a separate room?”

Lera stood in the kitchen doorway, watching silently. Artyom scratched the back of his head, looked at his mother, then at Lera.

“Well… In principle, Mom’s right. The baby really will sleep with us at first. Maybe it would be more convenient…”

Lera couldn’t believe her ears. Artyom was agreeing. Just like that. Without even asking her opinion.

“Artyom,” Lera said quietly, “can we talk?”

“Hang on, wait. Mom, what did you do with the money from the apartment?”

“It’s in a savings account. Don’t worry, I’m not a spendthrift. I’ll help you; I’ll put money aside for my grandson.”

“Okay. Well then, Mom, let’s really discuss how to organize everything.”

Lera felt everything inside her clench. Artyom wasn’t even going to object. He just accepted his mother’s decision as a given.

“Artyom, we need to talk. In private,” Lera repeated, raising her voice.

“Oh come on, don’t make secrets,” Tamara waved her hand. “We’re family; we’ll decide everything together.”

“I don’t want anyone living in the nursery,” Lera burst out. “I’ve been preparing that room for two months!”

“Lerochka, don’t be stubborn,” Tamara said in a conciliatory tone. “I’m not moving in there forever. When the baby grows, I’ll move out. For now I’ll help you.”

“But you sold your apartment! Where will you move out to?”

“Well, I’ll find something. Or I’ll rent. Don’t worry so much.”

Lera looked at Artyom, expecting support. But her husband just shrugged.

“Lera, let’s not start a fight right away. Mom wants to help. How is that a bad thing?”

“It’s bad that no one asked me!” Lera’s voice shook. “It’s our apartment, our baby, and someone just shows up and announces she’s taking the nursery!”

“Oh, how touchy you’ve become,” Tamara sighed. “Pregnant women shouldn’t worry like this; it’s bad for the baby.”

Lera turned and left for the bedroom, slamming the door. She sat on the bed and buried her face in her hands. Tears pressed, but she held them back. Crying was the last thing she needed.

A few minutes later Artyom came into the bedroom. He sat beside her and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Lera, come on. Mom really wants to help.”

“Artyom, she said I should leave the baby at the hospital and not bring him home right away,” Lera lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “Did you hear that?”

Artyom scowled.

“What? That can’t be.”

“It can. That’s exactly what she said. Word for word. I should give birth, leave him at the hospital, and she’ll get settled in the nursery in the meantime.”

“Well, Mom sometimes says things like that… She doesn’t mean it.”

“And what if she does?” Lera grabbed his hand. “Artyom, this is our child. I don’t want your mother dictating how I raise him. And I don’t want her living in the nursery!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll talk to her,” Artyom sighed. “But let’s do this without hysterics, okay?”

Lera nodded, though everything inside was boiling. “Without hysterics.” As if she were the one who’d started this circus.

 

Artyom left the bedroom, and Lera remained sitting on the bed. A strange calm came over her suddenly. Not anger, not resentment—calm. Cold and clear. Lera looked at her mother-in-law through the cracked-open door. Tamara sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea and flipping through a magazine as if nothing had happened.

This woman seriously intended to take the place of her future child. She had suggested leaving the newborn in the hospital. And her husband hadn’t even been truly outraged. He had just asked her not to make a scene.

Lera got up and went to the wardrobe. She opened the top drawer of the dresser and took out a folder of documents. The title to the apartment. In her name. Bought three years ago, before she met Artyom, with the money from selling the room in the communal flat she’d inherited from her grandmother.

The apartment was hers. Entirely. No marital property, no rights for her husband or his mother.

Lera ran her fingers over the seals on the document and suddenly felt the tension ebb. Everything became simpler. Much simpler than it had seemed a minute earlier.

That evening Tamara announced she was going home to pack for the move.

“I’ll come tomorrow with my bags and start settling in,” she said, zipping her coat. “Artyom, help me move the sofa tomorrow, okay? I’ve got a good fold-out one—it’ll fit the nursery perfectly.”

“Yeah, okay, Mom,” Artyom nodded, seeing her to the door.

Lera stood in the hallway and watched in silence. Tamara turned to her:

“Lera, don’t be offended, all right? I really want to help. You’ll see—once you give birth, you’ll thank me for being here.”

Lera didn’t answer. She just nodded. Her mother-in-law left; Artyom closed the door and turned to his wife.

“See? Mom is trying; she wants to be useful.”

“Yes, I see,” Lera said quietly.

“Let’s not fight about this. The baby will be here soon—we need support.”

“Of course.”

Artyom put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her temple. Then he went to watch TV. Lera stayed standing in the hallway, looking at the closed door of the nursery.

The next morning, while Artyom was at work, Lera went downstairs to the concierge. Aunt Vera sat at her desk doing a crossword.

“Hello, Vera Petrovna.”

“Oh, Lerochka!” the concierge looked up and smiled. “How’s the tummy? Soon now, right?”

“In a month. Vera Petrovna, I have a favor to ask.”

“I’m listening.”

“Don’t let anyone into the apartment without my permission. Under no circumstances. Even if they say I asked. Only if I call personally and ask.”

Aunt Vera frowned.

“Did something happen?”

“I don’t want extra visitors. Pregnant women need peace.”

“I see. All right, Lerochka, don’t worry. I won’t let anyone through.”

Lera went back upstairs. She sat in the nursery by the window and looked at the crib, the bear mobile, the neatly folded swaddles. All of this needed to stay here. For the baby. Not for her mother-in-law.

Closer to lunchtime, the doorbell rang. Lera looked through the peephole. Tamara stood there with two huge suitcases and several bags.

“Lera, open up!” her mother-in-law called. “I’m here!”

Lera didn’t open. She just stood behind the door, listening to Tamara knock and ring.

“Lera! Are you deaf? Open the door! I told you I’d move in today!”

Silence.

“Lera, stop this nonsense! Open up immediately!”

Lera picked up the phone and pressed the intercom button, connecting to the speaker on the landing.

“Tamara Ivanovna, the nursery is for the baby. You will not be moving in with us.”

“What?!” her mother-in-law’s voice leapt two octaves. “What kind of behavior is that?!”

“No theatrics. I’m simply not giving the nursery to anyone else. I wish you luck. In your life. Not in mine.”

“How dare you?! I’ll call my son—he’ll set you straight!”

“Call him.”

Lera hung up. She went into the bedroom, lay down on the bed, and placed a hand on her belly. The baby kicked from inside, as if in support. Lera smiled.

Ten minutes later the phone rang. Artyom. Lera answered unhurriedly.

“Lera, what are you doing?!” her husband shouted. “Mom just called and said you didn’t let her in!”

“That’s right. I didn’t.”

“What do you mean, didn’t? You were home!”

“I was. And still am. But Tamara Ivanovna is not.”

“Lera, that’s my mother! You have no right to treat her like that!”

“I do. This is my apartment. It’s in my name. I decide who lives here.”

Artyom fell silent. Then exhaled.

“Listen, let’s talk calmly when I get home. Mom didn’t mean any harm, she just…”

“She just suggested I leave the baby at the hospital so she could take the nursery,” Lera cut in. “Yes, I remember. Artyom, I don’t want to discuss this. The decision is made.”

“You can’t just kick my mother out!”

“I can. And I already did. See you tonight.”

Lera hung up. The phone rang again immediately. Artyom. Lera put it on silent and slid it into the nightstand.

For the next two days her husband tried to change her mind. He called ten times a day, came home from work gloomy, tried to talk, to persuade her, to explain that his mother hadn’t meant anything by it, that Lera was exaggerating, that she needed to be more tolerant.

“Mom didn’t mean it,” Artyom repeated for the third time that evening. “She just has her own view on raising kids.”

“Which includes suggesting we leave a newborn at the hospital?”

“Artyom, look me in the eye. Do you really think your mother was joking?”

He looked away. Was quiet for a moment.

“Okay, maybe she was serious… But we can just ignore her advice. Let her live in the nursery, and you do what you want.”

“No. The nursery is for the baby. Not for your mother.”

“Lera, you understand that Mom has nowhere to live now, right? She sold her apartment!”

“That was her decision. I didn’t ask her to sell it and move in with us.”

“You’ve become unbearable!” Artyom snapped. “Selfish!”

Lera rose from the couch without a word and went into the bedroom. She locked the door. Artyom knocked, demanded she open it, but Lera went to sleep, turning on white noise on her phone so she wouldn’t hear him.

In the morning Artyom left for work, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled. Lera had tea, ate breakfast, and then went into the nursery. She straightened the blanket in the crib, spun the mobile. Everything was in its place. No suitcases. No fold-out sofas.

Her phone rang. Mother-in-law. Lera declined. It rang again. Decline. A third time. Lera blocked the number.

A week later Artyom started coming home later and later. He said he was tied up at work, lots of projects. Lera didn’t ask. She just kept getting the nursery ready, buying the last little things, reading books about newborns.

One evening Artyom came home and silently packed a bag. Lera stood in the bedroom doorway and watched him fold his things.

“Are you leaving?”

“To Mom’s. For now. Tamara Ivanovna rented an apartment. It’s hard for her alone; she needs support.”

“I see.”

“Maybe you’ll change your mind. Before it’s too late.”

“Artyom, the nursery stays the nursery. If you want to live with your mother, go live with her. I won’t stop you.”

He zipped the bag and went to the hallway. He hesitated by the front door.

“You’re really letting me go just like that?”

“You’re the one leaving.”

“Because of Mom!”

“Because you chose her. Not me. Not our child.”

 

Artyom shook his head and left. The door closed with a soft click. Lera stood in the hallway for a moment, then went back to the bedroom. She lay down and looked at the ceiling. Oddly, she didn’t feel like crying. She didn’t feel like calling and asking him to come back. Just quiet and calm.

Two weeks later Lera went to the maternity hospital. She gave birth alone. Artyom didn’t come, although Lera sent him a message. He read it and didn’t reply.

The delivery went well. A boy. Three kilos two hundred grams. Healthy, loud cry, tiny fists clenched. Lera couldn’t take her eyes off her son. Tiny. Helpless. Hers.

On the third day after the birth a text came from Artyom: “How’s the baby?”

Lera replied: “All good. Healthy.”

“Did you pick a name?”

“Yes. Maksim.”

“Good name.”

There were no more messages. Lera didn’t write first. She was discharged on the fifth day. She called a taxi and came home with her son in her arms. She went up to the apartment, undressed, and changed Maksim into a clean onesie.

The nursery greeted her with the fresh smell of laundered swaddles and quiet. Lera laid her son in the crib and started the mobile. The plush bears spun to a soft melody. Maksim yawned and closed his eyes.

Lera sat by the window and looked at the sleeping baby. No suitcases. No strangers. Just a nursery where a child lived.

Artyom came a week later. He rang the doorbell; Lera opened it. He looked tired and worn. He stood on the threshold with a bag of toys.

“I brought some gifts for the baby,” Artyom said quietly.

“Come in.”

He took off his shoes and went into the nursery. He stepped up to the crib and looked at sleeping Maksim.

“He looks like me,” he smiled.

“Yes.”

He stood a bit longer, then turned to Lera:

“Mom wants to see her grandson.”

“No.”

“Lera…”

“No, Artyom. Not now. Maybe someday. But not now.”

“She is his grandmother, after all.”

“The grandmother who suggested leaving him at the hospital.”

Artyom pressed his lips together. He nodded.

“All right. I understand.”

He stayed another half hour; they talked about the baby, vaccinations, how Lera was managing alone. Artyom offered help; Lera declined. As he was leaving, he paused at the door:

“Maybe I could come back? We could try again?”

Lera looked at him for a long moment.

“You chose your mother over your family. I’m not offended. But you don’t need to come back. Maksim and I are fine on our own.”

