All Amazing Babies

Sofya adjusted the photograph on the wall—a simple wooden frame, inside which was the very first photo taken in her own apartment. Twelve years ago, right after the purchase, when there was not yet any furniture. Sofya was sitting on the window sill, happy, with the keys in her hand.

— “Are you adjusting it again?” Andrey looked up from his laptop. “Mom says it’s better to hang family photos. She has a great frame—a silver one…”

— “No, thank you. This photograph will stay here,” Sofya replied as she moved toward the window, gazing at the evening courtyard. Four years of working herself to the bone: working as an accountant by day, tutoring in the evenings. Every penny went into the savings. Her grandmother had helped with the final payment by selling her old garage.

— “Mom, why don’t you want to renovate?” came the voice of eight-year-old Katya from the children’s room. “Grandma Tamara says everything here is old.”

Sofya frowned. Lately, Tamara Nikolaevna had been visiting more frequently, each time finding new reasons to criticize.

— “Katya, go do your homework,” Sofya called as she peeked into the children’s room. “Our renovation is good, just in a different style.”

— “But Grandma said everything here needs to be redone. And anyway, since Dad lives here, he should be the owner.”

Andrey coughed loudly, hiding his eyes behind the laptop screen. Sofya froze in the doorway of the children’s room, clutching the door handle.

— “Katya, who is the owner of this apartment?”

— “You, Mommy!” Katya ran over, hugging Sofya around the waist. “But Grandma says…”

— “Grandma says a lot of things,” Sofya patted Katya’s head. “Now, why don’t you tell me how school is going?”

The evening passed quietly, but inside, Sofya was boiling. Her mother-in-law’s hints were becoming increasingly obvious. First came the advice on renovations, then conversations about how everything in the family should be shared. And now even Katya was being influenced.

The next morning, while getting her daughter ready for school, Sofya heard the doorbell. Standing on the doorstep was Tamara Nikolaevna carrying shopping bags.

— “I bought some pastries for tea,” the mother-in-law announced as she walked into the kitchen, clanging dishes in a very homely way. “And I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while.”

— “I have ten minutes, then I have to take Katya to school.”

— “That’s exactly what we’ll talk about,” Tamara Nikolaevna said, taking out cups and placing them on the table. “You work close to home now. Maybe it would be better to sell this apartment? We could buy you a place closer to us, with your father. We’d help out with Katya.”

— “Thank you, but no,” Sofya began gathering her daughter’s school bag, deliberately avoiding looking at her mother-in-law.

— “I’m thinking about family!” Tamara Nikolaevna’s voice took on a steely tone. “You live too far away, Andryusha has to travel across the city. And here we are, nearby, ready to help both with the renovations and with Katya. Sell the apartment—we’ll buy you a three-room apartment near us. Of course, you’d have to pay extra…”

— “Tamara Nikolaevna, that topic is closed.”

— “Why are you so stubborn?” her mother-in-law exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “I don’t sleep at night thinking about how to help you. Look at Ludmila, my neighbor, who transferred her apartment to her children. Now they all live together, helping one another.”

— “We’re managing just fine.”

— “And I’m thinking,” Tamara Nikolaevna lowered her voice, “you bought the apartment before you got married, didn’t you? That means Andryusha has nothing to do with it. That’s not right. You’re a family. Why not give him at least a share?”

Sofya slowly turned toward her mother-in-law. Her temples throbbed.

— “I’m taking Katya to school. Close the door when you leave.”

— “There you go!” Tamara Nikolaevna sprang up. “You’re running away from the conversation again! And I’m worried about your future. You never know what might happen… Andryusha lives here, yet he has no rights at all.”

— “What rights?” Sofya spun around sharply. “On my apartment? The one I bought myself?”

— “Don’t shout!” Tamara Nikolaevna said in a soothing tone. “I’m talking to you kindly. But you must understand: you’ve been a family for a long time now…”

— “Mom, I’m late for school!” Katya dashed into the corridor with her school bag.

— “We’re leaving, sweetheart,” Sofya said, taking the keys. “Tamara Nikolaevna, close the door.”

— “So, that’s it?” her mother-in-law blocked the exit. “You won’t even listen? I could speak to you differently, you know. Andrey is my son, and I won’t allow…”

— “Won’t allow what?” Sofya stepped closer to her mother-in-law. “Are you threatening?”

— “I only care about you!” Tamara Nikolaevna’s voice trembled. “You’re young and foolish. You don’t understand that family is…”

— “Katya, wait in the car,” Sofya handed the keys to her daughter. “I’ll be down in a moment.”

After Katya’s door closed, Sofya slowly approached her mother-in-law.

— “Tamara Nikolaevna, I’m only saying this once. This apartment is mine. I bought it before marriage. This is where my family lives, and I’m grateful for your concern, but you have no rights over this home.”

— “Oh, darling,” her mother-in-law cooed, theatrically placing her hand over her heart. “How ungrateful you are. I only want what’s best. But you’ll regret this…”

— “Regret what?”

— “You’ll see,” Tamara Nikolaevna said, adjusting her purse. “I’ll find a way to show you what family really means. And Andrey will find out too.”

Tamara Nikolaevna left with a loud slam of the door. Sofya stood still for several seconds, then grabbed her phone. She needed to call the MFC immediately to check whether someone had tried to obtain an extract for her apartment.

At the MFC they confirmed—the documents were in order, and no one had requested any information. Sofya exhaled and drove off to the school. Katya was late for her first lesson, but that now worried her the least.

In the evening, after returning from work, Sofya found Tamara Nikolaevna in the apartment. The mother-in-law, sleeves rolled up, was rummaging through the closet.

— “What are you doing?” Sofya froze in the bedroom doorway.

— “I’m putting things in order,” Tamara Nikolaevna replied without even turning around. “Everything here is a mess. We’ll clear these shelves—you know, we have to make space for Andrey’s things.”

— “I did not allow you to touch my belongings.”

— “I’m Andrey’s mother! What do you mean, you didn’t allow?” the mother-in-law snapped, arms akimbo. “Do I now need to ask permission just to help my son get organized?”

— “Yes, you do. This is my apartment.”

— “Here we go again!” Tamara Nikolaevna flared her hands. “Mine, mine… But what about family? Andrey, tell her!”

Only then did Sofya notice her husband sitting in an armchair by the window. Andrey shifted uncomfortably.

— “Mom, let’s not start…”

— “No, I will!” Tamara Nikolaevna declared as she marched decisively into the kitchen. “Come here, both of you—we need to talk.”

On the kitchen table lay some papers. The mother-in-law fanned them out.

— “Look here. I’ve figured out how the apartment could be remodeled. Andrey, remember you said you needed an office? We’ll put up a partition here, and it will be a great workspace. And this room could be rented out—some extra income wouldn’t hurt.”

— “Which room do you mean to rent out?” Sofya asked, slowly sinking onto a chair. “What are you talking about?”

— “What am I talking about? I’m thinking of your future! Look, Artyomka is sitting here without a job. He needs a room so he can get back on his feet…”

— “Artyom?” Sofya turned to her husband. “Is your brother going to live in my apartment?”

— “I’m not…” Andrey began, but his mother interrupted:

— “Yes, Artyomka will live with you. He’s a young specialist, he needs a start. He can’t keep bouncing around rented rooms!”

 

— “You have a three-room apartment,” Sofya noted. “Why can’t Artyom live there?”

— “What, you’re not willing to help your husband’s brother?” Tamara Nikolaevna squinted. “I’ve always said you’re so selfish! You only think of yourself.”

At that moment, a sleepy figure—Artyom—appeared in the doorway. Tamara Nikolaevna’s younger son, a twenty-five-year-old slacker, had come with two huge suitcases.

— “Hello, everyone,” Artyom greeted as he walked into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator in a very homely manner. “Is there something to eat?”

— “Artyom, what are you doing here?” Sofya stood up.

— “What do you mean? I’m going to live here,” Artyom said as he pulled out a sausage and began slicing it right on the table. “Mom said you wouldn’t mind.”

— “I mind.”

— “Too late to mind!” Tamara Nikolaevna snapped. “Artyom’s already brought his things. You can’t just kick your own brother out!”

— “I will kick him out,” Sofya said, grabbing the suitcases. “Right now.”

— “Andrey!” Tamara Nikolaevna shrieked. “Tell your wife! She’s completely lost it!”

— “Sonya, maybe…” Andrey started, but his words were cut short by his wife’s piercing look.

— “Out. Everyone out of my apartment,” Sofya said quietly.

— “Yours?” Tamara Nikolaevna jumped toward her daughter-in-law. “Oh, you ungrateful woman! My son lives here, so it’s his apartment too! Andrey, don’t be a pushover, say it!”

— “Let Artyom stay for a bit,” Andrey mumbled. “It’s only temporary…”

— “You can leave too,” Sofya declared, throwing open the front door. “If you’re so sure about your rights to my apartment.”

— “Don’t you dare!” Tamara Nikolaevna grabbed Sofya’s hand. “You can’t kick out my son! He’s registered here!”

— “Let go,” Sofya shook off her mother-in-law’s grip. “Andrey can stay, if he understands where his home is. And you and Artyom, get out right now.”

— “Mom, let’s go,” Artyom tugged his mother toward the door. “I’ll stay with Dimon for now.”

— “You’re not going anywhere!” Tamara Nikolaevna insisted. “Andrey, will you really allow her to treat us this way? She’s kicking out your family!”

Andrey’s confused gaze shifted from his mother to his wife.

— “Sonya, maybe we should let Artyom stay? It wouldn’t be too difficult, would it? He could quietly live in that small room…”

— “There!” Tamara Nikolaevna triumphantly exclaimed. “Even Andrey understands that a family should help one another! And you…”

— “That’s it,” Sofya crossed her arms. “Artyom, you have five minutes to collect your things. Tamara Nikolaevna, you leave with him. And you, Andrey, decide—either you live here as a husband, or over there as a son. There’s no third option.”

— “Are you giving him an ultimatum?” her mother-in-law gasped in outrage. “Forcing him to choose between his mother and his wife?”

 

— “No, Tamara Nikolaevna. I’m simply showing where the boundaries lie. This apartment is my home. I earned it, I’m responsible for it. And I won’t let anyone dictate terms to me.”

— “Sonya is right,” Andrey suddenly said quietly. “Mom, that’s enough. Artyom, pack your things.”

— “Traitor!” Tamara Nikolaevna flailed her arms. “I raised you—I lost sleep over you—and you…”

 

— “Exactly, Mom. You raised me. Now I’m an adult; I have my own family. And it’s me and Sonya who make the decisions here.”

Tamara Nikolaevna stared at her son silently for a moment, then abruptly turned and stormed out of the apartment. Artyom, hoisting his suitcases, followed after her.

In the evening, after putting Katya to bed, Sofya sat at the kitchen table, staring at a cup of tea that had grown cold. Andrey settled beside her.

“You know, I only just realized what my mother is doing,” Andrey said, pulling his chair closer. “She wasn’t just trying to find a room for Artyom. She was testing whether she could control you.”

“I’ve known that for a long time,” Sofya replied with a wry smile. “First the advice on renovations, then talk about shared property. And now she’s decided to settle your brother in.”

“Forgive me. I was caught between a rock and a hard place—I was afraid to hurt Mom and didn’t want to lose you.”

Then the doorbell rang. Standing on the doorstep was Tamara Nikolaevna, crying, carrying a bag of containers.

“I’ve made some salads… Maybe we can make up?” the mother-in-law said as she stepped into the entryway. “I thought maybe you were right. I shouldn’t have pushed so hard. Artyomka moved in with us; Dad freed up a room…”

— “Tamara Nikolaevna,” Sofya interjected, blocking her way, “I’m glad you found a solution. But let’s agree: no more talk about my apartment.”

— “What are you blabbering about—yours, yours!” Tamara Nikolaevna’s tone turned icy. “You’re such a proprietor! I came in peace, and you…”

— “Mom,” Andrey said, standing beside his wife, “either you accept our terms, or we’ll only speak during the holidays.”