“Lera, that’s ridiculous…”

“No. It’s honest. You’re not ready to protect your family from your own mother. That means we’re not on the same path.”

Artyom wanted to say something, but stayed silent. He left. Lera closed the door and leaned her back against it. Exhaled.

A month later Lera sat in the nursery nursing Maksim. He suckled, snuffling and opening his eyes now and then. It was raining outside; drops slid down the glass. Cozy. Peaceful.

Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number: “This is Tamara Ivanovna. Artyom said you had a boy. I want to see my grandson.”

Lera read it and set the phone face down. She didn’t reply. She didn’t block the number. She just ignored it.

Maksim finished, let go, and burrowed his nose into Lera’s arm, breathing softly as he drifted off. Lera stroked his head and looked at the crib. White, with soft bumpers and a blue-checked blanket. The mobile spun above it with bears. On the dresser stood jars of creams, powder, wet wipes. On the shelves—stacks of shirts, footed pants, socks.

A nursery. A real one. For a child. Not for a mother-in-law with suitcases and demands.

Lera stood, gently laid sleeping Maksim in the crib, and tucked him in. She lingered, watching her son. He snuffled, twitched his little hands in sleep, wrinkled his nose.

The home was quiet. Peaceful. Hers.

And no one would ever again tell her what to do with her own child.

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here, silly, collect the wrappers!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you crying, beautiful?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hesitated, not finishing his sentence, and frowned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anastasia stood by the window of her one-room apartment, looking at the gray high-rises beyond the glass. Thirty-two square meters—a small space for two adults. She had bought the apartment five years ago, before the wedding, with the money she’d saved over years of work and from selling her share in her parents’ apartment.

The place was cozy—light walls, a minimalist interior, a small kitchen with new appliances. But it was cramped. Especially after Mikhail, Anastasia’s husband, moved in two years ago.

She worked as a manager at a logistics company; Mikhail worked in manufacturing. Their earnings were enough for living—groceries, utilities, the occasional outing. But Anastasia dreamed of more.

Of a house. A real house with a plot of land where she could plant a garden, put up a gazebo, get a dog. Not thirty-two square meters, but a full hundred. A place to breathe freely without bumping into walls.

Anastasia often pictured that house: two bedrooms, a spacious living room, a big kitchen with a dining area. Bright rooms with high ceilings. Wood floors, panoramic windows, a terrace overlooking the garden. She dreamed of arranging every room to her taste—choosing curtains, placing furniture, creating comfort.

“What are you thinking about?” Mikhail came out of the bathroom, toweling his hair.

“Oh, nothing,” Anastasia turned. “Thinking about a house.”

“About a house again,” her husband smirked. “Nastya, a house costs millions.”

“I know,” she nodded. “But I can dream, can’t I?”

“You can,” Misha shrugged and went to the kitchen.

Her husband didn’t share her dream. Mikhail was comfortable in the apartment—close to work, not far from the center, everything at hand. Why have a house somewhere on the outskirts if everything you need is here?

But Anastasia didn’t let go of the idea of her own house. And she started putting money aside.

Five years ago, she opened a separate account. Every month she transferred ten to fifteen thousand to it. She cut back on everything—bought clothes less often, skipped expensive cafés, didn’t go on vacation. Every saved thousand went to the account.

Mikhail didn’t contribute to the savings. He spent his salary on personal needs—clothes, gadgets, outings with friends. Anastasia didn’t object—let him live as he wished. The main thing was that he didn’t interfere with her saving.

The money grew slowly. In a year she saved about a hundred and fifty thousand. In five years—seven hundred and fifty thousand. A lot, but not enough. Houses in a decent area started at three million.

Anastasia studied the real estate market, browsed listings, compared prices. She dreamed of a house in the suburbs, in a quiet area with good ecology. With a ten-hundred-square-meter plot where she could set up a garden.

But the dream felt far away. Another ten years of saving at least.

And then something unexpected happened.

Anastasia’s grandmother died. The elderly woman had lived alone in a village, in an old house. When the will was opened, it turned out the grandmother had left all her savings to her granddaughter. Two million three hundred thousand rubles.

Anastasia couldn’t believe it. That kind of money. Such good fortune. Her grandmother had saved all her life, put aside her pension, sold a plot of land. And left everything to her beloved granddaughter.

“Misha,” Anastasia ran home, unable to contain her joy. “Can you imagine—Grandma left me money! More than two million!”

Mikhail tore himself away from the computer.

“Seriously?”

“Yes!” she twirled around the room. “Now we can buy a house! A real house!”

“Wow,” her husband nodded. “That’s good.”

Mikhail’s joy was restrained, but Anastasia didn’t mind. She immediately began searching for options—scrolling listings, going to viewings, comparing offers.

A month later she found the perfect option. A house in the suburbs, forty minutes from the city. One hundred and twenty square meters, three rooms, a spacious kitchen–living room. A ten-hundred-square-meter plot, an old garden, a small bathhouse. Price—three million. With Anastasia’s savings, it was enough.

She went to see it. The house was old and needed cosmetic repairs, but it was solid. The foundation was intact, the roof new, the utilities installed. They could move in immediately and fix things up gradually.

 

“Misha, I found it!” Anastasia showed her husband the photos. “Look how nice it is!”

Mikhail flipped through the pictures.

“It’s far from work.”

“But it’s our own house,” she put her arms around his shoulders. “Can you imagine? Our own home!”

“Well, if you like it,” he shrugged. “Buy it.”

Anastasia closed the deal quickly. The sellers were in a hurry and were ready to drop the price to two million nine hundred thousand. She agreed, paid the deposit, and signed the documents two weeks later.

The house became hers. Legally registered in Anastasia’s name. Her money, her dream, her property.

She devoted the next month to setting it up. She went to the house every weekend and did cosmetic repairs. She painted the walls in light tones, laid new laminate, replaced the doors. Her husband sometimes went with her, but mostly sat in the car on his phone.

“Misha, at least help bring in the furniture,” Anastasia asked.

“Yeah, just a minute,” he replied without looking up from the screen.

She didn’t press. She managed on her own and hired workers for the heavy lifting. Gradually, the house transformed.

A bright kitchen with new cabinets. A living room with a comfortable sofa and a big TV. A bedroom with a wide bed and a sliding-door wardrobe. The second room was still empty—Anastasia planned to make it a home office.

In the garden, she pruned the old trees, planted flowers, and set up a bench. The plot came to life and turned cozy.

“When are we moving?” Anastasia asked one evening as they drank tea in the apartment kitchen.

“Soon, I guess,” Mikhail shrugged.

“Maybe this weekend?” she looked at him hopefully. “I’ve almost got everything ready. Just need to pack and move our things.”

“Let’s make it in a week,” he avoided her gaze. “I’ve got a crunch at work right now.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “In a week then.”

Over the next few days she packed. She boxed up dishes, folded clothes, sorted books. The apartment gradually emptied.

On Saturday morning Anastasia got up early and started packing the last boxes. Mikhail slept until ten, then came into the kitchen and had some coffee.

“Misha, help me carry the boxes out,” she asked.

“Wait,” he sat down at the table. “I need to talk to you.”

She set the tape aside and looked at him. His face was serious, even tense.

“What’s wrong?”

“About the house,” he stirred his coffee. “My mother will live there.”

Silence. Anastasia stood holding a box of dishes, not understanding what she’d just heard.

“What… what did you say?”

“My mother will move into the house,” Mikhail repeated, staring into his cup. “Her apartment is small, ground floor, damp. The doctors say she needs a dry climate. The house is perfect.”

Anastasia slowly set the box on the floor.

“Misha, you’re joking, right?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’m serious. Mom will move there permanently.”

“But… it’s my house!” Anastasia’s voice trembled. “I bought it for us!”

“So what?” Mikhail finally looked up. “My mother needs housing. She has health issues.”

“And I have an issue with some stranger living in my house!” Anastasia felt herself boiling inside. “Without my consent!”

“A stranger?” he frowned. “That’s my mother!”

“She’s a stranger to me!” Anastasia raised her voice. “I did not consent!”

Mikhail stood up from the table.

“Nastya, be reasonable. Mom really needs a house. Her apartment isn’t livable.”

“Then let her sell the apartment and buy another one!” Anastasia stepped toward him. “What does my house have to do with it?!”

“The point is, there’s a house,” he said evenly. “And it’s standing empty. Why shouldn’t Mom live there?”

“Because it’s my house!” Anastasia screamed. “I saved for five years! I got an inheritance from my grandmother! I bought it with my own money!”

“So what?” he crossed his arms. “Does that mean you get to be selfish?”

Anastasia froze. Selfish? She was selfish?

“Misha, do you hear yourself?” she forced herself to speak slowly. “I dreamed of this house. I saved for years. I set it up. I planned our life there.”

 

“You planned,” he nodded. “I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want to move.”

“You didn’t ask?” She felt the ground slipping away. “You agreed! You said it was a good idea!”

“I said it so you wouldn’t get upset,” Mikhail shrugged. “But to be honest, I’m fine in the apartment.”

“So this whole year I was killing myself with repairs and you didn’t care?” Anastasia’s voice shook.

“You wanted it yourself,” he turned away. “I didn’t insist.”

Silence. Anastasia stood, trying to grasp what was happening. Her husband didn’t want the house. He had never wanted it. He just kept quiet to avoid conflict.

“And now you’ve decided to give my house to your mother?” she asked slowly.

“Not give—let her live there,” Mikhail corrected her. “Temporarily.”

“How long is ‘temporarily’?”

“Well… until she finds another option.”

“So, indefinitely,” Anastasia gave a short laugh. “Wonderful.”

“Nastya, don’t dramatize,” he turned to her. “Mom is elderly. She needs help.”

“Help is one thing,” she stepped forward. “Moving her into someone else’s property is another.”

“Someone else’s property?” he frowned. “We’re a family.”

“A family?” Anastasia felt a wave of rage rise inside. “Is that what you call it when you make decisions without me?!”

“I didn’t make a decision, I just informed you,” he said calmly.

“Informed me!” she nearly choked with indignation. “That my property will now be occupied by your mother!”

“Stop it,” Mikhail waved a hand. “So you bought it. So what! Mom needs that house more than you do now!”

The words came out cold and peremptory. Anastasia stared at him, unable to believe she’d heard that.

“What did you say?” she asked quietly.

“I said the truth,” Mikhail looked her in the eye. “Mom needs the house more. She has health problems. And you’re fine in the apartment.”

“Needs it more,” Anastasia repeated mechanically. “Your mom needs it more.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “And you should understand that.”

Anastasia exhaled slowly. Inside, everything seethed—rage, resentment, pain. Five years of saving. Dreaming. Planning. Fixing the house with her own hands. And now her husband was saying his mother needed it more.

“Misha,” she made herself speak calmly. “Why should I think about your mother? Why not you?”

He looked at her in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that caring for parents is a child’s responsibility,” Anastasia crossed her arms. “If your mother needs housing, you should provide it. Not me.”

“But you have a house!”

“I have a house that I bought for myself!” Anastasia shouted. “For my family! Not for your mother!”

“My mother is part of the family!”

“No!” She stepped closer. “Your mother is your responsibility! If you want to help her—sell your car, take out a loan, rent her an apartment! But don’t touch my property!”

Mikhail turned pale.

“You… you’re a monster! How can you talk about my mother like that?!”

“I’m not talking about your mother!” Anastasia was almost gasping. “I’m talking about my rights! About my property! About my dream that you want to take away!”

“No one is taking anything away!”

“You are!” she jabbed a finger into his chest. “You want to give my house to your mother! The house I bought with my grandmother’s money! The house I poured my soul into!”

“Nastya, calm down…”

 

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” she backed away. “I won’t calm down! Because you’re betraying me! You’re spitting on my dreams! You’re putting your mother above your wife!”

Silence. Mikhail stood with his head down, not knowing what to say.

“Nastya, my mother really needs—”

“And I didn’t need anything?” Anastasia cut him off. “For five years I saved! I denied myself everything! To buy this house! And now you say your mother needs it more?!”

“She’s elderly…”

“So what?!” she was almost crying with fury. “I am not obliged to provide her with housing! She’s your mother! Your responsibility!”

Mikhail looked up.

“So you refuse?”

“Yes!” Anastasia screamed. “I refuse! Your mother will not live in my house!”

“Then we have nothing to talk about,” he said coldly.

“Agreed,” she nodded. “Pack your things. Leave.”

Mikhail froze.

“What?”

“I said—pack your things and leave,” she repeated. “This is my apartment. And I don’t want you to stay here.”

“You’re throwing me out?”

“Yes,” she looked him in the eye. “I am. Because you betrayed me. Because you don’t respect my rights. Because you tried to take my dream.”

“Nastya, you’re insane!”

“No,” she said calmly. “I’ve just realized who you really are.”

He wanted to say something, but Anastasia raised her hand.

“Leave. Now. Or I’ll call the police.”

He stood there for another minute, then turned sharply. He went into the room and began shoving things into a bag—clothes, shoes, documents. He packed quickly, angrily.

Twenty minutes later he was ready. He picked up the bag and walked to the door.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked.

 

“Leave.”

The door slammed. Anastasia was alone in the apartment.

She went into the room and sat down on the couch. Her hands were shaking, her breathing uneven. But inside—calm. A strange, cold calm.

The decision was made. Final and irreversible.

Anastasia spent the next week dealing with practicalities. She filed for divorce and submitted the paperwork to the court. Mikhail didn’t object, he only demanded half of the house. But the house had been bought with Anastasia’s money, so the court rejected his claim.

She also decided to rent out the apartment. She found tenants—a young married couple, quiet and tidy. She rented it for twenty-five thousand a month. That covered the house’s utilities and groceries.

Anastasia moved into the house. Alone, with her things, with her dreams. The house greeted her with silence and space.

She walked through the rooms, touching the walls, opening the windows. This was her life. Hers alone. No one else could lay claim to this space.

Anastasia turned the second room into a study. She set up a desk, a bookcase, a comfortable armchair. She now worked partly remotely, going to the office twice a week.

In the garden, she planted roses, put up a swing, and set up a barbecue area. She got a dog—a Labrador named Jack. He ran around the plot, rejoicing in his freedom.

In the evenings Anastasia sat on the terrace with tea, watching the sunset. Jack lay nearby with his muzzle on his mistress’s knees. Quiet, peace, freedom.

For the first few weeks Mikhail tried calling. He asked her to come back, said they could talk everything over. But Anastasia didn’t answer. She understood there was nothing to return to. Her husband had shown his true face. There would be no second chance.

Life went on. Work, the house, the garden, the dog. Simple joys that once seemed unattainable. Now all of it belonged only to Anastasia.

She stood by the window of her house, looking at the garden. The sun was setting beyond the horizon, painting the sky in pink and orange. Jack raced through the grass, chasing butterflies.

Anastasia smiled. This was freedom. This was her home. Her dream that no one managed to take away.

And it was the best decision of her life.

A warm May day wrapped the park in golden light. Lyova and Misha, both wearing identical school trousers and blue shirts, sat on the grass, and nearby, stretched out at full puppy length, lay Rex — a large, shaggy Alabai with a wet nose and kind, almost human eyes.

“Look what he can do!” Lyova exclaimed proudly, extending his palm. “Rex, give me your paw!”

The puppy immediately jumped up, joyfully nudged his nose into the hand, and clumsily placed his massive paw on it. Misha laughed, and sensing the fun, Rex dashed over, knocked him onto his back, and began tickling his face with affectionate licks. The boys squealed with delight, tangled together in a wild, playful heap where it was impossible to tell where the dog ended and the boy began.

“You spoil him too much,” Misha said, out of breath, smiling as he brushed grass from his hair.

“How else?” Lyova brushed sand off his knee. “He’s my friend. And besides — the smartest dog in the world.”

Rex, as if agreeing, nudged Misha’s hand with his nose and wagged his tail happily over the grass.

“It’s a pity I never had a dog,” Misha said softly, stroking the puppy’s fluffy head.

“But now you have me and Rex,” Lyova patted his friend on the shoulder. “Tomorrow I’ll bring him treats from home. Let him be happy too.”

The sun slowly tilted toward sunset. Lyova stood up and carefully brushed off his pants.

“I have to go. Dad gets worried if I’m late. But you come tomorrow, okay? I’ll definitely be waiting.”

Misha nodded, but inside, a strange premonition tightened his chest. He watched his friend leave, leading a bouncing Rex behind him. Staying alone on the empty clearing was always a little sad. Misha headed home, hoping tomorrow would bring something good, though anxiety lingered in his soul.

The apartment door creaked. Misha carefully entered, taking off his shoes at the threshold. The air was heavy with the smell of medicine, old wood, and a vague mixture of sorrow and hope. On the couch, wrapped in a blanket, lay his mother — Marina. She held a book, but her gaze wandered out the window.

“Hi, Mom,” Misha said quietly, trying not to disturb her thoughts.

“Back already? How was your walk?” Marina smiled, tired but with a warm spark in her eyes.

“Great. Lyova showed me how Rex gives his paw. He’s such a funny puppy.”

“It’s good you have a friend,” Marina gently stroked her son’s hand. “You know I’m always here.”

Other times came to mind. When Dad brought ice cream home, when the apartment smelled of fried potatoes, when they watched movies and laughed together. It was warm, it was peaceful.

Then everything changed. One day Mom slipped on the stairs and hurt herself badly. Hospital, white walls, doctors in masks, anxious talks. The home became different: medicine appeared, silence, the nighttime rustling of pills in their boxes. Dad was home less and less, then just packed his things and left, slamming the door. Marina cried, and Misha didn’t know how to hug her so the pain would go away.

Grandma Valentina Nikolaevna came over, scolded Dad, baked pies, but didn’t stay long. So the family shrank to two — mother and son. They learned to survive together, holding on to each other.

The next day Lyova came back different. His usually lively face was tense, worry in his eyes.

“Things are bad at home,” he said quietly as Misha approached. “Dad’s leaving on a business trip, and Inga is moving in. She’s terrible. Loves no one but Dad. She scolds me, even Tamara Semyonovna.”

“Maybe she just isn’t used to it yet?” Misha tried to comfort, though he didn’t believe it himself.

“No,” Lyova shook his head. “She does it on purpose. She can’t stand Rex either. Says he’s dirty trouble. But Dad gave him to me for my birthday. I wanted a dog for so long!”

He fell silent, staring into the distance, then perked up:

“You know, at night Rex quietly climbs into my bed. We’re like real brothers. But now Inga forbids everything. She won’t even let me walk him.”

The boys were silent, each lost in his own thoughts.

Lyova left earlier than usual and didn’t come for several days. Misha wondered what had happened but hoped his friend would return soon.

Misha couldn’t get the thought out of his head: sooner or later, Lyova would have to walk Rex. One day he set his alarm for five in the morning and went to the river. The park was empty, only birds chirped among the bushes.

He hid behind a bush and waited. Soon a silver car pulled up to the shore. A tall woman with a bright scarf, cold eyes, and sharp makeup got out. Without looking back, she pulled a heavy bag from the trunk, which oddly moved, and with effort threw it into the water.

Misha froze. His heart sank. But without thinking, he plunged into the icy water, found the bag, and pulled it ashore. Shivering with fear, he untied the knot. Inside, with tape over its muzzle, lay Rex — scared but alive.

“Quiet, little one,” Misha gently removed the sticky tape, pressing the puppy to himself. “It’s okay. I won’t leave you.”

Rex trembled but licked Misha’s cheek. At that moment, the boy made a decision: he would never give this dog away.

At home, Marina met her son with concern — there stood a wet, shivering Misha holding a huge puppy wrapped in a blanket.

“What happened?” Marina hurried to him worriedly.

“It’s Rex… someone tried to drown him!” Misha sobbed, stroking the puppy’s fluffy head. “I saw the woman throw him in the river. I couldn’t leave him there…”

Marina knelt down, hugged her son, and pressed the trembling dog to herself.

“You did the right thing,” she whispered. “But now we have to find out everything. Who was that woman? Did you remember her?”

“Yes. Tall, with a bright scarf. In a silver car. We need to tell Lyova. He has to know.”

Marina sighed, stroking Misha’s hair.

“We’ll keep Rex here. Until we figure things out, he’ll live with us.”

The next morning Misha went to Lyova’s house. He stood a long time behind the wrought-iron fence, watching the windows. Soon Lyova came out onto the porch with his father — Herman Arkadyevich. Stern, in an impeccable suit, he tried to calm his son.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Maybe Rex just ran away. We’ll find him for sure.”

“No!” Lyova clenched his fists. “It’s Inga! I saw her angry at him yesterday. And today he’s gone!”

Herman frowned but shook his head:

“Don’t make things up. Inga wouldn’t do that.”

Then Misha couldn’t hold back and ran out of hiding:

“I saw everything!” he shouted. “The woman in the bright scarf, in the silver car. She threw a bag into the river, and Rex was inside! I saved him. Now he’s at my place.”

Herman sharply turned to his son:

“Are you sure it was Inga?”

Lyova nodded, wiping away tears. At that moment a silver car pulled up to the house. Inga stepped out in her signature scarf. Seeing them, she froze.

“Inga,” Herman’s voice was icy, “we need to talk. Now. Let’s go inside.”

She tried to say something, but Herman was firm.

“Wait here,” he told the boys and disappeared behind the door.

Fifteen minutes later he returned, pale but resolute.

“Where’s Rex?” he asked Misha. “Show me.”

At home, Marina met them reservedly. Herman suddenly recognized her and unexpectedly smiled:

“Marina? Is that really you? We went to school together. Remember the wooden doghouses in the yard and the apples from the neighbor’s garden?”

Marina was slightly embarrassed but smiled too:

“Of course, I remember. You were always the top student.”

While the adults recalled their school days, the boys and Rex had a real celebration of joy: running, laughing, hugging. Everyone was thankful that the puppy was alive, and the friendship only grew stronger.

In the kitchen, Marina and Herman continued their conversation.

“Sometimes it seems life will never get better,” Marina said quietly. “And then suddenly someone appears, and everything begins to change.”

Herman nodded, looking at her carefully:

“The main thing is not to give up. Everything can start anew.”

Their eyes met longer than usual — there was more in them than memories.

Herman gave the boys some money:

“Buy something tasty for tea. And come to us. Today we have a celebration!”

Misha and Lyova rushed to the store, returning with chips, ice cream, and candy. At Herman’s house, Marina helped Tamara Semyonovna cut salad, and the housekeeper baked her famous pies. At the table, everyone laughed, shared stories, and no one even remembered Inga — her things had disappeared as if she had never been.

The atmosphere was warm, homely, almost magical. It seemed all difficulties were behind.

Late at night, while the adults still sat drinking tea, Misha and Lyova settled in the room.

“Do you think if our parents were together, we’d be better off?” Lyova asked thoughtfully.

“Of course,” Misha smiled. “You’d be my brother, and Rex would be our dog.”

“Let’s test their feelings,” Lyova conspiratorially suggested. “We’ll write a note: we ran away and will only come back if they agree to get married.”

The boys giggled, wrote the message, and carefully placed it on the kitchen table.

In the morning, Marina couldn’t find her son. The house was in a bustle. Herman searched every room until he noticed the note.

Reading it, he laughed:

“Those rascals… Looks like we have no choice.”

They went outside, and Herman saw the boys behind the bushes.