— “So that’s how it is?” Tamara Nikolaevna set her bag on a side table. “Alright, I understand. If you don’t want to see me, then don’t. But don’t complain later that I don’t get along with my granddaughter!”

— “That’s blackmail, Mom,” Andrey shook his head. “It won’t work.”

— “We’ll see!” Tamara Nikolaevna retorted as she dashed out to the staircase. “You’ll regret choosing this… selfish woman!”

When the door slammed, Sofya leaned against the wall.

“Things are always like this with my mother,” Andrey said, embracing his wife. “First she oppresses, then she gets offended, and then she resorts to blackmail. I’ve only just realized how she’s been manipulating me all my life.”

A week passed. Tamara Nikolaevna neither called nor visited. Sofya went about her business, trying not to dwell on the situation. On Friday evening, Andrey returned from work unusually pensive.

 

“Imagine,” he said as he slipped off his shoes, “Mom eventually found a room for Artyom. In her own place. Turns out, that was another way to solve the issue.”

“She did say so… Of course, it’s possible,” Sofya smiled. “It just needed the willingness.”

“And she also asked me to pass on that she won’t interfere in our affairs anymore,” Andrey pulled his wife close. “It seems she finally realized that her usual tactics don’t work on me.”

“Do you really think she’s understood?”

 

“I’m sure. You know, when I saw how calmly and firmly you set your boundaries, I realized a lot. Mom isn’t bad; she’s just used to commanding everyone. And I always bowed, just to avoid conflict.”

At that moment, the phone rang. It was Tamara Nikolaevna.

“Don’t pick up,” Andrey said. “Let her get used to the new rules.”

Sofya nodded. The phone rang and rang, but the couple didn’t answer. The evening belonged only to them—without advice, reproaches, or manipulations. It seemed they had finally learned to be a family where everyone respects each other’s boundaries.

Elena Andreevna was staring intently at the features of her son’s face. “What’s happening to you, Maximka? You have helped so many regain their health, yet you do not strive to get well yourself?” she mused. Maxim lay motionless, his eyelids tightly closed. His face remained completely serene, not a single muscle betraying any emotion.

A private room had been prepared for Maxim Petrovich. And the reason was not due to some special status, although… In a certain light, he indeed represented value to the medical institution. For nearly two decades, this man had devoted himself as a surgeon at this very hospital. Moreover, he was not an ordinary specialist, but a highly qualified doctor, renowned even beyond the confines of their town.

From an early age, Maxim had been distinguished by his kind and even-tempered nature. All the neighbors marveled at how diligently he tried to help his parents.

 

Their family had moved to this city when the child was ten years old. Often, local women would ask Elena Andreevna, “Lenochka, tell us, how did you manage to raise such a wonderful son? Our little brats not only ignore help but constantly end up spoiling things.” Elena would smile shyly, “There’s no special approach. We did nothing extraordinary. Maxim is simply naturally this way.” The neighbors, however, felt a tinge of resentment.

Everyone wished that their own children might resemble Maxim even a little, though they realized it was too late to start proper upbringing. Elena, however, was hiding something. In truth, there was one significant factor behind their excellent relationship with their son. It wasn’t even simply a matter of having acquired an heir at a relatively mature age…

Maxim was an adopted child. At first, they had merely become acquainted with a boy from the orphanage, developed a friendship, and then realized they could not imagine life without him. When they came to take him, the child initially hesitated. But then he burst into tears and declared that they would never regret their choice. And indeed, he lived up to his word—with awards, incentives, and words of gratitude.

Maxim grew up as an exemplary child, and later as an exemplary young man. After receiving his diploma during a celebratory meal, Petr Sergeevich inquired, “Well then, my boy, what are your plans for the future?” Maxim set aside his cutlery, looked at his parents, and said, “I was just about to consult with you. You see, I have always been curious about how healers and various herb doctors manage to cure people.”

“In other words, I do not fully trust all this nonsense, of course, yet I have no grounds for that distrust. There is a village far away that needs a specialist for its local clinic. And somewhere nearby lives some herbalist who supposedly can heal everyone with a single gesture. I am convinced it’s all mere gossip, but… anyway, I want to go there and work.”

“After all, besides being a surgeon, I am also simply a doctor. It is an opportunity to gain more experience. There, a medical worker plays the roles of surgeon, therapist, gynecologist, and ENT specialist—all at once. But only if you don’t mind.” Maxim fell silent and looked at his parents. Elena sighed. She had always cleared the way for her son, yet she was completely unprepared for a prolonged separation.

Petr Sergeevich also became pensive and then said, “You know what, son? Go ahead. You are right that a doctor must be versatile. This way, you will test yourself. In such hospitals, there isn’t even proper bandaging material, let alone something more essential. Just be prepared for serious challenges.”
“I am ready, father. I even crave these hardships. I want to overcome everything.”

Elena began to tear up, “For a long time?”
“Mom, I plan for three years, perhaps even longer. And then we’ll see. But I’ll come back during every break.”
He did return. The first time he came back, he was cheerful, tanned, carrying many gifts and stories. But the second time, he returned a completely different person—sad and depressed. When Elena saw him at the doorway, she nearly fainted.

“Maximka, my God, you are ill!”
He smiled, “No, Mommy, I’m fine.”
Elena Andreevna could tell that something strange was happening with her son. And Petr Sergeevich had noticed as well, though he then told her, “Don’t interfere, my dear—it seems to be love troubles.” After Maxim left on his trip, Petr Sergeevich himself fell ill. He caught a cold on his ill-fated fishing trip. At first, he hid it all from her.

But then, when he could no longer get up, Elena called for emergency help. She phoned Maxim. He managed to reach his father and even uttered a few words. And that was it. He left the room darker than a storm cloud. Elena understood everything. Her vision darkened—and if not for Maxim, she would have collapsed. Maxim immediately returned, “We will exist together. We will support each other.”

Such was the course of their lives. Maxim spent all his time within the hospital walls. Day and night, he performed surgical interventions. He took on clinical cases so complex that the chief physician could only grasp his head and, as he put it, had even mastered the art of prayer. Elena was deeply troubled, for her son had returned a completely different person. An attractive young man. A prestigious profession—in any case, the healer, especially one as competent as he, was always respected, yet there was no familial well-being. Perhaps he had some romantic liaisons, but nothing serious. No matter how many times Elena Andreevna raised the topic—it was beyond counting. The answer always remained the same: “Mom, aren’t we fine just the two of us?”

“Maximka, I am not talking about that. You’re well over thirty now, and you have neither a spouse nor children.”

“But one can choose to remain single. Mom, why must a person necessarily have a life partner and a child?”
“What do you mean by ‘why’?”
Elena was at a loss. “It’s only proper. That’s the way it’s meant to be.”
Maxim smirked, “Then we shall defy established notions.”
“I don’t understand. Why enter into marriage merely for that?”
Elena could only sigh. “Try convincing modern youth—everyone has their own opinions on everything.”

And that he was nearly forty did not seem to matter at all. Maximka… Elena managed to rise with difficulty. Tomorrow morning she would come again, and once more spend the entire day by her son’s side.

“Elena Andreevna, may I have a word?”
She looked at the chief physician. Elena Andreevna had known all the hospital staff for a long time, and they knew her well too. Good, compassionate people worked here.

“Speak, Mikhail; you haven’t come here without reason.”
“No, Elena Andreevna, not without reason.”
He looked her straight in the eyes. “You know perfectly well that if I were not Maxim’s mother, I would have remained silent. Go back to him, say your goodbyes. His indicators are deteriorating rapidly. We are powerless to do anything; the damage is too extensive, but… we will fight until the end. Although we have already done everything possible. Now only a miracle can help.”
Elena was the mother of a medic. She understood that her son’s chances of recovery were virtually nil.
“Thank you, Mikhail. I will return.”
“Only briefly. We have a consultation in half an hour.”
Elena sat down on a chair beside her son.

She could hear a cleaning woman pushing a mop somewhere nearby. There were conversations—just background noise. Now, for her, only Maxim existed. She tried to imprint every detail of his face in her memory. “Maximka, if you leave this world, then I will have no purpose here,” Elena quietly wept.

Maxim had always said that one must be resilient, and that crying should only occur when everything is over. However, what exactly “everything” meant, he never explained. Elena got up and headed for the exit. Her heart felt as if it were being torn apart with every step. “Please, wait! Please, wait!”
An object materialized before Elena. For a long time, she could not focus her gaze—tears blurring her vision—until she discerned a young figure dressed as a cleaning lady.
“To you… to you, Elena Andreevna,” the girl said as she lifted her chin with determination. “Elena Andreevna, please listen to me. I know this may sound insane, but allow me to help Maxim Petrovich.”

Elena’s eyes widened. “Girl, if this is a joke, it’s an extremely poor one. The best specialists at this hospital are powerless to help him, and you—a cleaning lady—are going to save him?”
“Exactly so. I will explain everything later. Do you understand? I have come from the locality where Maxim Petrovich once served. The fact is, there he had a serious quarrel with a woman whom the locals call a healer or something similar. They fought very seriously—because he refused to accept that what she saw was something that medics must study for a long time. And he left, because they… they could not see eye to eye. I am the daughter of that woman. I came here because of him.”

“I can provide assistance.”
“Because of him?”
“Yes. Elena Andreevna, I beg you. I will manage—I know what to do.”
Elena hesitated only a moment. If even the slightest, the faintest chance existed that Maxim might get better, that he might survive, she would seize it. And she asked abruptly, “What must be done?”
“Everyone must be kept out of the room until morning. Absolutely no one.”
“Me?”
“You may stay with me. Only blood relatives are allowed in the room.”
“Alright, let’s go.”
Mikhail was, to say the least, astonished. “Don’t you understand? Maxim might require an injection, oxygen support. What then?”
“Then I will turn to you.”

“Elena Andreevna, I understand you, but…”
“If you understand, then permit it. You are a doctor; you know perfectly well that my son cannot pull himself out of this situation.”
Mikhail lowered his gaze. “Alright. I will give the necessary orders.”
The girl’s name was Marina. A strange name for someone engaged in nearly magical practices. Or not nearly—perhaps it is exactly so.

Elena watched intently as Marina arranged light fixtures, containers of various herbs, as the girl sequentially set these herbs alight and continuously murmured something under her breath. Elena’s last thought was that she had trusted this stranger without considering that she might harbor ill intentions. Elena fell asleep, apparently lulled by the aroma of the herbs Marina had set aflame.

 

She awoke to the sensation of someone gripping her fingers tightly. Opening her eyes in astonishment, she saw that it was Maxim’s hand. She had always held his hand, but now that hand was no longer lifeless—it was squeezing her fingers.
“Maximka, he’s sleeping.”
Elena looked up. On the other side of the bed, Marina sat. The girl looked haggard—as if she hadn’t closed her eyes for several nights in a row. “He’s getting better.” Marina allowed herself a smile. “Yes, he is better; just let him rest a while longer. Do not call the medical staff yet.”

“Girl, who are you? Why did you say you came here because of Maxim?”
Marina sighed, “I will have to explain anyway. You see, Maxim Petrovich went to work there precisely because he learned about a healer. He had never met her, didn’t know how old she was, and when he arrived… in short, he met my mother in a shared taxi. A spark ignited between them. Maxim immediately confided all his thoughts to her, and she… she kept quiet about the fact that she is, in fact, the healer he recalled. Your son worked incredibly hard. He didn’t even always have time for my mother…
That is why for so long he never suspected that the herbalist he sometimes remembered was also his beloved—the very same person. My mother gave up everything for him. Once, when they were attending a village festival, an accident occurred—a boy got into trouble. Maxim rushed to help, called for emergency assistance, but whispered that it wouldn’t be quick enough. The boy’s parents, hearing this, fell at his mother’s feet. She could not refuse; she helped the child—but Maxim did not forgive her, either for the deceit or, as he saw it, the public shame. And soon he left those places. And then I was born. My mother only very recently told me the whole story, and I decided to find him. I thought there had been some mix-up, that everything might be corrected. Of course, much time has passed, but my mother still loves your son. That’s the story. And I came here, got a job as a cleaning lady at this hospital, and the very next day Maxim Petrovich was brought in after a car accident. I really wanted to ask forgiveness on behalf of my mother. She is proud; she will never be the first to offer explanations. Stubborn—and I am even more stubborn.”