“Well,” he smiled, “shall we make a deal?”

Marina nodded shyly, but hope and joy shone in her eyes.

Tamara Semyonovna, laughing, called the kids home:

“Hey, rascals! Come back! The adults have already decided everything!”

Misha and Lyova ran to their parents, Rex jumped around, barking happily. Everyone hugged and laughed, and outside, as if especially for this moment, the sun shone brightly.

And life became kind again.

— Mom, what’s wrong?

Nikita walked into the kitchen, drawn by a sharp, medicinal smell that overpowered even the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Marina Gennadyevna sat at the table, deliberately slowly dripping a dark liquid from a bottle into a faceted glass. Corvalol. Her battle standard, her shield, her weapon. She didn’t look at her son, but everything about her—from her mournfully pursed lips to her tense shoulders—screamed of universal suffering.

“I didn’t sleep all night,” she complained at last, lifting her eyes to him. Her gaze, usually keen and piercing, was now veiled with the misty film of martyrdom. She took a small sip and winced as if she were swallowing poison.

“Why?”

“Son, make your wife moan less at night! I didn’t move in with you to listen to such indecency! My heart is weak—I need peace!”

Nikita froze halfway to the coffeepot. Blood rushed hot and thick to his face, scorching his ears and neck. He felt naked, caught off guard. His mother’s words, spoken in an ostentatiously quiet, suffering tone, struck like a sniper’s bullet. They were meant not to provoke anger but shame—sticky, paralyzing shame about what was most personal, most intimate in his life and was now being publicly discussed at the breakfast table. He wanted to say something, to object, but his mouth went dry.

At that very moment Alla entered the kitchen as if woven from the morning light. She wore a light silk robe, her hair carelessly gathered at the back of her head, and a shadow of a content, relaxed smile played on her lips. She looked as if she had just woken up in paradise, and that look was the fiercest dissonance with the mourning atmosphere his mother had so diligently created.

Seeing her, Marina Gennadyevna straightened, her lips tightening into a thin, spiteful line.

“Good morning, Alya. Slept well, I suppose?” The venom in her voice seemed concentrated enough to burn through the tabletop.

Alla paused for a moment; her gaze slid over the Corvalol bottle, over her mother-in-law’s suffering face, over her husband, red as a boiled crawfish. She assessed the disposition of forces in a split second. No embarrassment or anger crossed her face. Instead, her smile only widened, turning from relaxed into dazzling and defiant.

“A most excellent morning to you, Marina Gennadyevna!” she sang. “And the same to you.”

She went up to Nikita, ran her hand over his tense back, and kissed him lightly on the temple. Then she turned to her mother-in-law, looking her straight in the eye.

“Nikit, darling, you didn’t forget we’re going today to pick out new lace lingerie for me, did you? I saw a stunning set yesterday. I think we’ll get something red. To make the nights even brighter.”

 

She playfully winked at her petrified husband, mischief sparkling in her eyes. It was a return shot—precise and merciless. She didn’t justify herself. She didn’t defend herself. She accepted the challenge thrown at her and raised the stakes to the heavens, turning the accusation of “indecency” into the announcement of even more unabashed pleasure to come. She left Nikita in complete stupefaction, mouth open and heart pounding, and left his mother, flushed with impotent rage, alone with her useless Corvalol and the utter failure of her morning assault.

The frontal attack with Corvalol had failed, but Marina Gennadyevna wasn’t one to retreat. She was a strategist, and the battlefield—her son’s apartment—offered endless tactical possibilities. She changed tactics from a cavalry charge to a measured guerrilla war. The pretext was “helping around the house.” Like a caring shadow, she slipped through the rooms while the young couple were at work, dusting where there was no dust and rearranging perfectly placed vases. Her target was the bedroom. The holy of holies, the enemy’s citadel.

And she waited for her moment. One day, coming back from the store, Alla carelessly left a branded paper bag with the logo of an expensive lingerie boutique on the dresser. From the hallway, Marina spotted it, and her heart beat with a predatory, triumphant rhythm. Waiting until Alla went to shower, she slipped into the room. Her fingers, accustomed to wool socks and laundry soap, unfolded the crinkling wrapping paper with disgusted curiosity. Out came that very red set. Bright scarlet, almost screaming silk; the finest black lace—it wasn’t just lingerie. It was a manifesto, a challenge, the very weapon her daughter-in-law had so brazenly struck her with days earlier. Marina didn’t look at it as an article of clothing but as the face of an enemy. And she struck.

That evening, when Nikita and Alla came home, they were met by the biting smell of bleach and demonstrative cleanliness. In the center of the kitchen, hanging over a chair like the flag of a conquered state, was… something. A gray-brown rag marred by ugly streaks, in which the outline of that scarlet set could barely be discerned. The lace had shriveled and yellowed; the silk had faded and looked stiff. Next to it, for contrast, hung an old checkered dishcloth. The tableau spoke louder than any words.

“Mom, what’s this?” Nikita asked, the first to break the silence. There was no anger in his voice, only bewildered confusion.

“Oh, Nikitushka, I was tidying up, decided to wash everything,” fussed Marina Gennadyevna, wiping perfectly dry hands on her apron. Her face portrayed pure innocence. “Found it in the laundry basket, so I tossed it in with the towels. Must’ve bled a lot. Chinese, I suppose—the quality these days is no good.”

Nikita looked at Alla. He expected her to explode, to start yelling, and that he’d have to, as always, dash between two fires, trying to calm everyone down. But Alla was silent. She wasn’t looking at the ruined item—she was looking straight at her mother-in-law. Her gaze was calm, cold, and so piercing that Marina involuntarily shivered.

“Mom, come on…” Nikita began conciliatorily. “That’s silk, an expensive thing. You have to wash it separately, by hand…”

Without a word, Alla slowly walked up to the chair. She didn’t examine the pitiful remains of her purchase. She picked up the ruined set with two fingers, as if touching something vile, walked past her stunned husband and mother-in-law to the trash bin, opened the lid, and, without looking, dropped the rag inside. The metal lid slammed shut with a dull, final sound.

She turned. There wasn’t even a hint of a smile on her lips.

“It’s all right, Nikita. We’ll buy a new one. An even better one. Apparently, some people take huge pleasure not in wearing beautiful things but in touching other people’s underwear—even if that means rummaging in a dirty laundry basket.”

The mask of the innocent busybody fell from Marina’s face in an instant. Her eyes on Alla were full of pure, undiluted hatred. She had lost this round, too. And she understood that this war would be waged to total annihilation.

The lost battle with the ruined lingerie didn’t break Marina; it only convinced her that all means were fair in this war. Alla was not just a daughter-in-law—she was an enemy who didn’t follow rules, didn’t feel shame, and wasn’t afraid of open confrontation. Fighting such an opponent alone was pointless. Marina realized she needed heavy artillery. And she summoned it.

The heavy artillery was her husband, Gennady Arkadyevich, Nikita’s father. A solid, heavyset man with a face fixed in an expression of perpetual rightness. He rarely interfered in family matters, preferring the role of a silent patriarch whose opinion was law by default. He arrived on Sunday, and a “family dinner” was arranged. This was not an invitation; it was a summons to a tribunal. The special-occasion china was set out, and in the center stood Marina’s signature dish—duck baked with apples. The aroma of celebration mixed with the oppressive sense of a trap.

Nikita sat between his father and mother, his head drawn into his shoulders. With unnatural diligence he cut his portion of duck into microscopic pieces, as if his life depended on it. He didn’t look up, feeling like the accused even though no charges had yet been voiced. Alla sat opposite, straight-backed and calm. She ate slowly, with regal dignity, as if she were not at a trial but at a reception at an embassy.

 

“Nice evening,” rumbled Gennady Arkadyevich after dabbing his lips with a napkin. His low, booming voice filled the kitchen, making the air vibrate. “The family gathered—that’s what matters. A family’s strength, Alla, rests on respect. Respect for elders, respect for tradition. And on feminine modesty.”

He paused, letting the words sink in. Marina nodded approvingly, looking at her daughter-in-law with triumph. This was it. You can’t argue with fatherly authority.

“A woman is the keeper of the hearth,” Gennady went on, staring somewhere above Alla’s head. “Her behavior, her manners—they’re the family’s face. And when there is no quiet and decorum in the home, when nights turn into… ahem… a circus, that means the hearth has cracked. That must not be allowed. A man needs peace to work, to be the head. Not all this…” He waved his heavy hand vaguely.

Nikita shrank even more, wishing he could sink through the floor. He braced for an explosion, for a cutting retort from Alla. But she finished chewing a piece of apple, carefully set down her fork and knife, lifted her clear, limpid eyes to her father-in-law, and smiled slightly.

“You are absolutely right, Gennady Arkadyevich. Family is sacred. And I’m very glad you brought up such an important topic.”

Marina and her husband exchanged glances. They hadn’t expected such compliance. It seemed the plan was working.

“You speak of passion, of nights,” Alla continued in a soft, insinuating voice with not a hint of sarcasm. “That’s precisely the spark that keeps a family alive, rather than just a union of two people under one roof. I’ve always wondered how people of your generation—after so many years together—manage to keep that passion. You must know some secret for carrying that fire through the decades, so it doesn’t go out—so the nights stay bright and the feelings sharp. That’s true respect for each other, isn’t it?”

Silence fell over the kitchen. But it wasn’t the oppressive silence Nikita’s parents had been aiming for. It was a deafening, paralyzing awkwardness. Alla hadn’t argued. She hadn’t been rude. She took their hypocritical moral lecture and, with an innocent air, turned it back on them, asking a direct, devastatingly personal question about their own intimate life. Five minutes earlier, Gennady had been a fearsome judge; now he sat, face dark red and mouth open, not knowing what to say. Marina looked at her daughter-in-law as if she had turned into a snake before her eyes. They’d wanted to stage a public flogging; instead, they themselves were stripped naked in the middle of their own kitchen. The only sound was the gentle clink of Alla’s fork on porcelain as she resumed her meal.

Dinner didn’t end in scandal. It ended in emptiness. Gennady, whose patriarchal grandeur had been punctured and deflated by one innocent question, retreated to the living room and the television, taking the last shreds of his dignity with him. Three people remained in the kitchen. Dirty dishes, cooling duck, and tension as thick as grease. The masks were off. Theatrical Corvalol scenes, helpful laundry, edifying speeches—none of it had been more than a prelude. Now the real game was beginning—without rules and without anesthesia.

Marina silently gathered the plates. Her movements were sharp and precise. She didn’t look at her son, but every fiber of her being was directed at him. Nikita sat staring at his half-eaten duck, feeling as if the air around him had thickened into concrete, making it impossible to breathe. He waited.

“Well then, son,” she said at last. Her voice was even, without a drop of suffering—cold as steel. She set the stack of plates in the sink and turned, leaning on the counter. “I think it’s time you decided. This house will have either order—or her.”

It wasn’t an ultimatum. It was a verdict. She didn’t shout, didn’t reproach. She merely stated a fact, like a doctor announcing injuries incompatible with life. She placed him before a choice that wasn’t really a choice but an act of capitulation. Either he accepted her rules, her world order with her at the center of the universe and everyone else revolving on a prescribed orbit, or he chose chaos, shame, and debauchery—embodied by his wife.

Nikita lifted his eyes to her. There was pleading in them. He wanted her to stop, wanted everything to return to a time when he could simply live without choosing every second between his mother and his wife. But in her gaze he saw only a firm, unbending will. She would not back down.

 

And he did what all weak people do. He chose the path of least resistance. He got up and went not to his mother to put her in her place, but to Alla, who stood by the hallway window, looking at the city’s night lights. He approached her from behind, pathetic in his attempt to reconcile the irreconcilable.

“Alla, listen…” he began in a wheedling, quiet voice. “Mom… she’s an elderly person. She got carried away. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that to Dad? Maybe you could just… apologize? You know, for appearances. Just so there’s peace at home. Mom’s living with us now, and she really doesn’t need to hear… what we do in the bedroom…”

Alla turned slowly at that moment. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Not with anger, not with hurt—with the cold, dissecting curiosity of a researcher studying a strange, incomprehensible specimen. She looked at his darting eyes, his weak, pleading smile, and understanding dawned—final and complete. She hadn’t been fighting his mother. She’d been fighting for him. And she had just realized there was nothing to fight for. Before her stood not an ally, not a husband, not a protector. Before her stood a trophy begging her to surrender voluntarily to the enemy to spare him the inconvenience of battle.

She said nothing. Not a single word. Her silence was more frightening than any scream. She walked around him the way one walks around an obstacle on the road. She passed by Marina, frozen in the kitchen doorway in a victor’s pose, and went into their bedroom. Nikita hopefully thought she’d gone to cool off, that things would settle down.

But a minute later she emerged. In her hands she carried his pillow and a neatly folded blanket. She walked through the living room where her mother-in-law sat on the couch. A predatory, triumphant smile slowly blossomed on Marina’s face. Alla came up to the couch and, without looking at either her husband or his mother, simply dropped the bedding onto the leather upholstery. The dull thump of the blanket hitting the couch sounded in the apartment’s silence like a gunshot.

“Now you can sleep here. Or go make your bed next to your mommy, if her peace matters more to you than our family and our life. From the start I was against her moving in because I knew she meant to drive a wedge between us. And she succeeded. Congratulations, Marina Gennadyevna. When you go back home, you can take with you this spineless creature I used to call my husband.”

Then she turned and walked back. Nikita stood in the middle of the room, paralyzed, shifting his gaze from the couch—now his new bed—to his mother, and then to his wife’s retreating back. He watched her reach the bedroom door, grasp the handle, and close it. The soft click of the lock was the last sound he heard. He remained standing in the scorched desert of his living room, between his victorious mother and the door behind which his family life had ended…

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am honest with my husband!”

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What information?” Valentina Nikolaevna became wary.

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

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

But now Valentina Nikolaevna had crossed the line.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

“About what?”

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

Sergey frowned.

“Are you planning something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is this?” Valentina Nikolaevna squinted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

A deadly silence fell over the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

“And now?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re welcome,” Anna replied.

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

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

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

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

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

— “I sold EVERYTHING I had and bought an APARTMENT — what did YOU BUY?” Galina asked her bewildered husband, her voice sharp. “So this apartment is MINE!”
October 19, 2025 by admin

— Galka, are you out of your mind? We’ve been married eight years! — Yura looked at his wife in bewilderment as she methodically packed his things into a duffel bag.

— Exactly! Eight years I’ve put up with your rudeness and your buddies! And now — ENOUGH!

— What rudeness? What are you even talking about?

— About the fact that an hour ago your pal Kostya told me I should get out of my OWN apartment because he and you are going to watch football!

— He made a bad joke, that’s all!

— A BAD JOKE? Was that before or after your Vitya ate the food I’d prepared for a presentation at work? Or after your Lyokha parked his wreck in my spot and mouthed off when I asked him to move it?

 

There was an impatient knock at the door.

— Yurets, open up! The beer’s getting warm! — Konstantin’s voice rang out.

— Perfect! Go to your Kostya then! Go live with him, since you’re so inseparable!

A month before that blow-up, Galina was sitting in her office going through the quarterly report. As CFO of a construction company, the job demanded everything she had, but she handled it brilliantly. The phone on her desk buzzed — a message from her husband: “The guys are coming over today, don’t cook dinner, we’ll order pizza.”

Galina rubbed the bridge of her nose. “The guys” — that was sacred. Every Friday, and sometimes more often, the apartment turned into a men’s club. Konstantin, Vitaly, Alexei — Yura’s childhood trio who acted like they were still eighteen, not thirty-five.

When she got home around nine in the evening, Galina could hear loud laughter and clinking bottles from the stairwell. The usual chaos reigned inside: pizza boxes piled on the table, beer cans, cigarette butts stubbed out in saucers pressed into service as ashtrays.

— Oh, Galka’s here! — Kostya announced from where he sprawled on the couch. — Hey, bring us some more beer from the fridge, will ya?

— Konstantin, the kitchen is three meters away from you, — Galina replied calmly, taking off her coat.

— Come on! You’re walking past it anyway!

— I’m going to the bedroom. To change and rest after work.

— That’s the spirit! — Vitaly chimed in. — No need for women at a guys’ hangout!

Yura laughed along with his friends, without even thinking to stand up for his wife.

— Galin, can I put Kostya up for a couple of days? — Yura asked a week later at breakfast. — He had a falling-out with his wife, nowhere to stay.

— “A couple of days” means exactly how many?

— Well, three or four days max.

— Yura, we have a two-room apartment. Where’s he going to sleep?

— On the couch in the living room. He’s not picky.

— Fine. Three days. NO MORE.

— Thanks, honey! I knew you’d understand!

Konstantin showed up that very evening with a huge duffel, clearly counting on a longer stay.

— Hi there, missus! — he greeted her familiarly, walking in without an invitation. — Where can I set up?

— The living room couch folds out, — Galina answered coolly.

— And where’s the shower? Got anything to eat?

— Second door down the hall for the shower; we have dinner at eight.

— At eight? That’s early! I’m used to eating around ten or eleven. And I’m on a special diet — no veggies, only meat and potatoes.

— Kostya, this isn’t a restaurant. You’ll eat what’s been cooked.

— Yurets! — the guest protested. — Your wife doesn’t know the first thing about hospitality!

— Gal, come on. The guy’s in a tough spot, we can bend a little.

Three days turned into a week, a week into two. Kostya made himself at home: left his stuff everywhere, left dirty dishes, smoked on the balcony despite the ban, and constantly brought friends over.

— Kostya, your three days ended ten days ago, — Galina reminded him one morning, finding him eating the last yogurt — her breakfast.

— Relax! Yurets said I can stay as long as I need. Right, bro?

— Well… yeah, I said we’d help him through a rough patch, — Yura confirmed uncertainly.

— A rough patch? — Galina turned to her husband. — Is that what you call him bringing some girl over yesterday and “having fun” in the living room until three in the morning?

— Not “some girl,” Alena! — Kostya objected, offended. — Great chick, by the way!

— DON’T you dare talk like that in my house!

— Your house? — Kostya burst out laughing. — This is Yura’s house! He’s the man here!

— Actually, the apartment is in my name. I bought it.

— So what? You’re married, so it’s joint property!

— NO. Bought BEFORE the marriage. With MY money. It’s MY apartment.

— Yurets, you hearing this? Your woman’s totally lost her bearings!

Yura kept silent, staring at his plate.

— Hey, Vit? Come over, let’s hang! — Kostya phoned openly from the apartment. — Don’t worry, Galka’s at work and Yurets doesn’t mind!

By evening the place had turned into a men’s club again. Vitaly and Alexei made themselves at home, turned the music up, and ordered delivery.

— Guys, let’s invite some girls? — Alexei suggested. — I know a couple of fun ones!

— Let’s do it! — Kostya agreed. — Yurets, you don’t mind?

— Well… Galia might get upset…

— Oh please! Who’s the boss of the house? Show some backbone!

When Galina came home at ten, the apartment was unrecognizable. In clouds of cigarette smoke two heavily made-up girls sat on the couch, giggling and drinking wine straight from the bottle. Wrappers, cans, and butts littered the floor.

— What is going on here? — she asked in an icy tone.

— Oh, the wife’s here! Party’s over! — Vitaly sighed theatrically.

— Gal, don’t blow up! — Yura tried to hug her; she pulled away. — We’re just relaxing!

— In MY apartment? With THESE… ladies?

— Hey, watch it! — one of the girls protested. — We’re decent girls!

— OUT! All of you OUT! NOW!

— Galka, what’s your problem? — Kostya was surprised. — We just got started!

— OUT, I said! Or I’m calling security!

— What security? — Alexei laughed.

— The local officer! And I’ll file a complaint for unlawful entry!

— Yura, calm your hysterical woman down! — Kostya snapped.

— Gal, take it easy… Guys, let’s call it a night, it’s late anyway…

The guests started getting their things together reluctantly, grumbling about the hostess’s “weird” behavior.

— Yura, this is the LAST warning, — Galina said when they were alone. — Either Kostya moves out TOMORROW, or both of you do.

— Galya, why so harsh? He’s a friend!

— A friend who’s turned my home into a DEN! Who’s rude to me in MY OWN apartment!

— Don’t exaggerate!

— I’m exaggerating? Fine, then tell me — who pays the utilities? Who buys the groceries your friends devour? Who cleans up their pigsty?

— We could chip in…

— We COULD? We’ve been married EIGHT years and you’ve NEVER even paid the internet bill!

— I… I have expenses…

— What expenses? Beer with the guys? Computer games? You work in sales, you make a decent salary, and you blow it all God knows where!

— It’s my money!

 

— Exactly! YOUR money! And the apartment is MINE! So choose — either Kostya leaves, or you BOTH do!

In the morning Galina woke up to the smell of burnt eggs and loud swearing from the kitchen. Kostya had tried to make breakfast and managed to ruin a frying pan.

— Yurets! Where’s your decent cookware? This junk is useless!

— That pan costs fifteen thousand rubles, — Galina said coldly, walking in. — Nonstick coating, which you just destroyed with a metal spatula.

— Big deal, a frying pan! You’ll buy a new one!

— NO. YOU’LL buy a new one. Right now.

— Why would I?

— Because YOU RUINED it!

— Yura, your wife’s gotten real uppity! — Kostya fumed.

Yura appeared in the doorway, sleepy and disheveled:

— What’s all the yelling this early?

— Your FRIEND destroyed a pan and refuses to pay for it!

— Gal, it’s just a pan…

— Fifteen thousand rubles is “just a pan”?

— HOW MUCH?! — Kostya jumped. — For a pan?

— For a GOOD pan. Which I bought with MY OWN money for MY kitchen!

— You’re a big spender, huh! — Kostya whistled. — Yurets, how do you put up with this?

— A man shouldn’t be dealing with women’s chores! — Kostya declared.

— Wonderful! Then GET OUT of my “women’s” domain! TODAY!

— Yura! — Kostya turned to his friend. — You hearing this?

— Gal, maybe let’s not fight…

— We’re ALREADY fighting! Konstantin, you have THREE hours to pack!

But Kostya had no intention of moving out. By lunchtime he’d brought Vitaly and Alexei “for support.”

— Galka, you have no right to kick a person out onto the street! — Vitaly proclaimed, lounging in an armchair.

— This is private property. I HAVE THE RIGHT to decide who is here.

— But Yura’s your husband! He also has the right to invite guests!

— Guests, yes. Not TENANTS!

— We talked it over, — Alexei cut in. — And we decided you’re acting irrationally. Maybe you should see a psychologist?

— WHAT? You DECIDED?

— Yeah, — Kostya nodded. — Yura’s our friend, we worry about him. A wife should support her husband, not throw tantrums!

— Where’s Yura?

— At work, — Vitaly replied. — But he knows about this conversation.

— So my HUSBAND sent his buddies to TEACH me how to live in MY house?

— Not teach — bring you to your senses! — Kostya corrected. — You’ve really let yourself go! No respect for your man, throwing out his guests!

— And you figured you’d hold a council? — Galina pulled out her phone. — Excellent! Then I’ll call some REAL professionals!

— Who? — Alexei asked warily.

— A security company. I’ve got an emergency response contract. You can hash out your “rights” with them!

— You’re bluffing! — Kostya smirked.