Elena Andreevna shuddered, while Marina smiled, “Welcome back, Maxim Petrovich—I’ll call the doctors.”
Marina dashed out of the room, and Elena quietly wept, burying her face in her son’s hand. “Why are you crying? See, not everything has ended here. It turns out that not all is as clear-cut as it seems.”
Mikhail, along with all the medical staff, were in shock. It even appeared that the chief physician had lost his words. “I don’t understand… How…”
Marina placed a finger to her lips, and Elena Andreevna simply shrugged, “We were just praying.”
“Elena Andreevna, don’t tell me fairy tales—I’m a medic, not an imbecile.”
Three days later, Elena Andreevna was spoon-feeding her son. Maxim smiled and ate with an appetite.

He had already spoken with Marina, and Maxim even cried when he uttered the word “daughter.” They didn’t know what the future held. For now, the priority was Maxim’s recovery. The door to the room swung open, and a woman entered. She paused and looked at them, perplexed.
“Mom!”
Marina rushed toward her, and Maxim froze. Elena also stood up.

The guest smiled awkwardly, “Hello. I thought that perhaps you—or maybe your daughter—might need some help? Won’t you kick me out?”
Maxim looked at his mother, then at Marina, and replied, “We’re not letting you go. Don’t even hope for it.”

One day, the skinny, dirty cat disappeared. The millionaire grandmother, not finding her beloved pet, threw a fit. She screamed and flung plates onto the floor. All the waiters, chefs, and the landlady tried to calm her down and explained that her darling would appear any moment.

— «I’ve lost everything I could in this cursed world!» — the old lady cried. — «And now you are depriving me of my last joy? Do you think I don’t pay enough?» And then she, having pulled out a wad of money…

 

She had been saving money for the last ten years. After retiring, she planned to open a little shop in her small house with a modest palisade in the backyard. The house was located almost out of town, and all her relatives shook their heads in disbelief. Who would go there? But she was a stubborn lady and firmly believed in her plan.

No, not a grocery store. That was beyond her means. It was to be a shop selling pipes and related smoking accessories.

Behind the house she set up a few tables under the trees in the shade and bought a coffee machine. She even dug a large pit herself and filled it with golden carp. The carp, like a magnet, attracted cats and various birds.

When retirement eventually came, she received permission to run her shop and began putting up flyers around town. Everyone laughed. Really, who would travel out of town?

And so it went. The shop stood empty, filling her with dread, the awareness of her hopes shattering, and utter despair. But one day…

A rich man, who happened to be in the area by chance, saw the sign. He stopped and decided to check out what kind of pipes were being sold in this backwater. And he was an avid smoker. Entering the small shop, he gazed at the display cases.

The landlady, trying to steady the trembling in her hands and heart, greeted him warmly and offered him a cup of coffee in the backyard, where he could try out the pipes. It was something new. The man looked at her with interest and returned to the display cases. They piqued his curiosity.

 

The landlady clearly had refined taste. She had put on sale very expensive, handcrafted, one-of-a-kind pipes. After choosing a couple and buying some tobacco, the man happily went to the backyard to sit, relax, and smoke the pipe he had chosen.

The landlady fluttered around him like a little seagull. The man watched the carp splashing in the water and amused himself with the sight of cats trying to catch the huge fish. He had a marvelous time—so much so that he later recounted the experience at his expensive weekend club. No one believed him. Really, what could one possibly see out of town in a little house?

But the following weekend, some members of the elite club, without any prior coordination, went to that shop. And the landlady’s troubles multiplied. She had to order a taxi to bring in some snacks and drinks from a restaurant for the luxury-accustomed club members. But they liked it.

Silence. The singing of birds. The rustle of leaves and the splashing of carp in the water. And the funny cats, begging for treats. Initially, the landlady wanted to shoo away the fuzzy beggars, but…

One of the club members told her that she had no right to do that, as they were part of their leisure. And so the woman began to feed the cats and even dogs, as well as crows and pesky rooks. She planted bushes and a few trees along the fence. Soon, the house and its backyard palisade with tables turned into something resembling a thicket.

And the assortment of pipes grew—remarkably fast. She was ordering expensive, elite items. One might even say it was like ordering from a catalog. They cost a fortune, but holding them was sheer delight.

Before long, the exclusive club of millionaires—a club that outsiders could not join—slowly migrated to the little house out of town, with its wild thicket in the backyard.

A modest extension had long been built where chefs prepared delicious treats, and waiters, dressed immaculately, served the orders.

The waiters did not speak; they always listened in silence. That was yet another unique feature invented by the landlady. The millionaires liked it. They were listened to silently and with respect.

One very difficult and fussy old multi-millionaire became a regular at this establishment. All the club members feared her. Once a ruthless business owner, she had ruined more than one person. But now, all she desired was rest, attention, and quiet.

And in this place, she received all of that in abundance. On weekends, the shop was closed and operated exclusively for elite customers, who spent their time in the backyard conversing, smoking pipes, and eating…

The old lady befriended a skinny, tattered, dirty cat. The cat would climb onto the table and, sitting next to the millionaire, listened intently to her stories. In the morning, after taking her usual seat at the table and settling into her comfortable leather chair, the grandmother would call her beloved companion, and a long conversation about days gone by would ensue. But one day…

One day, the tattered, skinny, dirty cat vanished. The millionaire grandmother, not finding her beloved pet, threw a tantrum. She screamed and flung plates onto the floor. All the waiters, chefs, and the landlady tried to calm her down and explained that her beloved companion would soon reappear.

— «I’ve lost everything I could in this cursed world!» — the old lady screamed. — «And now you are depriving me of my last joy? Do you think I don’t pay enough?» And she, having pulled out a wad of money, threw it on the table. Then she collapsed into her chair, covering her face with her hands, and began to weep.

The landlady called five taxis and, seating almost all the waiters and cleaning ladies in them, she got into one herself. They went to search for the miserable, skinny cat. Through every shelter and trapping station, they drove all around the city.

And they found her at last! They found the cat in the very last, most dilapidated shelter, to which it had been brought the previous evening.

Taking out a wad of banknotes, the landlady forcefully shoved them into the hand of one of the workers and asked her to immediately fetch the unfortunate animal.

Mumbling something about the necessity to complete paperwork and receiving more money, the woman opened the cage and passed the dirty kitty from hand to hand, wondering what was so special about it.

 

The presentation of the cat into the hands of the millionaire grandmother was carried out with full pomp. Waiters, chefs, cleaning ladies, and the landlady walked along the path accompanied by music. All the seated patrons stood up and greeted them with applause.

The old lady jumped up and, dropping her pipe and purse of money, clutched her fluffy, skinny, and dirty treasure. Without a word, she rushed off with the cat in her arms to her car. And a week later…

A week later, the old lady reappeared accompanied by a gorgeous, delicately white beauty on a leash with a bow around her neck. Taking her rightful place, she said:

— «Mathilda, take your place.» And Mathilda, who until recently had been merely a tattered, dirty, skinny cat, sat on the table and purred. The grandmother, just in case, tied the leash to the chair and began to smoke her new pipe.

The other club members, observing this, started to bring in their own familiar cats and dogs, because…

Goodness knows, honestly. You might be a millionaire and a member of an elite club. But if you get used to that little furry rascal, and then one day you come and find it missing – that just won’t do. Because millionaires, they are not accustomed to such things.

Thus, the cats, dogs, and even a few crows were taken away and distributed to various homes. And the landlady had to urgently go to the trash bins to bring in new ones. But that wasn’t a problem, after all.

The cats stared in amazement at everything around them, hardly believing their eyes. Especially when they were fed such food that even some people wouldn’t dare try.

The place became very well-known.

However, it is absolutely impossible to get there on weekends. Everything is booked years in advance. Millionaires and the members of the elite club do not welcome outsiders. But at all other times…

Come, whoever you are. That is, of course, if you have enough money for expensive pipes and the appropriate cuisine. And maybe…

Maybe, if you impress the landlady, you might even be taken to the backyard and seated next to the little carp pond as an exception.

For regular visitors, there are tables in front of the house. And even there they do not shoo away the cats, dogs, and birds. And you will be able to enjoy the silence, the chirping, and the meowing. And also smoke your pipe in good health. And forget all your cares and worries. And you will surely want to visit this establishment again.

Don’t hesitate. Come with your pipe. The landlady is a kind woman and won’t say a word to you. She understands very well what it means to have no money.

Just order a cup of coffee and pet a cat. And I guarantee that a croissant and a couple of pastries will be brought to you on the house.

What am I talking about? Oh yes. The rich cry too.

But for some reason, I wish that the poor cried less.

Although, everyone has their own understanding. And it’s not for me to decide…

Mom left suddenly.

He, Vityka, didn’t even understand how.

She was just cheerful, kissing Vityka, playing with him, and then suddenly… she had lost weight, was bald, smiling quietly with her huge eyes, telling Vityka to live well, like a human being, and in an instant, she was gone.

“An orphan,” the old women whisper, “what will happen to him now? Klavdia is already of old age, how will she handle the boy now?”

Oh-ho-ho, our heavy sins, and young Katya was such a beauty, but look at her, this cursed illness spares no one.

The old women began to cry, and Vityka couldn’t understand anything. He stared at the table, where, in a large, elongated box covered with red and black fabric, with a note on the forehead, lay someone who looked very much like his mom.

 

“Go, go, little one, say goodbye to your mother—oh, what a misfortune you were born into, orphan…”

“What do you mean, orphan?” said Grandma Klava in a creaky voice, “he has his real father.”

The old women fell silent, eyes on the floor, as they feared Grandma Klava. They called her ‘Boyarynya’ behind her back because of her stern character, or perhaps not because of her character at all, but maybe because of her last name, Boyaryntseva.

But it was true that they were afraid of Grandma.

Of course, like other boys and girls, Vityka also had a father, but he had never seen him.

Mom said he had visited when Vityka was small, but he was never seen again.

Then they went far beyond the village, to the cemetery.

As soon as Vityka saw the dug grave, he began to realize that his mom was there, in that box, and they were going to bury her in the ground. Then Vityka screamed and rushed to his mom.

“Mom, mom,” he cries, “who did you leave me with? Who did you abandon? How am I supposed to live?”

“It’s like an adult is crying,” the old women gossip, “oh, my dear, life without a mom is not sweet, you can live without a father, but not without a mother.”

How the old woman arranged things for nine days, who knows.

In the evening, Grandma told Vityka that the porridge would be in the pot on the stove, and he could eat potatoes with sour milk for lunch and dinner, and then Grandma would come.

She heated the stove in the morning, told him to close the window after all the coals burned out, and if it was cold, to climb onto the stove and cover himself with Grandpa’s fur coat. Grandma would turn up by evening.

“Are you scared? Or should I take you to Anatolyvna’s?”

Grandma knew that Vityka didn’t like and was afraid of Anatolyvna, who made him learn strange poems she called prayers and forced him to kiss the dark boards with pictures of people on them. No, Vityka would rather stay at home with Murzik.

Moreover, Grandma said she’d be back by evening.

A week later, clean, washed, and trimmed Vityka, sitting quietly in a chair in the middle of the room, received Grandma’s instructions.

“Vityusha, the main thing is not to be afraid, don’t be a fool.”

“Don’t give the stepmother any slack. Tell her, I came to my real father, not to you, and you can’t tell me what to do.”

“I, Vityusha, grew up with my stepmother. I know what that’s like.”

“Everything happened: she threw me out of the table, hit me on the hands when I reached for another piece of bread, and slandered me to my father, saying I was lazy and just ate and slept.”