Galina dialed:

— Hello, Galina Voronova, contract 31847. I need a rapid response team immediately. You have the address. There are uninvited guests in my apartment refusing to leave… Yes, I’ll wait.

— You’re serious? — Vitaly turned pale.

— DEAD serious. You’ve got fifteen minutes.

The friends cleared out in ten, taking some of Kostya’s things with them. Kostya left last, promising to “talk to Yurka.”

By evening a wound-up Yura showed up:

— Galina, ARE YOU CRAZY? Calling security on my friends?

— On YOUR friends who decided they can tell me how to live in MY home!

— They meant well!

— For whose good? Theirs?

— Galya, this isn’t what we agreed on! When we got married, you knew I had friends!

— Friends are people who visit and then leave! Not those who live for weeks, mouth off, and hold “disciplinary talks”!

— Kostya just got carried away…

— Kostya is a freeloader and a boor! And if you can’t see that — that’s YOUR problem!

— He’s my best friend!

— Then GO LIVE with him!

— What’s that supposed to mean?

— It means choose! Either you’re a husband who respects his wife and her right to her own home, or you’re a “bro” who cares more about what his buddies think!

— You’re giving me ultimatums?

 

— I’m setting RULES in MY house! Don’t like it — the door is RIGHT THERE!

The next two days passed in tense silence. Yura ostentatiously refused to talk to his wife, slept on the couch, left early, and got home late.

On the third day Galina came back from work and found… Kostya, Vitaly, Alexei, and three unfamiliar men in the apartment. They were sitting at the table, playing cards, drinking beer, and smoking right in the room.

— What is going on here? — Galina’s voice trembled with restrained anger.

— Oh, the wife’s here! — Kostya didn’t even look up from his cards. — Yurets said we could hang here. He’ll be along soon.

— Yura has NO RIGHT to invite guests without my consent!

— Oh, come on! — one stranger waved her off. — Don’t bother the guys when they’re relaxing!

— This is MY home! EVERYONE OUT!

— Listen, lady, — another stranger stood up. — Yurka said it’s fine. So get out of here and don’t get in the way.

Galina took out her phone and started recording video:

— October twenty-third, eighteen forty. There are unauthorized persons in my apartment refusing to leave the premises. I’m documenting this for the police.

— What are you doing? — Vitaly was alarmed.

— Gathering evidence for a report of unlawful entry into a dwelling. Article 139 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation.

— Yura’s your husband! — Kostya protested.

— Yura is NOT the owner! The apartment is in MY name! Here are the documents! — Galina pulled a copy of the ownership certificate from her bag.

— But you’re married! — one of the strangers still didn’t get it.

— So what? The apartment was bought BEFORE the marriage! With MY money! From the sale of MY previous apartment and my grandmother’s inheritance! It’s MY personal property!

Just then Yura appeared with bags of snacks:

— Oh, everyone’s here! Now we—

— Yuri! — Galina said in an icy tone. — What is the meaning of this?

— Well… the guys dropped by… to hang out…

— After I CLEARLY said — no gatherings in my apartment?

— Galya, don’t start in front of people…

— In front of WHICH people? The ones I DON’T WANT to see here?

— You’ve really lost it! — Yura exploded. — This is MY home too!

— NO! — Galina pulled out her phone. — Hello, Irina? Hi, it’s Galina Voronova. I urgently need a consult on housing law… Yes, right now… The situation is critical.

— Who are you calling? — Yura tensed.

— A lawyer. I want to clarify the procedure for evicting an ex-husband from MY apartment.

— Ex-husband?!

— Did you think I’d put up with disrespect and rudeness forever? I sold EVERYTHING I had and bought this apartment! And what did YOU buy? What have you put into our home in eight years?

— I… I…

— You put in NOTHING! Not a kopeck! You rarely even paid for groceries! But your buddies feel like they own the place!

— Galka, maybe let’s talk calmly? — Kostya tried to step in.

— NO! Talking time is over! EVERYONE OUT! You have FIVE minutes!

The guests scurried out, sensing the joke was over. Only Yura and Kostya remained.

— Gal, let’s discuss—

— Nothing to discuss. Tomorrow I’m filing for DIVORCE. And for eviction.

— You can’t evict me! I’m registered here!

— Temporary registration. It expires in a month. I won’t renew it.

— Galka, think this through! — Kostya pleaded. — Yurets is a good guy…

— For YOU he is. For me he’s a DOORMAT who can’t stand up for his family! Who lets his friends HUMILIATE his wife!

— I didn’t allow—

— NO? Who kept quiet when your pals called me hysterical? Who didn’t defend me when Kostya said I should wait on the guests?

— They were joking…

— I’m NOT laughing! Pack your things. BOTH of you!

— Galina, reconsider! — Yura begged. — We’ve been together eight years!

— For eight years I’ve supported you and your crew! ENOUGH!

She went to the bedroom and started packing her husband’s things into bags.

— You’ll regret this! — Kostya shouted.

— The only thing I regret is not doing it sooner!

An hour later the apartment was empty. Yura left for Kostya’s, taking the bare essentials. Galina changed the locks — she had wisely prepared them in advance.

The next days were the calmest she’d had in years. No drunken hangouts, no rudeness, no uninvited guests.

On the third day Svetlana, a colleague, called:

— Galya, is it true you kicked Yura out?

— It’s true. And I don’t regret it.

— But… the family… eight years…

— Svetlana, what kind of “family” is it when a husband lets his friends be rude to his wife? Where the wife is free house staff?

— Maybe you overreacted?

— No. I finally sobered up.

A week later Yura tried to come back. He arrived with flowers and a contrite look.

— Galochka, forgive me! I was wrong!

— Too late, Yura. The divorce papers are already in court.

— But I understand my mistakes now! Kostya… he really crossed the line…

— Crossed the line? He behaved like he owned MY home!

— I won’t see him anymore!

 

— You’re lying. In a week everything will be back to the way it was.

— Galya, give me a chance!

— You HAD chances. Eight years of chances. LEAVE.

— I’ll fight for our marriage!

— Fight. Just not here.

Another week later Konstantin called:

— Galina, we need to talk.

— We have nothing to talk about.

— We do. Yurka’s completely fallen apart. He drinks every day, skips work.

— That’s his choice.

— You ruined his life!

— Me? Was I the one who made him choose between his wife and his bros?

— We just wanted to be friends, as families!

— Kostya, you have a STRANGE idea of friendship. Friends don’t insult, don’t sponge off others, and don’t meddle in someone else’s family.

— Yurka will lose his job because of you!

— Because of HIMSELF. Because of his irresponsibility. And because of YOU!

— You’re heartless!

— No. I just won’t let myself be used anymore. All the best.

A month later the divorce hearing took place. Yura tried to claim a share of the apartment, but Galina’s attorney submitted all the documents: the apartment was purchased before marriage with Galina’s personal funds, there was no prenuptial agreement, and there was no jointly acquired property.

— But I lived there for eight years! — Yura protested.

— Residence does not grant ownership rights, — the judge explained calmly. — The apartment remains the property of Galina Sergeyevna.

After court Yura tried to talk:

— Galya, you’re throwing me out on the street!

— No. You threw yourself out when you chose your buddies over your family.

— Where am I supposed to live?

— That’s no longer my problem. You have Kostya, Vitaly, Alexei. Let them help.

Konstantin turned out not to be such a hospitable host. A week later, with Yura still living on his couch, the friend started hinting:

— Yurets, you do realize my Larisa is coming back from her business trip soon? She, uh, doesn’t exactly know you’re staying here.

— Kostya, just a couple more days! I’ll chip in for groceries!

— It’s not about the money, bro. It’s just… awkward.

And when Larisa did come back and found a strange man on her couch, the conversation was short:

— Konstantin, either he leaves right now, or you do. With all your buddies. For good.

— Larisa, he’s my friend! He has nowhere to go!

— I don’t care. I’m not supporting strangers.

Yura packed in half an hour.

Alexei welcomed him more warmly:

— Of course, Yurka, make yourself at home! I’ve only got a studio, but we’ll manage!

Three days went fine. On the fourth, Yura brought Kostya and Vitaly over — just to hang, drink beer, reminisce.

— Guys, keep it down! — Alexei was nervous. — The neighbors are already banging on the wall!

— Relax! — Kostya waved him off. — You only live once!

In the morning the district officer called Alexei — the neighbors had filed a complaint for noise and disturbance.

— Yura, — he said wearily. — Sorry, but you’ll have to move out. I don’t need this trouble. I’ve got a mortgage, a job, and my wife is threatening to leave if I don’t put an end to these hangouts.

— Lyokha, where am I supposed to go?

— I don’t know, man. Just not here.

 

Vitaly was the last hope. He lived in a three-room apartment with his wife Olga; they had no kids.

— Fine, — Vitaly agreed reluctantly. — But only for a few days. And Olga mustn’t find out!

— What do you mean, mustn’t find out? — Yura was surprised.

— We’ll say you just dropped by. And you’ll stay over when she’s asleep.

The plan failed on day one. Olga came home early and found Yura in the kitchen.

— Vitaly! — her shout echoed through the apartment. — What is the meaning of this?

— Ol, he’s just here temporarily…

— TEMPORARILY? Like that story with Kostya at your friend Yura’s place? Who then didn’t move out for two months?

— This is different…

— Nothing is different! — Olga turned to Yura. — Pack your things. Immediately.

— But…

— No “buts”! OUT! And you — she glared at her husband — are never, do you hear me, NEVER to bring your bros here again! Or you’ll be the one looking for a place to live!

Yura rented corners from a distant relative and worked two jobs to pay for lodging. Every week he called Galina, begged forgiveness, promised to change.

— Galya, I get it now! Friends aren’t what matters! Family is what matters!

— Yura, STOP CALLING.

— But I love you!

— You loved convenience. Free housing, ready-made meals, zero responsibility.

— No! I really—

— Yura, the man I once loved disappeared many years ago. You became someone I don’t even recognize. Goodbye.

Konstantin started having serious problems. After watching the whole saga with Galina, Larisa took a hard look at her own marriage.

— Konstantin, and what exactly do you do besides hanging out at your friends’?

— Larisa, come on, not this again.

— Again? This has been going on for years! I work, pay for the apartment, cook, clean. And you?

— I work too!

— And where does your money go? Beer with the guys? Cigarettes?

— So you’ve decided to kick me out too? — Kostya asked darkly.

— No. I’ve decided to leave myself. Live however you want. Alone.

A month later Larisa filed for divorce and moved in with her mother. The apartment was hers — inherited from her grandmother. Konstantin found himself on the street.

Alexei, having learned a harsh lesson, became a different man. His wife Marina had long complained about his buddies, but he’d brushed it off. Now, seeing the sad fate of Yura and Kostya, he quieted down.

 

— Marish, I won’t invite them home anymore.

— Seriously? — his wife asked skeptically.

— Absolutely. If I want to see my friends, I’ll go to a café. Or to them. But home — that’s our place, yours and mine.

— Alyosha… — Marina hugged her husband. — Thank you.

Vitaly banned his friends from calling his home at all.

— Vitia, maybe we can go out sometime? — Kostya phoned once.

— No. I’m busy.

— Tomorrow?

— Also no.

— Yurka says you never show up anywhere!

— He’s right. I’ve got a wife. A home. A job. No time for your hangouts.

— What’s gotten into you?

— Nothing. For once everything’s fine. Olga’s happy, I’m calm. I’m not risking it.

And Galina lived her life. She renovated the apartment — she’d wanted to for a long time, but Yura always said “why waste the money.” She enrolled in Italian classes. She went to Italy — alone, and it was wonderful.

At work she got a promotion. She adopted a cat — a mischievous ginger named Fira. In the evenings she read, watched films, met up with friends.

Sometimes she thought of Yura, but without regret. Only with relief — the way you remember the lifting of a heavy burden.

She forgot her ex-husband quickly. She’d spent too many years on him to waste even another minute.

And life finally became truly her own. And it was happiness — simple, real, and well-earned.

Anna stood by the window of her apartment, watching the rain turn the October evening into a blurred watercolor. Thirty is an age when you no longer expect miracles, but still remember what they’re supposed to be like. She worked at a consulting firm, earned good money, rented a spacious apartment in a respectable neighborhood. Life was predictable and calm.

Her phone vibrated behind her. Mom’s number. Anna sighed, turned down the TV, and picked up.

 

“Anya, sweetheart,” her mother’s voice sounded anxious, “are you home?”

“I’m home, Mom. What happened?”

“Your father and I are coming over. We need to talk.”

Anna felt her stomach tighten. When her parents came “to talk,” it always meant new problems with Artyom. Her younger brother, twenty-five years old, seemed to collect trouble on purpose.

Half an hour later they were sitting at her kitchen table. Her father was silent, studying his hands; her mother was nervously twisting a purse strap.

“Do you know about Artyom?” her mother began.

“Know what exactly?” Anna knew better than to fill in the blanks for them.

“He… he got himself into a situation. Remember, we gave him the money from selling the dacha? He bought a motorcycle…”

“Mom, we’ve talked about this already. I warned you that the money should’ve stayed on a deposit, not handed to Artyom all at once.”

“Sweetheart, he promised!” Her mother’s voice took on almost childlike notes. “He was going to rent an apartment, marry Lena…”

“But instead, he started burning through money in bars, Lena left him, and he bought a motorcycle to ‘heal his broken heart,’” Anna finished. “Am I close?”

Her father finally raised his eyes.

“He drove into a car in a parking lot. An expensive car. A Porsche.”

 

“No insurance?”

“No,” her mother answered quietly. “You know he always thought nothing would ever happen to him.”

Anna poured herself some tea, trying not to show her irritation. Artyom always thought nothing would happen to him because their parents always bailed him out.

“How much?”

“Three hundred thousand,” her mother exhaled. “The owner agreed to a payment plan, but we need to give half right away, otherwise he’ll go through the bailiffs.”

Anna nodded. It all tracked. Now the most interesting part would begin.

“Anya, sweetheart,” her mother took her hand, “we’ve decided to sell your car.”

“My car?”

“Well, technically it’s registered to your father,” her mother added hastily. “We gave it to you when we sold the dacha. But Artyom has problems now, and you can walk for a while. You’re young and healthy.”

Anna gently freed her hand.

“I don’t agree.”

“Sweetheart, we’re family,” her mother raised her voice. “Artyom is your brother! He’s suffering, he can’t sleep, he’s wasted away!”

“Mom, has he tried working? Or at least going to the employment office?”

“Anya, what job can he find in a week?” her mother looked at her in bewilderment. “He can’t earn that much right away!”

“But I can lose my car in a week?”

Her father finally spoke. His voice was quiet but firm.

“Anya, we’ve already made up our minds. Your opinion doesn’t matter right now. The car is in my name; I can sell it at any moment. I don’t want to quarrel with you, but there’s no choice.”

Anna looked at her father. This was the man who taught her to ride a bike, read her bedtime stories, and was proud of her achievements at university. Now he was calmly saying that her opinion didn’t matter.

“Dad,” she said slowly, choosing her words, “and what about next time? When Artyom gets himself into trouble again?”

“There won’t be a next time,” her mother replied quickly. “He promised he’ll stop betting on sports, he won’t—”

“Mom, he’s promised that five times already.”

“Anya, how can you!” her mother began to cry. “He’s your brother! How can you be so cruel?”

Anna stood and went to the window. The rain was getting heavier. She thought of how six months ago Artyom had asked her for money “for the bare essentials,” and she’d given him twenty thousand. Later it turned out he’d spent it on new sneakers and a restaurant night out with friends.

“You know what,” she turned back to her parents, “I have news. I transferred the car to my name a month ago.”

Silence. Her mother stopped crying; her father looked up.

“How?”

“Very simply. I had a power of attorney from Dad when I was handling the sale of the dacha. I forged a gift agreement and re-registered the car to myself. I knew sooner or later you’d try to sell it for Artyom.”

“You… you forged documents?” her father stared at her in amazement.

“I did. And you know what? I don’t regret it. Because I’m tired of saving my brother from the consequences of his actions.”

Her mother clutched at her heart.

“Anya, how can you! We’re family!”

“That’s exactly why I’m doing this,” Anna sat back down at the table. “Mom, Dad, you’re not helping Artyom. You’re turning him into an invalid. He’s twenty-five and can’t solve a single problem on his own, because he knows his parents will always find a way out.”

“But he’ll be ruined!” her mother cried. “They’ll put him in jail!”

“They won’t jail him for debts. At most they’ll restrict him from leaving the country—and he doesn’t travel anyway. But he’ll finally understand that actions have consequences.”

Her father was silent, staring at the table. Anna could see him struggling with himself.

“Anya,” he said quietly at last, “I beg you. Sell the car. We’ll buy you a new one later.”

“When later? When Artyom gets into trouble again?”

“He won’t!”

“He will, Dad. Because he doesn’t know how to live any other way. And you don’t know how to refuse him.”

“Sweetheart,” her mother took her hands, “what are you doing? He’s your brother!”

“That’s exactly why I won’t give him the money. Mom, look at him. Twenty-five, living with his parents, not working, betting his last money on sports. He’s deteriorating, and you don’t see it.”

“He just… he just hasn’t found himself yet,” her mother said helplessly.

“At twenty-five it’s time to have found yourself—or at least to start looking.”

Her parents left, having achieved nothing. Anna stayed alone, sitting in the kitchen, drinking cold tea. The phone was silent—obviously, they were driving to Artyom to break the bad news.

An hour later her brother called.

“Anya, are you out of your mind?” his voice shook with anger. “Do you understand what you’re doing?”

“I do, Tyoma. For the first time in a long time, I do.”

“They could lock me up!”

“They can’t. People aren’t jailed for debts.”

“Anya, I’m begging you!” now he was crying. “That guy is serious! It’s money! Where am I supposed to get it?”

“Where everyone gets money. At work.”

“What work? Who needs me?”

“Tyoma, you can drive. You can talk to people. You’ve got hands and a head. You’ll find a job.”

“In a week?”

“Maybe. Or maybe you’ll negotiate a longer payment plan with the car’s owner. Adults usually meet you halfway if they see you’re trying.”

“Anya,” his voice went quiet, “why are you so cruel? This could have happened to anyone!”

“Not to anyone, Tyoma. Only to someone irresponsible—someone who not only never learned to drive properly but couldn’t be bothered to buy insurance.”

He hung up.

The following months were hard. Her parents hardly called. When Anna visited them, there was always a heavy atmosphere in the house. Her mother sighed demonstratively; her father kept silent. They didn’t talk about Artyom, but his absence was felt in every word.

From snatches of conversation Anna gathered that her brother really was looking for work. At first he tried to find something simple: courier, driver, loader. Then he got a job at an auto shop—washing cars and handing over tools. The pay was laughable, but it was a job.

Oddly enough, the owner of the damaged Lexus turned out to be understanding. When he learned that Artyom was really working, he agreed to a payment plan. Artyom moved into an apartment shared with two other guys. His parents helped with the deposit, but refused to give him any more money—Anna had insisted firmly on that.

“Mom, if you give him money, he’ll quit his job immediately,” she said during one of her rare visits. “Let him get used to relying only on himself.”

“But he’s eating nothing but buckwheat,” her mother complained. “He’s all skinny and pale.”

“Then he’ll find a better job. Or a side job.”

And indeed, a few months later Artyom found side work. In the evenings he dismantled old cars for parts, and spent weekends helping acquaintances with small repairs. Turned out he had a knack for mechanics—his hands grew from the right place, and he had enough brains to figure new things out.

Anna learned about this in fragments, from parents who were gradually thawing. Her mother still thought she was cruel, but her father would sometimes, with cautious pride, tell her that Artyom had fixed a neighbor’s car or helped a friend with some electrical work.

About a year after that kitchen conversation, Anna’s doorbell rang. She opened it and saw Artyom. He stood there with a bouquet of flowers, lean and sun-browned.

 

“Hi,” he said. “Can I come in?”

Anna silently stepped aside. Artyom went to the kitchen, set the flowers on the counter, and sat in the same chair where their father had sat a year before.

“Pretty flowers,” Anna said. “Chrysanthemums.”

“Thanks.” He paused, studying his hands. They were worker’s hands now—callused, scraped, with ingrained dirt under the nails. “I came to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not giving me the money.”

Anna sat down across from him.

“Well, tell me.”

“I opened my own shop. Small, in a garage, but it’s mine. I repair cars and sell parts. I’m earning okay. I paid off that guy long ago.”

“Congratulations.”

“You know,” Artyom lifted his eyes, “I hated you back then. I thought you were just greedy and mean. I couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t help your brother.”

“And now you understand?”

“Now I do. If you’d given me the money, I’d still be sitting at home waiting for our parents to solve my problems. But this way… this way I had to grow up.”

Anna nodded.

“Was it hard?”

“You can’t imagine how hard,” Artyom answered honestly. “For the first few months I thought every day about quitting. Working for pennies, living with strangers, scrimping on food… But then I got into it. And I realized I like working with my hands. I like fixing cars, figuring out how things work.”

“How are Mom and Dad—are they hovering?”

“Mom now tells everyone her son is an entrepreneur,” Artyom smirked. “And Dad drops by the garage sometimes and helps out. He says he’s proud of me.”

They sat in silence, looking at each other. Artyom looked older than his twenty-six years, but in a good way. There was a new steadiness in his movements, a calm in his eyes.

“Anya,” he said at last, “I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. I was a burden on everyone for so many years…”

“Tyoma,” Anna interrupted him, “you weren’t a burden. You were a spoiled child. That’s different.”

“Maybe. But I’m not a child anymore.”

“Not anymore.”

Artyom stood and walked to the window. The same rainy autumn—only a year later.

“You know what’s strangest?” he said without turning around. “I’ve become happier. I mean, I live better now, I have more money—yeah—and more responsibilities, but… but I’m happier. Do you understand?”

“I do. When you earn money yourself, you spend it differently. When you solve problems yourself, they don’t seem unsolvable.”

“Yeah. And also… I met a girl. Katya. She works at a bank, very serious, very grown-up. I like being with her. We’re planning to move in together.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” He turned to her. “Anya, can I come by sometimes? Just to talk. I’ve missed you.”

“Of course you can.”

They hugged—tight, real, like in childhood, before there were cars, debts, and resentments.

“By the way, I have a car now too,” Artyom said, stepping back. “I bought a wrecked Toyota. Repaired it myself—now it’s like new.”

“Good for you.”

“Thank you. For not letting me stay a child forever.”

After he left, Anna sat in the kitchen for a long time, studying the chrysanthemums. They were truly beautiful—yellow, lush, with a tart autumn fragrance.

She thought about how often love for those close to us makes us hurt them. How hard it is to refuse when someone asks for help. How important it is sometimes to say “no,” so that a person can say “yes” to themselves.

It was still raining outside, but now it seemed not dreary, but cleansing—washing away old grievances, fears, childish illusions. Making room for something new, adult, real.

Anna put the flowers in a vase and turned on the kettle. Tomorrow would be a new day, and today she was simply glad she had a brother. A real, grown-up brother who now knew how to solve problems—and bring flowers.

— I’ll burn it. Right here, in front of your eyes.

Alevtina Ignatyevna’s voice—my mother-in-law—was dry as old parchment. She stood in the middle of the living room Rodion and I had furnished together, holding a thick, unmarked envelope.