“Oh, I suffered, I ran to get married as soon as I turned fifteen, just to escape that hell.”

“Just in case, dry some bread and crackers, I’ll bring you a napkin, put them in there and hide them. So you won’t go hungry, oh, if only Grandma had strength, if Grandma had given you up…”

Grandma cried, tears running down her brown, wrinkled cheeks, her frail, old body trembling, pulling the crying Vityka to her.

“Grandma, grandma, don’t give me to the stepmother, I don’t want to! I’ll listen to you, I’ll chop wood with Grandpa Nikishka, I’ll study in school and get straight A’s, Grandma, I will…,” the boy sobbed.

“My dear, dear, don’t worry, they won’t take you, I’m old, oh-ho-ho, I’m not your grandmother, Vityusha, I’m your great-grandmother. I raised your mother, Katya, and I cared for you, my golden one, my dear little grandson.”

Then came the big bright car that took Vityka to the city.

Oh, and it was hard for him.

His father, without looking Vityka in the eyes, said he would now be called Viktor. That’s what he said, Viktor, to live with them—his father, Vladimir Ivanovich, and his wife, Maria Nikolaevna.

For a whole week, Vityka was too scared to leave his room. He cried quietly, staring out the window, waiting for Grandma to suddenly come and take him.

When they called him to eat, he shook his head, saying he didn’t want to. But at night, he would sneak into the kitchen, steal some bread and water.

He would eat some bread and save the rest for crackers, placing them on the radiator to dry out overnight, and in the morning, he would put them into the napkin Grandma gave him and hide it under the mattress.

His stepmother found them, showed them to his father, who looked at Vityka sternly, and Vityka was so ashamed.

“Viktor, didn’t we feed you? You’re like a brother to us, what is this you’ve come up with? Sit with everyone at the table and eat as much as you want.”

Vityka began to sit at the table with everyone, but he didn’t stop drying the crackers. He just hid them better.

He stopped crying, but was still wary, afraid that his stepmother would show her true character, give him a slap on the hands or pull him by the hair and throw him out into the cold.

 

Aunt Olya and Uncle Stepan came.

Aunt Olya whispered something to Maria Nikolaevna, asking why they took Vityka, and Uncle Stepan winked merrily, giving him a toy gun and a picture book.

Summer came, and Vityka began to go out into the yard quietly, where he met some other boys.

He didn’t talk to his stepmother. Whenever she asked him something, Vityka shrank, pulled his head into his shoulders, and stayed silent.

Then Vasya, his new friend, said that Vityka’s stepmother was a snake because she took his father away from the family. Vasya knew for sure, his own stepmother did the same to his father.

So, Vasya, at his mom’s suggestion, when his dad picked him up, would secretly prank his stepmother.

He’d scratch her shoes with a fork, tear her skirt, or pour vinegar into her soup. She would yell, go to his dad to complain, and Vasya would bat his eyes and cry, saying it wasn’t him, that she was doing it on purpose. His dad and stepmother would fight, but Vasya and his mom would be happy, thinking that snake deserved it.

“Well, Dad’s back, we got him with mom,” Vasya said happily.

“Where did he come back from?” Vityka didn’t understand.

“He came back home to us with mom,” said Vasya. “But he left again, well, not exactly left, mom kicked him out. He started drinking, fighting. Mom kicked him out.”

Vityka came home, found the nail he had picked up outside, and scratched all of his stepmother’s shoes with it. He hid the nail in his pocket and put the shoes in the wardrobe.

That evening, when he went to wash up, he took off his pants, and the nail fell out, clinking on the tiled floor. His stepmother picked it up and looked at it.

“Vitya,” she asked quietly, “do you need this?”

Vityka shrank into himself and stayed silent, suddenly feeling ashamed.

Later, his stepmother tried to wear those shoes, but they were scratched.

“What’s this, Masha? It looks like they’ve been scratched with a nail?” asked his father.

Vityka shrank into himself, thinking, here it comes.

She had never said anything bad to him, never kicked him out of the table, always gave him food, bought him nice shirts for school, rulers, notebooks, and pencils…

“And I told you, Vladimir, that there’s a nail sticking out of the wardrobe, I told you long ago, but you never cleaned it, now look at the result.”

“Where is the nail? I’ll take it out now.”

Dad ran to the wardrobe.

“Ha, he woke up, it’s already gone… Vitya took it out.”

“Viktor?” his father asked in surprise.

“Yes, Viktor! Our Viktor!”

And suddenly, Vityka felt so sad and ashamed that he ran to his room, huddled in the corner of the bed, and cried.

He didn’t go to the table the next day. He had never felt so ashamed, bitter, and lonely before.

Then, the next day, Vityka woke up and saw presents on the table, just like Mom used to do.

It was a dream, Vityka realized…

“Mom, mommy…”

His stepmother peeked into the room.

“Vityenka, happy birthday, my boy.”

“Thank you,” Vitya said quietly, sitting on the bed, head down.

His stepmother gave him many useful school supplies, candies in a box, a beautiful shirt, and a sweater she had knitted herself.

For his birthday, his father gave him a big toy car and a backpack, Aunt Olya gave him a plush bunny, sneakers like an adult’s, and a hat with ears. Uncle Stepan gave him a toy gun with batteries, where you pull the trigger and a red light blinks with the sound of “tra-ta-ta-ta,” and a special pencil case called a compass set that his father said he would need for school.

In the fall, Vityka would go to first grade.

And also… what a gift, his beloved Grandma Klava came to visit him.

She brought him socks, mittens, and a prickly scarf she had knitted herself. She asked him if his father was kind to him, if his stepmother hurt him.

Vityka shook his head, saying no, everything was fine.

Soon they went with his father and stepmother to Grandma’s village, but Grandma was gone. His father and stepmother arranged the funeral, and there was no one but Vityka.

“Are you going to sell the house or what?” asked the old women.

“No,” his father said. “This is Vitya’s inheritance. When he grows up, he’ll decide what to do with it. For now, we’ll come here like to a dacha. The boy needs fresh air.”

His father and Vityka also visited his mother.

“Here’s Katya, Vitya’s with me, don’t worry, and forgive me, dear.”

It turned out that Victor’s brother couldn’t raise him while he was still a baby…

“Because he left her?” Vityka asked quietly.

“No,” his father shook his head, looking thoughtfully at Vityka, “you’ll understand when you grow up.”

Vityka silently traveled home, looking out the window and wiping away his tears. Grandma was gone, and he was left alone in this big world.

Vasya told Vityka that Mom found a new man, he beats her, and he hurts Vasya. Dad went back to her again, but now he doesn’t take Vasya with him. They only go for walks in the park.

Vityka came home, and his stepmother was sitting on a chair, looking pale. He washed his hands and went to the kitchen, sat quietly, and she sat there for a while, then suddenly started to fall.

Oh, Vityka got scared, thinking she had died—like Mom and Grandma. He screamed, rushed to his knees in front of her, shaking her from side to side, crying.

“Mom, mommy,” he cries, “wake up, wake up, don’t die, mommy.”

A neighbor ran in after hearing his cry, luckily the door wasn’t locked, they called an ambulance, and his stepmother was taken away.

 

His father ran in from work, grabbed Vityka, and he cried and choked.

“Dad, daddy, she’s going to die, mom’s going to die like my real mom, like Grandma, they’ll bury her in the ground.”

His father barely calmed him down, and in the morning they went to the hospital.

“Mom… mommy…”

“I’m here, son,” his mom Masha said, without opening her eyes.

“You won’t die?”

“No, of course not, you’re still so little.”

“Don’t die, mommy, please.”

In the fall, Vityka went to first grade, holding his mom and dad’s hands, so happy.

At night, he dreamed of Mom Katya and Grandma.

And only when Vityka grew up did he understand that Olya and Stepan were not aunt and uncle, but brother and sister, his real father’s relatives.

He didn’t even ask his parents how it happened.

He decided there was no need to stir up the past.

Good evening, my dears.

I’m late with the story today.

I hug you tightly.

Sending beams of my goodness and positivity.

Vera stood in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for the stew. Her hands worked mechanically while her thoughts wandered far away. Anna Sergeyevna had been gone for a week now. And that time seemed endless.
The mother-in-law had left so suddenly—just a month after her husband. The doctors said her heart had given out. But Vera knew—it wasn’t only her heart; her soul could not bear the separation from Mikhail Petrovich. Forty years together, not a single day apart.

Outside, a light rain was falling. A gray October day, as if nature herself were mourning Anna Sergeyevna.

The front door slammed.

“It’s me,” came the voice of her husband, Andrey, from the hallway. She was not alone—other footsteps and hushed conversation could be heard.

Vera wiped her hands on a towel and stepped out of the kitchen. In the corridor, Andrey was helping his sister Irina remove her coat.

“Hello, Vera. Sorry for coming without warning,” said Irina, nodding without even looking into her eyes.

The behavior of the brother and sister was somehow odd.

“Would you like some tea?” Vera asked, trying not to betray her irritation.

“Sure,” Andrey grumbled as he walked into the living room. “And make it as strong as possible, if you have it.”

Irina settled into an armchair, straightening her back and folding her hands on her knees. Always like that—perfect posture, immaculate makeup, even in a moment of sorrow.

Vera put the kettle on and returned with a bottle. Andrey immediately poured himself and his sister some.

“To mom,” he said, raising his shot glass.

They drank. Vera did not touch her own glass.

“How are you, Vera?” Irina asked, though her tone lacked genuine interest.

“I’m managing,” Vera replied shortly. “So many troubles after everything.”

“You know, Andrey would have told you anyway, so I’ll say it directly,” Irina continued, setting her glass on the table and looking at Vera. “My brother and I have decided that we will sell our parents’ summer house.”

Vera froze. Her breath caught.

“You’re selling? — she asked, almost in disbelief. — When?”

“The sooner, the better,” Andrey interjected. “Why delay? It’s a good lot, not far from the city—we’ll find a buyer quickly.”

Vera stared at them both, not believing her ears. That very summer house she had visited every weekend for the last three years. Where she had weeded the garden beds together with Anna Sergeyevna. Where she had painted the fence with Mikhail Petrovich. Where she had cooked meals for everyone when the elders could no longer manage.

“Tomorrow we’ll go to the notary, and we’ll arrange everything,” Andrey continued, oblivious to the pallor that had overtaken his wife’s face. “I’ve already gathered the documents.”

“Do you even remember the last time you were at that summer house?” Vera asked softly.

Andrey and Irina exchanged glances.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Andrey frowned. “It’s our parents’ summer house, and we are their children. We have every right to dispose of the inheritance.”

“Two years ago,” Vera said, looking directly at her husband. “You were there two years ago. During the May holidays. You grilled kebabs and then left. And Irina hadn’t been there even longer.”

“I have work, children,” Irina snapped. “Not everyone has time to make trips to summer houses.”

“And I, then, have a truckload of time?” Vera raised her voice. “I drove to your parents’ place every weekend. I shopped for groceries, cleaned, repaired what I could. Alone! Because you all were too busy!”

“Vera, stop it,” Andrey tapped his shot glass on the table. “You aren’t their daughter by blood to make demands.”

Five years of marriage—three of which Vera had, in effect, replaced Anna Sergeyevna and Mikhail Petrovich as the caregivers for children who had turned their backs on them.

 

“Not by blood,” she repeated slowly. “And were you ever really their own? When father fell ill, who took care of him? When mother asked for money for medicine, who brought it? When the roof leaked, who called the repairmen?”

“Vera, let’s not get melodramatic,” Irina frowned. “You did your duty. We’re grateful, of course. But these are our parents, and the inheritance is, by law…”

“Grateful?” Vera bitterly smiled. “Do you know what your mother used to say every time I came? ‘Vera, dear, how wonderful that we have you. At least someone remembers us.’”

Irina looked away.

“Tomorrow at eleven we’re going to the notary—our family’s notary. We’ll take care of the documents,” said Andrey, ignoring his wife’s words. “If you want, come with us.”

“I’ll come,” Vera declared as she rose from the table. “I’ll definitely come.”

She left the room, leaving them alone with their plans. In her ears, the words of her mother-in-law, spoken not long ago, echoed: “Vera, you are the one who never abandoned us. I will never forget that.”

In the bedroom, Vera sank onto the bed and covered her face with her hands. Before her eyes appeared the image of Mikhail Petrovich teaching her how to tie tomatoes. Anna Sergeyevna demonstrating the proper way to can cucumbers. Their happy faces when she arrived on Saturday mornings with little gifts.

And now someone wanted to sell their home, their garden, their world—like an object, like useless junk.

There was a knock on the door.

“Vera, why did you run away?” Andrey entered the room. “We haven’t finished discussing everything.”

“What is there to discuss?” she looked up at him. “You’ve already decided everything.”

“Listen, we can buy a bigger apartment. Sell the summer house, split the money, and it will be enough,” Andrey sat down beside her. “You yourself said you want to move.”

“Not at this cost.”

“At what cost?” he waved his hand irritably. “There are no parents left. Who needs that summer house? No one is left to go there, no one is left to take care of it.”

“I would go.”

“Alone?” Andrey smirked. “Why?”

“Because a part of their soul remains there,” Vera answered quietly. “Your mother and father. Whom you, it seems, have already forgotten.”

Andrey abruptly stood up.

“You know what? Tomorrow we’ll finalize all the papers, and that’s that. Enough of this sentimentality.”

He left, the door slamming loudly behind him.

Vera approached the window. The rain had intensified, drumming against the glass. How often had she gazed at similar rains, sitting on the porch of the summer house with Anna Sergeyevna, wrapped in a blanket and sipping tea with raspberries. “Children do not always understand what’s important,” her mother-in-law used to say. “Sometimes they see only what they wish to see.”

She took a deep breath. Tomorrow they would meet the notary, and then everything would collapse.

The notary’s office greeted them with a cool atmosphere and the scent of paper. Irina tapped her nails nervously on her purse. Andrey checked his phone every two minutes.

“Please come in,” invited their notary, Pavel Dmitrievich—a gray-haired man with attentive eyes.

They entered the office. Vera sat a little apart from her husband and sister-in-law.

 

“So, we have gathered here regarding the inheritance of Mikhail Petrovich and Anna Sergeyevna Sokolov,” began the notary, laying out the documents. “I understand that your loss is fresh; please accept my condolences.”

“Thank you, let’s get to the point,” Irina interrupted impatiently.

Pavel Dmitrievich nodded. “I have a will that was prepared by your parents,” he said, pulling out a folder. “It was executed three months ago.”

Andrey straightened up.

“A will? What will? By law, the heirs of the first order are you and your sister.”

“Yes, if there were no will,” confirmed the notary. “But your parents left clear instructions regarding their property.”

He opened the folder and put on his glasses.

 

 

“The summer house plot with the house and all the outbuildings in the ‘Berezka’ gardening association, as well as the bank account at Sberbank, pass to… — he paused — to Vera Alexeevna Sokolova.”

Silence fell over the room.

“What nonsense?!” Irina jumped up. “This must be some mistake!”

“No mistake,” the notary replied calmly. “The will was executed and notarized in full compliance with the rules. Here, take a look.”

He handed over the document. Andrey grabbed it, scanned the paper quickly, and his face flushed.

“This is impossible,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “They could not have done this.”

“They could have, and they did,” the notary said firmly. “There is also a letter in the will addressed to all of you. Would you like to read it?”

Without waiting for an answer, he produced another envelope.

“‘Our dear children, Andrey and Irina, — the notary began reading, ‘the decision we have made may seem unfair to you. But in the last years of our lives, only Vera cared for us. Only she found the time and strength to be by our side. We bequeath to her the summer house and a modest savings balance not as a rebuke to you, but as a token of our gratitude. We hope that you will understand. With love, your parents.’”

Irina clutched her purse.

“How much is in the account?” she snapped.

“One million seven hundred thousand rubles,” replied the notary.

Vera’s eyes widened in astonishment. She had not known that her in-laws had managed to save anything.

“They were saving for treatment,” she murmured quietly. “Anna Sergeyevna had said they wanted to go to a sanatorium…”

“And you will go!” Andrey exploded. “You seduced our parents, you took advantage of their trust!”

 

“ Andrey!” the notary interjected. “Please, calm down.”

“How could she?!” Andrey persisted. “While we were working, she was bewitching my parents!”

“I did not bewitch them. I loved them.”

“You loved their money and property!” Irina glared at her with hatred. “Clearly, all those years of effort were not in vain!”

“Enough!” Vera stood up. “Have you ever once visited them at that summer house when father could barely rise? Not even once visited mother? Even once?”

Irina looked away.

 

“I have my own family,” she mumbled.

“And they only had me,” Vera finished softly.

The notary cleared his throat.

“If you wish to contest the will, that is your right. But I must warn you: in cases like these, judicial practice…”

“We will contest it!” Andrey interrupted. “It’s unfair. They were our parents!”

“They were your parents,” Vera corrected. “But you only remembered that when you needed something.”

They left the notary’s office in silence. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained low and gray.

“Let’s go home,” Andrey declared. “We need to talk about everything.”

The discussion turned into a shouting match as soon as they crossed the threshold of the apartment.

“You must renounce the inheritance!” Andrey yelled, pacing in the living room.

“It’s our money! Our summer house!” Vera retorted. “When the roof was leaking, you said there was no money for repairs. When the fence collapsed, you dismissed it. When father needed medicine…”

“Shut up!” Andrey bellowed. “You always wanted more of their attention than we did!”

“I wanted them not to feel abandoned!” Vera shouted back. “I was there while you were splitting up their apartment!”

A silence crashed down like thunder. Irina turned pale.

“You know…” she whispered.

“Of course I know,” Vera replied bitterly. “Anna Sergeyevna told me everything—how you persuaded them to reassign the city apartment, how you promised to buy them a house closer to the city, and how quickly you sold it, splitting the money.”

“We wanted what was best,” Andrey mumbled, not looking at his wife.

“You only thought of yourselves,” Vera said sharply. “And now you want to take even the last bit.”

She headed toward the bedroom. Andrey lunged after her.

“Where are you going?”

“Packing,” Vera replied, grabbing her suitcase.

“Vera, what are you doing?” Andrey grabbed her hand. “Are you really willing to tear everything apart over some summer house?”

“Not for the summer house,” she freed herself. “But because today I saw the real you. And that frightens me.”

“You are my wife!” Andrey suddenly changed his tone. “Let’s discuss this calmly. We could sell the summer house and split the money three ways, fairly.”

“Fairly?” Vera shook her head. “No, Andrey. I will not surrender the summer house. I won’t disgrace their memory.”

“Then I’ll file for divorce!” Andrey threatened.

 

“I don’t care!”

Eight months later, Vera stood on the porch of the summer cottage, inhaling the scent of pines. She had renovated it, hired a crew that reinforced the foundation and replaced the roof. And with the money from the account, Vera bought a small studio in the city.

The trial was brief. The will was upheld, and Andrey’s and Irina’s claims were deemed unfounded. The divorce was processed quickly, and there was practically nothing to divide.

Vera sat on a bench beneath the apple tree that Mikhail Petrovich had once planted. She planned to expand the garden in the spring and plant strawberries, just as Anna Sergeyevna had dreamed.

From the open window of the porch drifted the aroma of freshly brewed tea. Vera often imagined that her mother-in-law was sitting there again, in her favorite armchair, waiting for her daughter-in-law to return from the garden beds.

“I did everything the way you wanted,” Vera whispered, watching the sunset. “Your home will always be here.”

The evening wind gently swayed the branches of the apple tree, as if Mikhail Petrovich and Anna Sergeyevna were nodding in response. Deep in her soul, Vera felt—they knew. They always knew that she would not betray them.

You’re talentless,» he threw the words in front of everyone. It was then that I realized for the first time: talent is not only a gift but also a courage—a courage to remain oneself when others try to break you.

Anna cautiously ran a rag over the surface of the old grand piano, recently moved from the dacha. The dark wood bore the fingerprints of three generations, and the cracks in the lacquer resembled the wrinkles of a wise old man. This family relic looked out of place in her modern studio, but she couldn’t bear to discard the instrument—it was the last thread connecting her to her parents.

 

Her fingers moved on their own toward the keys. The downtrodden instrument answered with a familiar melody from her childhood. Chopin. Outside, the rain echoed the notes, and memories flooded in suddenly, as if a dam she had been building in her soul for twenty-three years had burst.

«Is this your new home?» Sergey looked disdainfully at the tiny room on the outskirts. «There isn’t even a proper wardrobe here.»

Anna swallowed. She had just turned twenty-two, graduated with honors from the conservatory, and had moved to the capital three months earlier. By day, she taught at a music school, and in the evenings she worked at a restaurant. Rent consumed half of her modest earnings.

«At least the subway is nearby,» she tried to smile, adjusting the cushion that had replaced the festive tablecloth. On the makeshift table lay a bottle of cheap wine, some snacks, cheese, and even a candle. It was all she could afford for Sergey’s first visit—the son of wealthy parents, whom she had met at a party.

«Stop with this mousey nonsense,» he pulled her close. «Move in with me. Forget about your musical ramblings and start living a normal life.»

«What’s wrong with my music?» Anna broke free from his embrace.

«Anya,» his voice dripped with condescension, «who needs this classical stuff these days? A relic of a bygone era. Come work for me at my company; you’ll be an assistant. The salary is three times more than those pathetic lessons you give.»

The offer hovered enticingly in the air. Sergey was a promising suitor with an apartment in the center and a fancy car. “Real luck,” his mother would say at every phone call. And indeed, she adored him—his confidence, the scent of his expensive cologne, and his tender “my Anya.”

«But what if I don’t want to abandon music?»

His silence spoke louder than words.

Their romance developed rapidly. Six months later, they registered their marriage—quietly, without the extravagant wedding that his parents had been insisting on. “You already hit the jackpot,” whispered his mother, kissing her on the cheek at a family dinner.

She moved in, quit her teaching job, but continued her evening performances at the restaurant—the few hours behind the piano allowed her to feel that she hadn’t completely betrayed herself.

The first year of marriage resembled a fairytale. Sergey swiftly climbed the career ladder while Anna mastered the role of the wife of a successful man. She learned the rules of table setting, became versed in wines, and patiently listened to business talk while holding back her “unprofessional” comments. At corporate events, she was introduced as “the wife of our promising employee,” and she played that role with an impeccable smile.

The restaurant gigs were abandoned—Sergey categorically opposed the idea of his wife “entertaining a drunken crowd.”

«You’re no longer a poor student,» he would say while removing his tie after work. «I provide for you completely.»

And she began to believe in his care.

In the second year, cracks began to appear in the perfect picture. After a promotion, Sergey started coming home late, returning with the smell of alcohol and barely perceptible hints of someone else’s perfume. Anna remained silent—afraid to hear the truth.

On their third anniversary, he presented a diamond necklace and asked her to host a dinner for important guests.

«A few colleagues with their wives will be coming. And my boss—he has long wanted to meet my beautiful wife.»

For a week, Anna prepared for the reception—planning the menu, ordering flowers, choosing background music. She wanted to prove to her husband that she was worthy of his status.

The evening started beautifully. The guests—a trio of married couples and Sergey’s boss, a fifty-year-old bachelor with a discerning gaze—arrived promptly. Anna greeted them in a new evening dress, with impeccable makeup and a well-rehearsed smile.

 

After the aperitif, once the guests had taken their seats, the conversation turned to art. The wife of a colleague, a plump lady with a loud voice, remarked that their daughter was learning to play the piano.

«And do you play, Anna?» she inquired. «You have such a magnificent instrument in your living room.»