Her face showed nothing. The icy mask she’d worn since the day of the funeral.

“You can’t,” I said, though my voice trembled. I knew she could. And would.

“I can, Ksenia. I’m his mother. And you are the mistake he made. A mistake that will not receive a single kopeck of my son’s estate.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and walked to the kitchen. I followed, feeling the room narrow and the air grow thick and viscous.

Alevtina Ignatyevna took a deep steel mixing bowl from the shelf—the one I usually used for dough. She set the envelope on the bottom. A click of the lighter.

The tiny flame bit greedily into the corner of the paper.

“Here’s your inheritance!” she hissed, watching the fire devour the heavy cardstock. “Ashes. You’ll get exactly what you deserve.”

I watched the fire. The tongues of flame danced, reflected in her pupils. There was pure, unclouded triumph in them. She was sure of her victory. She was destroying her son’s last will to leave me penniless.

The smell of burning filled the air. My mother-in-law watched me, expecting tears, hysteria, begging. But I kept silent.

I remembered what Rodion had said a week before the end. His quiet, tired voice: “Mom will stage a show, Ksyusha. She’ll find a way to push you. My lawyer, Prokhor Zakharovich, prepared a special ‘document’ just for her. She’ll think it’s my last will.

Play along. Let her have her little fake victory.” I hadn’t fully understood his plan then, but now everything fell into place.

Alevtina Ignatyevna brushed the black ash into the sink and turned on the water.

“That’s it. Justice is restored,” she said, wiping her hands and looking down at me. “You can start packing. I’m giving you three days.”

She pivoted and marched out, each step pronounced. Certain she had just erased me from her son’s life for good. The door slammed behind her.

I was alone in the kitchen, heavy with the bitter smell of smoke. Slowly I walked to the bookcase. Among the books stood an old, battered, hardbound cookbook I’d inherited from my grandmother.

 

Alevtina Ignatyevna was drunk on her cruelty. She could never have imagined she had burned only the decoy, the fake her own lawyer had slipped to her.

And the real will—or rather, the key to it—every single word of it, was securely encoded in the recipes of that old book.

Rodion had thought of everything. He knew that a standard will would be challenged by his mother for years, draining me in court. So he chose another path.

The next morning, the phone rang. I knew who it was.

“Ksenia?” Alevtina Ignatyevna’s voice oozed false sympathy. “I thought you might need help. With moving.”

I was silent, giving her room to savor her move.

“I’ve called an appraiser. He’ll come today at two. We need to understand the value of the apartment,” she paused. “For the notary, of course.”

She pressed. Methodically, mercilessly. Not giving me even a day to catch my breath.

“All right,” I answered quietly.

“And another thing. My lawyer, Prokhor Zakharovich, would like to meet with you. He’s ready to offer you a certain sum… as a gesture of goodwill.”

A gesture of goodwill. She was offering hush money for my life with her son.

I opened the cookbook to page 112. The recipe for “Tsar’s Fish Soup.” Rodion had circled it in pencil.

“Ingredients: Sterlet—1 pc. (large, fatty). Pike perch—2 pcs. (smaller). Onions—3 bulbs. Parsley root—40 grams.”

This was our cipher. Rodion, a programmer to the core, had turned my grandmother’s recipes into a key. Page number, line number, word number. Everything led to a bank safe-deposit box, where the originals lay—to accounts, to passwords.

“Ksenia, are you listening?” my mother-in-law asked impatiently.

“I hear you. I’ll be waiting for the appraiser.”

At two o’clock the appraiser arrived. Behind him, uninvited, came Alevtina Ignatyevna. She behaved like the owner.

 

“Look here, the parquet—oak,” she pointed. “And the windows face the sun.”

She led him through the rooms where our memories still hung in the air and hawked them, cynically, piece by piece. I sat in the kitchen, leafing through the book.

“Prokhor Zakharovich will see you at ten tomorrow at his office,” she tossed at me as she walked past. “Don’t be late. He doesn’t like to wait.”

The next day I went to her lawyer’s firm. An expensive office in the city center. Prokhor Zakharovich himself—sleek, in a perfectly tailored suit, with a predatory smile.

“Ksenia Arkadyevna, please, have a seat. As you understand, there is no will. By law, the sole heir is the mother, Alevtina Ignatyevna.”

He slid a document toward me.

“However, my client is a generous person. She is prepared to pay you one hundred thousand rubles. In exchange you sign a waiver of any and all claims.”

One hundred thousand. For an apartment worth tens of millions. For Rodion’s business. For everything.

I looked at him, playing the part of the grief-stricken widow.

“I… I need to think,” I whispered.

“Think faster, girl. Generosity has an expiration date,” the lawyer smirked.

Sitting beside him, Alevtina Ignatyevna added,

“This is more than generous. Rodion would approve of my care for you.”

I went home. The plan was working. They believed in my weakness. I opened the book. The recipe for “Kurnik” pie. “Puff pastry—500 g. Flour—1 cup. Eggs—3 pcs. Boil hard.”

“Boil hard.” That was the command. An instruction to act. I sat down at Rodion’s laptop. They didn’t know I was already preparing the main course.

On the third day, Alevtina Ignatyevna didn’t come alone. Two broad-shouldered movers stood behind her.

“I hope you’ve already packed your little things?” she asked. “Because I don’t have time to wait. The furniture stays for now. And this junk,” she nodded at the stack of my books on the table, “can be thrown out.”

Her gaze stopped on the cookbook lying on top. She smirked and picked it up by two fingers.

“And that trash as well. Always with your recipes. Did you think the way to my son’s heart was through his stomach? How primitive you are, Ksyusha.”

She drew her arm back to toss the book into a big garbage bag.

And at that moment, the act ended. No more role of the quiet, grief-stricken widow.

“Do not touch. That. Book.”

 

My voice sounded in a way that made even the movers freeze. There were no tears in it, no pleading. Only steel.

Alevtina Ignatyevna was taken aback.

“You’re going to give me orders? In my house?”

“This is not your house. And it never was,” I walked over slowly and took the book from her slackening fingers. I looked straight into her eyes. “Enough. We’re done.”

I stepped to the table, took out my phone, and dialed Prokhor Zakharovich.

“Good afternoon, Prokhor Zakharovich. This is Ksenia Arkadyevna. I’ve considered your generous offer. And I’ve decided to decline.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Moreover, I have a counterproposal. I’d like to discuss with you the recipe for ‘Easter Kulich’ on page two hundred and four. In particular, the ingredient ‘Imported candied fruit, twelve pieces.’”

It seems to me that ingredient has a direct connection to Rodion’s offshore account in Cyprus. The very one you, of course, know nothing about. Isn’t that right?”

Heavy silence hung in the receiver. My mother-in-law stared at me, her eyes fraying at the edges. The mask began to crack.

“You have twenty-four hours to contact me and discuss the terms of the real will. Otherwise my attorney will contact the tax authorities. And not only ours. Good day.”

I ended the call. I looked at the frozen mother-in-law and the two movers.

“Leave. All of you.”

They backed out. The door clicked softly. I was alone. The appetizers were over. It was time to serve the main course.

Prokhor Zakharovich called within an hour. The voice that had oozed smugness yesterday was now taut as a wire. The meeting was set for the next morning at his office.

I arrived at exactly ten. I wore a strict pantsuit. In my hands—only that same cookbook.

They were already waiting in the conference room. Alevtina Ignatyevna sat hunched, her face gray. Prokhor Zakharovich, on the contrary, tried to exude confidence, but his darting eyes gave him away.

“Let’s skip the formalities. We don’t have much time.”

 

I set the book on the polished table. Opened it at random. The recipe for “Mixed Meat Solyanka.”

“‘Beef kidneys—200 g. Soak in three waters,’” I lifted my eyes to the lawyer. “Three transactions to the Zurich account. Two years ago. Tell me, Alevtina Ignatyevna, did your son hide that money from you? Or were you hiding it from the tax authorities along with your counsel?”

My mother-in-law stared at her lawyer in shock. He turned pale.

“This… this is a misunderstanding.”

“This is not a misunderstanding. This is a criminal case,” I flipped the page. “The recipe for ‘Rasstegai with Viziga.’ ‘Dried viziga—1 pound. Soak overnight to draw out all the salt.’ A very interesting ingredient. Especially in the context of purchasing commercial real estate through a straw buyer, isn’t it, Prokhor Zakharovich?”

The lawyer pressed back into his chair. He understood. This book was not just a will. It was Rodion’s complete financial diary. His insurance against betrayal.

Alevtina Ignatyevna slowly turned her head toward the lawyer.

“You… you knew? You knew everything and kept quiet?”

“Alevtina Ignatyevna, this isn’t what you think…” he babbled, instantly betraying his client.

“Enough!” she barked at him, and in that shout was everything: rage, humiliation, and the dawning realization of total ruin. She understood she had been used.

I gave them a moment to absorb it, then spoke calmly.

“Rodion’s terms were simple. All his personal property, including this apartment and the accounts you now know about, passes to me. His share of the business—also.”

I looked at my mother-in-law. She no longer seemed a monster. Just a broken, unhappy woman.

“For you, Alevtina Ignatyevna, he left a lifetime stipend. Enough that you’ll want for nothing. But on one condition.”

She lifted her eyes to me, full of tears.

“You will disappear from my life. Completely. Any attempt to contact me, any attempt to contest his will—and the stipend is revoked, and Mr. Lawyer here,” I nodded toward Prokhor Zakharovich, “goes to prison. For a very long time.”

I stood. The meeting was over.

“All the documents will be sent to you tomorrow by my new attorney.”

I left the office, leaving them to deal with each other. The sun was shining outside. I didn’t feel euphoria. Only a cold, clear calm. Justice doesn’t bring wild joy. It simply puts everything in its place.

That evening I was home. In my apartment. I poured myself a glass of wine and opened the cookbook. This time—without any cipher. My eyes fell on the recipe for “Sharlotka.”

I took out flour, eggs, and apples. And for the first time in a long while, I began to cook. Just for myself. It was my quiet. My home. My new life.

Half a year later.

Six months passed. The low, golden autumn sun flooded the spacious office of Rodion’s IT company with light. Now it was my office. I hadn’t sold the business, as many advised. I took the helm.

The first months felt like walking a tightrope over an abyss. But even here, Rodion had given me a safety net.

On his laptop, alongside the encrypted accounts, I found folders with detailed instructions, plans, and notes on every key employee. It was as if he were guiding me by the hand from beyond.

I learned to speak their language—the language of code, deadlines, and startups. I was no longer just “Ksyusha with her recipes.” I became Ksenia Arkadyevna, and that name now carried weight, without any irony.

 

Alevtina Ignatyevna received her money regularly. Once a month. Not a day late. She never called.

I heard from mutual acquaintances that she sold her downtown apartment and moved to a quiet country residence. Alone.

Her lawyer, Prokhor Zakharovich, was less fortunate. After our conversation, he ran into serious trouble.

Several of his old real-estate cases suddenly surfaced. He was disbarred.

He lost everything. Sometimes you don’t have to cook revenge yourself—just nudge the right ingredients, and the dish cooks itself.

Today I came home earlier than usual. The apartment greeted me with the smell of fresh baking.

It wasn’t sharlotka. Today I was baking a complex, multilayered cake from that same book. A recipe Rodion and I never had the chance to try together.

On the kitchen table, next to the cooling cake, lay the open book. Over six months I had filled its margins with my notes.

Not ciphers. Just thoughts, ideas, new recipes. The book had stopped being a weapon and become what it was meant to be again—a source of warmth and creation.

I cut myself a slice of cake. It turned out perfect. The taste was complex, bittersweet. Like life itself.

I no longer played roles. Neither victim nor avenger. I simply lived.