Anna blushed:

«I used to play. I graduated from the conservatory, but…»

«My wife is a professional pianist,» Sergey interrupted, and in his voice Anna surprisingly heard notes of pride. «Anya, play something for our guests.»

All eyes turned to her. Her heart beat faster—she had not touched the instrument for almost a year. But refusal was not an option.

«I haven’t practiced in a long time,» she warned, rising to her feet.

«Don’t be modest,» Sergey murmured in her ear while embracing her by the waist. «It’s important to me.»

She sat down at the piano, purchased at her request during the early months of their marriage. Her fingers found familiar positions on their own. Muscle memory—what a marvelous thing.

Choosing Chopin’s nocturne in B-flat major, she began hesitantly, but with every measure, that forgotten sense of flight returned to her. She saw no guests, heard no whispers—they all faded away, leaving only the music that emerged from under her fingers.

When the last notes faded, applause filled the room. Anna turned around, both embarrassed and happy. The guests looked at her with genuine admiration.

«Bravo!» Sergey’s boss stood up, applauding. «That was magnificent!»

«Magnificent?» Sergey’s voice shattered the harmony that had just taken hold. He stood by the wall with a glass in hand. «That was the most mediocre performance I’ve ever heard.»

A deathly silence fell. Anna froze, unable to believe her ears.

«Serezha…» she began.

«No, seriously,» he moved closer, and she realized that during her playing he had managed to get quite drunk. «Why spend years learning only to bang at the keys so incompetently? Do you know how much her education cost? And what was the point?» he addressed the guests. «It’s like with painters—one becomes a Picasso, while the rest end up painting fences.»

«Your wife plays beautifully,» his boss tried to soften the situation.

«You just don’t understand music,» Sergey waved it off. Then he turned to Anna: «You’re a pauper,» he declared loudly for the entire hall to hear. «A pauper of talent who has leech onto me.»

Hot tears welled in her eyes, but instead of bursting into tears, Anna slowly straightened up and sat down at the piano again.

This time, she chose Rachmaninoff’s Second Concerto—a piece that had once been her diploma work. The music, filled with pain and passion, filled the room. Anna played not for the guests and not for her husband—but for herself, for the girl who once dreamed of the stage.

Her fingers danced over the keys, eliciting sounds that took one’s breath away. In that music, she poured all her pain, disappointment, and the passion buried under daily life.

When the final chord sounded, a resonant silence hung in the room. Then…

The guests erupted in standing applause. Sergey’s boss was the first to approach:

«That was stunning. I’m not a classical expert, but your playing touched me deeply.»

The other guests surrounded her, each expressing their admiration. Only Sergey remained aside—devastated and confused.

That evening proved to be a turning point. The next day, Anna packed her things and returned to her modest rented apartment. A month later, she filed for divorce. Six months after that, she received an offer from the restaurant where she used to work—to host classical music evenings.

The sound of rain tapping against the window brought Anna back to the present. Twenty-three years later, she had her own music school, students who were winners of international competitions, and a spacious apartment with a view of the park.

She stepped away from the piano and walked to the window. Down below, in the rain, stood a man staring intently at her windows. Even through the veil of rain and the passing years, she recognized him—Sergey, aged but still carrying himself with the same haughty posture.

An unexpected ring of the doorbell made her startle. Yet Anna didn’t even think to ask who it was at the door—she already knew.

«Hello,» he said as he extended a modest bouquet of wildflowers, reminiscent of their first meeting.

After a brief greeting, he stepped inside, surveying the room adorned with photos of her students and concert posters.

«I heard your latest performance,» he observed. «You’re still the same.»

 

«And have you changed?» she asked, arranging the flowers in a vase.

«I’ve rethought many things,» he admitted with a sad smile. «All these years, I followed your successes. I even cut out your reviews…»

Old grievances no longer burned in her—they had become barely noticeable scars.

«Why are you here, Sergey?»

«I want to apologize. For that evening. For every moment when I failed to appreciate you.»

She turned toward the window.

«You were right about one thing—I truly was poor. Not in talent, but in self-confidence. Your pain helped me find myself.»

He stepped closer but restrained from touching her.

«I’m happy for you. And… may I ask something?»

«Yes?»

«Play for me once more. Now I will truly be able to listen.»

After a pause, she agreed. She sat at the piano and began Chopin’s nocturne—the very melody that had bound them twenty-three years ago.

He listened, eyes closed, unashamedly letting tears fall.

When the music finally died away, he softly said:

«Now I see. I was impoverished. Thank you.»

She simply smiled—genuinely and without bitterness for the first time in many years.

Outside, the rain was stopping, washing the world anew.

With numbers like these, it’s surprising you were hired for this position at all,» Natalya Andreyevna said with thinly veiled contempt, handing the folder back to me. «It’s astonishing how some people manage to move up the ladder with no real experience.»

A chill ran down my spine, but I kept my face impassive. That was already her fifth jab of the day—each one louder and more cutting than the last.

My name is Darya Alekseyevna Klimova. I’m 27, and for the past two years I’ve worked as an analyst in a large company—one run by my father, Alexey Yuryevich Romanov. No one knows that. Even my husband thinks his father‑in‑law and the legendary CEO are two different people.

When I joined, I took my mother’s surname—my father’s condition: no special treatment. «Here you’re just another employee. Until you prove yourself, no one should know,» he told me then.

And I did prove myself, earning a reputation for strong ideas and solid projects—no favors, no advantages. At least, until Natalya Andreyevna arrived.

My mother‑in‑law.

Six months ago she transferred to us from a rival firm. Our wedding had been modest—my father was away on business and couldn’t attend. At work we kept quiet about our family ties; she pretended she didn’t know me, though she occasionally slipped in a barbed remark.

«Do you even know how to draft commercial proposals, Darya Alekseyevna?» she’d say when I suggested new approaches.

«So young and already so self‑confident,» she would whisper to colleagues, assuming I couldn’t hear.

At first I chalked it up to her adjusting, or maybe it was just her nature. But after a family dinner three weeks ago it became clear: she thought I wasn’t good enough for her son.

«Yegor could’ve found someone better,» she told him, thinking I was still in the bathroom. «She’s too ordinary. No connections, no ambition.»

If only she knew …

Her pressure at the office only grew. She interrupted me in meetings, nit‑picked my reports, set impossible deadlines. I stayed silent, focusing on my work. I had to win this with professionalism, not family connections.

 

Yegor noticed my strain.
«Everything all right?» he’d ask in the evenings.
«Just a rough spell at work,» I said—no point putting him between wife and mother.

I understood the truth would come out eventually, but I never expected it to be so soon—and so public.

That Monday everything changed. We held a big planning meeting with our entire department and neighboring teams. I presented a new client‑data analytics system I’d spent a month building—one that let us track consumer behavior in real time and adjust strategy on the fly.

When I finished, colleagues were nodding—the idea was clearly innovative.

Then Natalya Andreyevna stood.
«You’d do better learning to produce error‑free reports,» she said coolly, arms folded. «Stop embarrassing us with these absurd proposals.»

Silence. I stood there clutching the laser pointer, shocked. Had she really just used the informal «you» in front of the entire team?

«Natalya Andreyevna,» the IT‑department head began, «Darya’s proposal makes sense if you look at the data—»
«Or maybe she’s just spouting nonsense,» she cut him off, eyes locked on me.

The blow was direct and unexpected. Someone coughed; a few gasped. HR’s Maria froze, jaw dropped. Natalya Andreyevna had obliterated any hint of professional decorum.

My cheeks burned, temples pounding. Usually calm and collected, I felt anger rising. Private digs were one thing; public humiliation was another.

«Thank you for your comment,» I said, mustering every ounce of composure. «If we review the figures, you’ll see the system already boosted results in the test group.»

My restraint only seemed to provoke her.
«Fine,» she said, standing. «I’ve spoken my mind. Carry on.»

The meeting ended in tense silence. As colleagues filed out—many with sympathetic glances—I packed my papers. Behind me I heard her voice, loud enough for all to hear:
«These are the people they hire now—looks over competence. No brains at all.»

I didn’t turn around. I calmly finished gathering my things and left, back straight.

In the restroom I ran my hands under ice‑cold water. Deep breath, slow exhale—ten times. I stared at my reflection.
You’ve got this, I told myself. You always find a way.

But something had cracked. The line I’d guarded between work and family was gone. My mother‑in‑law was trying to destroy me, and I couldn’t pretend it didn’t affect us all.

I knew what I had to do.

My father’s office is on the top floor. I rarely went there; we’d agreed our relationship stayed strictly professional at work. But today was different.

His secretary, Elena Viktorovna, looked up, startled.
«Darya Alekseyevna? How can I help?»
«I need to see Alexey Yuryevich. Personal matter.»
«He has a meeting in fifteen minutes, but—»
«It’s urgent,» I said. Something in my voice convinced her.

She buzzed him: «Alexey Yuryevich, Darya Alekseyevna Klimova is here—says it’s urgent.»
«Send her in,» he replied.

When the door shut behind me, the professional mask slipped.
«Dad,» I said, my voice shaking.

He rarely saw me like this—I was always the strong, composed one. Now I felt like a little girl in pain.

«What happened?» He rose from his desk.
«It’s time,» I said. «You told me to stay silent. I have. But now—either I leave, or she does.»
«Natalya Andreyevna?» His eyes hardened.

 

I told him everything: the first jabs, the rising pressure, yesterday’s public insult, the strain at home. He knew who she was, but not the details.

He listened, face impassive—but I recognized that look. My father seldom got angry, yet when he did, consequences followed.

«Are you certain?» he asked. «Everyone will learn we’re related.»
«Yes. I’ve shown I can succeed without your help. I’m not afraid of being called ‘the boss’s daughter.’»

He tapped his fingers thoughtfully.
«All right. Tomorrow, 10 a.m. Large conference room. I want the whole department—and Natalya Andreyevna—there.»

Relief and nerves washed over me.
«Thank you.»
«Don’t thank me yet,» he replied, CEO once more. «Go; I have a meeting.»

I left lighter. Tomorrow everything would change—I wasn’t sure how, but I was ready.

The large conference room filled quickly. Colleagues whispered—an impromptu meeting called by the CEO was rare. I took a seat in the corner.

Natalya Andreyevna entered late. Spotting me, she lifted an eyebrow, confidence radiating.

At exactly ten my father strode in. Conversations died. He scanned the room, paused on me, then spoke:

«Good morning. I’ve called you together for an unusual reason.»

A pause as he arranged his papers.

«Yesterday I was informed of behavior that violates not only corporate ethics but basic respect.»

A ripple spread through the room. I saw her shoulders tighten.

«Natalya Andreyevna,» he said, «please come forward.»
She rose, poised but uneasy.
«Darya Alekseyevna, you as well.»

My pulse raced as I stood beside him.

«I’ve received reports of yesterday’s incident,» he began, «and your public, highly unprofessional conduct. Is that true?»

She lifted her chin.
«I voiced a professional opinion. Perhaps emotionally, but—»
«‘You’d do better to learn error‑free reporting,’ ‘Your proposals are garbage’—were those professional opinions?» he quoted.

Color drained from her face.
«I… may have overstepped. But young specialists need discipline—»

«Darya Alekseyevna,» he said, «has spent two years proving herself, boosting conversion by 17 percent with her latest project. Marketing relies on her models. So why the remarks?»

She faltered.
«Alexey Yuryevich, perhaps I went too far. But—»

«My colleagues,» he turned to the room, «may I ask Darya one question? Your patronymic, please.»

I straightened and met her gaze.
«Romanova.»

Silence. Then a collective gasp.

«Yes,» my father confirmed. «Darya Alekseyevna is my daughter. She joined under her mother’s surname; I never interfered. Until yesterday, we kept that private.»

 

Shock crossed her face.
«This… can’t be,» she whispered.

«Moreover,» he said, «you are Yegor’s mother—Darya’s mother‑in‑law. You knowingly bullied your own daughter‑in‑law in this office.»

Murmurs filled the room.

«Alexey Yuryevich, I’m deeply sorry. Perhaps we can discuss—»
«No,» he said evenly. «You humiliated her publicly; you’ll face the consequences publicly. You’re dismissed, Natalya Andreyevna. HR will have your paperwork by day’s end.»

Her face twisted.
«That’s unfair! Only because she’s your daughter—»
«Because you broke corporate ethics,» he cut in. «I’d do the same if she weren’t. Meeting adjourned.»

People dispersed, buzzing. Some stopped to lend support. She fled without a glance.

When we were alone, he asked softly, «You okay?»
«Yes,» I breathed, weight lifted.
«Remember: eyes will be on you now. You’ve raised the bar—keep it high.»
«I will,» I smiled.

That evening I got home late. Yegor sat waiting, solemn.
«Mom called,» he began. «Gave me her version. Then Andrey from IT told me what really happened—and who you really are.»

Tension coiled inside me.
«Why didn’t you tell me?» he asked quietly.
«I didn’t want you to love me for status. I wanted to be just Dasha.»

He knelt, taking my hands.
«You’re right. Mom crossed every line. Thank you for staying above it. She’ll have to accept that I choose my life—and my wife.» He kissed my fingers. «I’m on your side.»

A month later I sat in my new office: head of analytics. The promotion was earned—results spoke for themselves. Colleagues regarded me with respect tinged with caution, but I was still the same Darya. Now everyone simply knew who I was.

On my desk stood a new photo—me, Yegor, and my father at a family dinner. A real family, without secrets.

I’d won respect not through a surname, but through skill, composure, and the courage to be myself. And that meant more than any title.

The sixth month isn’t exactly the ideal time for cozy family get‑togethers with your husband’s relatives—especially when most of them never warmed up to you. Vera knew this, yet she agreed anyway. Anton had just come back from a two‑week business trip, and her mother‑in‑law, Regina Mikhailovna, insisted on a “small family dinner.”

“Come on,” Anton coaxed from the bedroom doorway. “Mom just wants to see us. She’s worried.”

Vera sighed.
“She’s worried… Sure. She hasn’t even called in three months to ask how I’m doing. And now suddenly she cares.”

“She just doesn’t know how to approach you. You haven’t been all that friendly either.”

“Don’t blame it on me,” Vera shot him a weary look. “You know how they feel about me. Especially your mother.”

“Enough,” Anton grimaced. “We’ve discussed this a hundred times. You’re exaggerating.”

“Exaggerating?” Vera stood up sharply, her dress stretching snugly over her rounded belly. “Remember at our wedding when your mother said she hoped her grandchildren would look like you, not like me?”

Anton rolled his eyes tiredly.
“All right, okay, she can be… tactless. But things have changed now. You’re expecting—soon we’ll have a child. She really wants to mend things.”

Vera tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and checked her watch. Half an hour to go. Her bump was plainly visible now, so she’d chosen a loose‑cut, dark‑blue dress with a small floral print. Mother‑in‑law would surely sneer at its simplicity. “Too plain,” she’d say in that special tone that sent shivers down Vera’s spine.

“All right,” Vera surrendered. “But if they start in with their usual jabs, I won’t stay silent. Consider yourself warned.”

—

Regina Mikhailovna’s home was always immaculate. Even now, as a fine autumn drizzle fell outside and the wind scattered yellow leaves across the path, it was warm, dry, and spotlessly clean indoors—no speck of dust on the antique furniture, not a blemish on the snow‑white tablecloth.

“Come in, take off your coats,” Regina Mikhailovna smiled politely, eyeing Vera critically. “Oh my, you’re quite… round already.”

“Hello, Regina Mikhailovna,” Vera forced a smile. “Yes, six months along now.”

“Six months?” Her mother‑in‑law raised an eyebrow. “You look eight. Must be a big baby. Or are you just retaining a lot of fluid? Have you checked your blood pressure?”

“I have,” Vera swallowed the lump in her throat. “Everything’s normal.”

“Hm,” Regina Mikhailovna shook her head. “Let’s just hope there are no complications later.”

Anton squeezed Vera’s hand—was it encouragement or warning? In six years of marriage, Vera still couldn’t read his signals.

“Mama, must you speak of complications right away?” Anton tried to lighten the mood. “The doctor says everything’s fine.”

“Oh, Antonushka, what do those doctors know? Svetlana Petrovna’s daughter said the same, and then nearly died in childbirth—if not for an emergency operation…”

“Mama!” Anton cut her off sharply. “Let’s not, okay?”

In the living room already sat the rest: Larisa, Regina’s sister, with her husband Vadim, and their son—Anton’s cousin Kirill. Vera exhaled. The full collection.

“Well, here come our young ones!” Larisa waved a hand, cigarette in the other. “Come in, sit down. Veronica, how are you feeling, dear?”

“Vera,” she corrected automatically. Six years and her husband’s aunt still “accidentally” mangled her name.

 

“Oh, sorry, dear. My memory is slipping,” Larisa laughed as if nothing were wrong. “Verushka, of course. How’s your health? The bump is huge already!”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Vera replied curtly, sinking onto a chair.

“Tense, aren’t you?” Larisa squinted. “We’re family! You can tell us if something’s bothering you. Morning sickness, for example. I know someone who suffered so badly she wanted to terminate at six months—can you imagine?”

“Larisa!” Regina Mikhailovna scolded. “One does not discuss such things at the table.”

“What’s wrong with that?” shrugged Larisa. “It’s the twenty‑first century—everyone knows everything.”

The table groaned under salads, cold cuts, hot dishes—Regina Mikhailovna knew how to entertain. Only Vera could eat almost nothing, the nausea refusing to let up despite being in the second trimester.

“Please help yourselves,” Regina Mikhailovna nodded at a carafe of blackcurrant compote. “This is from my own berries. Antonushka, remember how you loved this as a child?”

“I do, Mom,” Anton smiled. “Especially with your pies.”

“I baked some just for you today,” the mother proudly announced.

Anton sat next to Vera but immediately turned to Kirill, discussing work matters. Vera toyed with her fork in the salad, searching for something her stomach would tolerate.

“Anton, you should pay more attention to your wife,” Larisa observed. “She’s pregnant. A woman needs care and attention now, not work talk.”

“We spend the whole day together,” Anton waved him off. “Shopping for a car this morning, then groceries…”

“A car?” Kirill perked up. “What are you getting?”

“Just looking at family‑style options—something bigger for the baby.”

“Are you sure you need a family car so soon?” Vadim interjected with a smirk. “The baby isn’t even born… you never know.”

“What do you mean?” Anton frowned.

“Well, just saying,” Vadim shrugged, raising his eyebrows.

Vera tensed. She could feel how unpleasant the air had become.

“How’s the nursery renovation going?” Larisa jumped in. “Anton, you’ll do it up nicely for your little one? You had that room ready, didn’t you?”

“What renovation?” Anton waved his hand. “I just got back. I’ll do it later.”

“There isn’t much time left,” Regina Mikhailovna pursed her lips. “Three months will fly by.”

“We’ll make it, Mom. Don’t worry.”

“Or maybe less time,” Kirill chimed in, winking. “Big bumps like yours often mean early labor. I’m curious—when your belly is that big, how does the husband manage?”

Vera clutched her fork. Her pregnancy was already complicated; her doctor had warned about possible premature birth from blood-pressure issues.

“Kirill!” Anton rebuked, but without much conviction.

“What’s wrong?” Kirill feigned innocence. “I’m just asking. I’m genuinely curious.”

“You’d better keep quiet,” Vera spat. “Some questions aren’t fit for the dinner table.”

“Oh wow, hormones are raging here,” Kirill laughed, elbowing Anton. “She’s feisty.”

“Did you hear she was on bed rest?” Larisa leaned toward Vera, shifting topics. “Must have been tough without her husband. Anton’s always away. How did you cope? Neighbors must’ve helped?”

Vera sensed a trap but couldn’t pinpoint it.
“Friends dropped by,” she answered briefly. “And my sister visited on weekends.”

“What about that neighbor of yours—Igor? He’s in medicine, right?” Larisa glanced conspiratorially at Regina.

“Georgiy,” Anton corrected. “Yes, so?”

“Just wondering,” Larisa shrugged. “Did he help when you felt bad? Because you always say Anton isn’t there—he can’t switch the TV channels, his laptop freezes, he can’t carry your bags—yet Georgiy’s always around.”

“No,” Vera snapped, seeing exactly where this was going.

“So, what are you having, boy or girl?” Vadim changed the subject again.

“We don’t know yet,” Anton answered. “We want it to be a surprise.”

“Oh, that’s a mistake,” Regina Mikhailovna shook her head. “You have to prepare—buy clothes, toys.”

“We’ll get everything we need,” Vera objected. “There are plenty of unisex items nowadays.”

“Modern youth,” Regina snorted. “In our day we knew exactly who was coming and prepared accordingly.”

“How did you know?” Vera couldn’t resist. “They didn’t have ultrasounds then.”

“A mother’s intuition,” her mother‑in‑law replied flatly. “You can’t fool maternal instinct—though some lack it.”

“Can’t tell from your bump whether it’s a boy,” Larisa mused. “Boy bumps point forward, more pointed. Yours is… vague. Twins, maybe?”

“Larisa, it’s already hard enough for a girl,” Regina Mikhailovna jumped in. “Don’t scare her.”

“I’m not scaring her,” Larisa shrugged. “Just curious. There’ve been no twins in Anton’s family—did your side ever have them?”

“No,” Vera shook her head.

 

“Strange,” Larisa frowned. “And Georgiy’s family? Any twins?”

Vera dropped her fork. The clink of metal against porcelain made everyone start.

Kirill burst out laughing.
“Larisa!” Regina Mikhailovna exclaimed, though her tone held more curiosity than outrage.

“What’s wrong?” Larisa batted her eyelashes innocently. “I’m just interested in genetics. It’s fascinating.”

Vera turned her gaze on her husband. Anton sat with his head bowed, nervously twisting his fork. He didn’t even try to defend her.

“Wait a minute, Antoha…” Kirill squinted at Vera’s belly. “You were on that February trip. The math has to add up, right?”

“I was home,” Anton muttered without looking up. “Everything adds up. Why are you digging?”

Silence fell. Anton froze, then managed an uncertain smile.

“You know what gift to get?” Larisa pressed on. “A DNA test. No more counting or guessing.”

“Exactly,” Kirill agreed, exchanging looks with Vadim. “Instant clarity, practical and modern.”

“They’re inexpensive now,” Vadim added, spearing some salad. “One swab—you have results in three days.”

“And how do you know so precisely?” Larisa narrowed her eyes. “Have you tested someone?”

“I just know,” Vadim grumbled. “They’re everywhere—among friends, on TV. Stories more amazing than the last.”

“You speak truth,” Regina Mikhailovna nodded, pouring more compote with a sly smile. “It’s better to know early, no surprises.”

She cast a sidelong glance at her son.
“Regina,” Larisa chided, “you sound like an investigator.”

“And what of it?” Regina shrugged. “I’m serious—especially these days.”

“Well, if we’re talking about neighbors,” Kirill grinned, “what about Vera’s neighbor? Georgiy, right? Always hovering, always helping—like an angel guardian.”

Anton joined in the joke:
“That Georgiy… I’m thinking maybe I should really send him a test? He’s awfully helpful.”

Everyone laughed.

“All right,” Anton said, looking at his mother and Larisa. “But seriously, for a gift I’d ask for a gym membership.”

He gestured toward Vera:
“She’ll want to get her figure back after childbirth. I’m afraid I can’t handle it.”

Larisa scoffed. Kirill sniggered. Vadim grinned. Regina Mikhailovna pursed her lips, hiding a smile.

“You’re funny, Antonushka,” Larisa clicked her tongue. “A true dad. Your father was sharp‑tongued too.”

“Better with humor than lawyers,” Kirill agreed. “And the test’s a good idea—fun and useful.”

“Most importantly—know in advance,” Regina Mikhailovna insisted. “You raise a grandchild, and he turns out not to be yours.”

Laughter and clinking glasses rang out. Only Vera sat motionless, staring into space. Under the table, her fingers clenched the napkin until it turned white.

She slowly lifted her head and met Regina Mikhailovna’s eyes with a gaze as cold as a January moon.

“Is that why you spoke so confidently about DNA tests—because your own hands aren’t clean?” Her voice was calm, each word falling like a stone. “Isn’t that why your husband ran away? Because he doubted that Anton was his son? Or should we ask Uncle Vadim?” She looked pointedly around the table.

Silence, heavy as a down quilt. Regina Mikhailovna froze with a fork poised at her lips, her face turning as pale as the napkins stacked beside her plate.

Anton turned to Vera so abruptly he nearly knocked over his glass; his face went beet‑red, eyes wide as a child who’s just seen a magician’s trick.

Vadim, as though choking, began unfastening his shirt collar, as if it had shrunk two sizes.

Larisa stood stock‑still, her gaze darting like a tennis spectator between her sister and her husband.

“How dare you?” Regina Mikhailovna’s voice trembled like a leaf in the wind.

“Vera, are you out of your mind?” Anton seized her hand. “What nonsense is this?”

“Nonsense?” Vera shrugged him off and looked at him with tired pity. “Your father told me on his deathbed. He suspected it until the last day and said you had the right to know. I decided it would destroy your life, so I stayed silent.”

“You lie!” Regina Mikhailovna’s voice quavered, unsure as a broken musical instrument.

“Why is Vadim whitening over there? And why is Larisa gripping the table like it might take off?!” Vera demanded.

All eyes turned to Larisa. She swallowed hard as if it were her final chance.

“Larisa?” Regina Mikhailovna’s voice cracked.

Vadim slowly raised his head, looking at his wife with the sorrow of a man whose darkest fears have just been confirmed.
“I’ve suspected it for years,” he said bitterly. “And Anton is so like my father—the same eyes, the same chin.”

“Vadim!” Larisa screamed as if stung.

“Shut up,” he waved her off. “Thirty years, Larisa. Thirty years of lies.”

Regina Mikhailovna made a sound like a wounded bird’s sob. Her hands trembled as if gripped by a sudden fever.

“You… you…” she stammered, shifting her wild gaze between sister and son. “You suspected all these years?”

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” Larisa snapped. “Your husband overshared everything with me when he’d been drinking.”

“I… I…” Regina Mikhailovna clutched her heart with theatrical flair; Vera nearly rolled her eyes.

“So does that mean… Anton, your father might not be your father?” No one answered. All looked to Regina Mikhailovna, deflated like a popped balloon.

“Vera,” Anton turned to his wife, eyes glistening like wet pavement, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would it have changed anything?” she shrugged. “He’s the only father I’ve known. Who’s loved me. Does the blood really matter?”

For two years she’d harbored a secret capable of shattering his world. And now it had exploded with a single phrase like a grenade.

“I need some air,” Vera rose, sliding her chair back as if leaving a royal reception rather than this circus of grotesques.

“Wait!” Anton grabbed her arm. “You can’t just go after… after everything!”

“I can,” Vera freed her arm softly but firmly. “And I am. I have nowhere left here.”

“And what about…” he faltered, staring at her belly.

“The baby?” she smirked. “Don’t worry—he’s definitely yours. Unlike some, I know who fathered my child.”

Vera shoved her phone into her bag, zipped it up, and strode for the door as everyone erupted—Regina screaming at Larisa, “You! It’s all your fault!” Larisa shrieking back, Vadim mumbling something about “thirty years of lies.” Only Anton sat silent, as if his tongue had been cut out.

 

No one even tried to stop her. Good. She didn’t care.

She pushed the door open and nearly slipped on the rain‑slicked step. The storm had passed; only darkness and the occasional glimpse of moon and a distant flickering streetlamp remained.

Vera took a few steps away from the house and halted. Her head buzzed. Where now? Home was impossible—there he’d appear drunk on grief. To her parents? Her mother’s blood pressure couldn’t take another scandal. To friend Lenka’s? Her tiny flat wasn’t meant for a pregnant woman.

Her belly fluttered. She placed a hand there and felt the baby kick.

“You’re getting restless too, huh?” she whispered and smiled. “We’ll manage, trust me.”

She pulled out her phone—its screen cracked from a fall a week ago—and called a taxi. “Forget them all. We’ll be fine.”

The phone beeped: “Driver on the way.” Vera sank onto the bench by the gate—her legs gave out. She didn’t want to go home. Not ever again. Six years wasted… She had loved him. Foolishly. Cooked for him, washed those nasty socks. And he—“Who needs anyone like that?” Traitor.

Tears burned down her cheeks—angry, hot tears.
“And you too,” Vera scolded her reflection on the phone screen. “Stop this whining.”

“Here at last,” a voice said. She wiped her tears on her sleeve—didn’t want the driver to see her crying. What next? Where to?

The car headlights swept the path. The driver—balding—leaned out.
“Taxi for you?”

Vera nodded, struggling to stand. The driver got out and opened her door. Top service, she thought.

Suddenly Anton burst from the house—hair tousled, face contorted—rubber‑soled shoes unlaced, shirt splashed with something fresh. Mother‑in‑law must have thrown a fork at him.

“Vera! Stop!”

“What?” she folded her arms. “Still have something to add? About me being fat and worthless?”

“Come on,” Anton panted. “I didn’t mean that. I just blurted.”

“Right. Just,” she repeated. “And you all just did what you do best. Enough!”

“You going?” the driver interjected, glancing between them. “I need to know.”

“Yes,” Vera climbed in and slammed the door.

“Sorry,” Anton mouthed through the glass.

“Never mind,” Vera mouthed back, as the car pulled away.

She watched the house recede, the rain beginning again, droplets drumming on the roof. You can’t outrun people. But for now—sleep, breathe.

Vera stared at the black clouds drifting past, at the yards swallowed by darkness. She belongs nowhere there. She won’t return. She won’t forgive. You can’t treat people like this.

Yeseniya worked as an accountant in a modest construction firm.
A nondescript office building on the outskirts of the capital. An average income. A routine life. Yet deep inside, she always held a cherished goal — to launch her own business. In the evenings, like many of her colleagues, she studied financial management software, devoured business publications, and developed entrepreneurial strategies.

Denis appeared in her life unexpectedly.
Some mutual friends invited her to a countryside celebration. He worked as an administrator at a car dealership. He earned well and knew how to charm: dates, flowers, movie nights on weekends. A year later, they got married.

The early stage of their marriage went smoothly.
Yeseniya continued progressing in her career and self-education, saving money for her project. Denis, however, dismissed her ambition:
“Let her play businesswoman — as long as dinner’s on time.”

Then the problems at the dealership started.
Sales dropped. Salaries were cut. Denis began coming home irritable, snapping over small things. Yeseniya paid no mind. She had just been promoted to Head of Finance and now earned twice as much as her husband — something that demoralized him.

Evenings became silent trials. Denis sulked in the living room with his phone, purposely ignoring her. When she tried sharing her work victories, he grimaced and stepped out onto the balcony to smoke. When she bought a new laptop to replace her outdated one, he slammed the door and went out to his friends.
“Throwing money around?” he muttered the next morning.

“It’s my money, Denis. I earned it,” she replied — for the first time.
He hurled his cup into the sink and left for work.

The breaking point came with a company party invitation.
“Dress code: festive. Attendance mandatory, with spouses,” said the HR email.
Yeseniya tried to decline — she sensed it would end badly. But her supervisor insisted:
“You’re a department head now, dear. You have to show up.”

The event took place at a cozy restaurant near Chistye Prudy. The company rented the entire second floor — about thirty employees, plus partners.
Yeseniya was nervous. It was the first time she attended as a financial director. She picked a simple black dress, flat shoes — she never liked standing out.

Denis grumbled the whole way.
First about traffic, then parking, then how the tie was choking him. Yeseniya stayed silent — she had gotten used to his moods ever since his work troubles began.

The evening started well.
The CEO, Mikhail Stepanovich, gave a speech on the company’s success and handed out awards. Yeseniya received special thanks — for implementing a new financial system that saved the company millions.

“And now, a toast to our new head of finance,” Mikhail raised his glass. “Yeseniya joined us three years ago as a junior accountant. But her dedication, intelligence, and drive showed us she was meant for more. Congratulations on the promotion! And on the new salary,” he winked.

Applause filled the room. Chief accountant Tatyana Petrovna hugged her:
“You earned it, sweetheart.”
Colleagues smiled warmly — Yeseniya was well respected.

Then someone asked, “So what’s the new salary like?”
Mikhail, flushed from the wine, waved it off:
“Impressive! She now makes more in a month than some do in half a year.”

That’s when Denis snapped.
He had been silently chewing on hors d’oeuvres. Now he sat upright, face red — not from embarrassment, but rage.

“What’s there to celebrate?” he said loudly, so everyone could hear. “Big deal, pushing papers! I work in a car dealership…”

“Dear, maybe stop?” Yeseniya gently touched his sleeve.

“No, I won’t stop!” He jerked his arm away. “Why is everyone worshipping her?”

Yeseniya noticed the twitch in his cheek — a telltale sign of an impending meltdown. He had the same look when he got demoted.

“You think she’s special?” he sneered. “She just sucks up to management! I bust my back every day selling cars, dealing with customers—”

“Denis, please,” Yeseniya tried again.

“What, Denis?” He spun toward her. “The truth hurts? She sits in her comfy office, clicking a mouse — and now she’s a star?” He grabbed his glass, spilling the drink. “And I’m just… nothing now? A zero?”

The table shrank from the awkwardness.
But Denis wasn’t done:

“Maybe I should just quit work altogether! Ha! My wife’s a milk factory! Why work at all?”
The clang of cutlery on a plate cut the silence.
Tatyana turned pale.
Mikhail frowned.
And Dima, the young programmer known for his smoke-break jokes, suddenly stood up.

“You should apologize,” he said.

Denis turned even redder.

“To who? To her?” he pointed at Yeseniya. “She’d be nothing without me! I taught her everything!”

“Taught me what, Denis?” Yeseniya’s voice was quiet, but everyone went silent. “To stay silent when it hurts? To smile when it’s disgusting? To pretend everything’s okay?”

She stood up, smoothed her dress.
“Thank you. Truly. You taught me a lot. Like how some men don’t need wives — they need doormats. To wipe their feet on.”

She turned and walked out.
There was a commotion behind her — sounded like Dima punched Denis. But she didn’t look back.

In the taxi, she didn’t cry.
She stared at the glowing city and thought how glad she was she never had a child with him. How right she was to insist on her goals. How necessary it was to hear those words — “milk factory” — to finally wake up and stop pretending.

She woke at six.
Her head buzzed — not from alcohol, but thoughts. Denis was still asleep on the living room couch, reeking of booze. On the coffee table: an empty cognac bottle and a toppled wedding photo.

She grabbed four large garbage bags from the closet and started packing his things.

At nine, the doorbell rang.
Denis stirred. “What… what’s going on?” he mumbled.

“I’m changing the locks,” she said, opening the door for the locksmith.

“Why?”

“So you don’t come back.”

He sat up, stunned. “You serious? Over last night? I just had too much!”

“No, Denis. Not over last night. Your things are by the door. Documents are in the side pocket of your bag. You can leave the keys here.”

While the locksmith worked, Denis silently got dressed. At the door, he turned back:

“You’ll regret this.”

 

“I already don’t,” she replied.

The divorce was fast and quiet.
Yeseniya dove into work. Then one day, Denis showed up at her office unannounced.

“Hey… look, I got fired. Maybe you could take me on? I mean, I am—”

“An ex-husband?” she looked up. “Sorry, we’re an all-female team. Company policy.”

He lingered awkwardly.

“You know, I was harsh back then. But you made it. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks,” she smiled. “Close the door behind you. You can send your resume to HR — they reply to everyone.”

The phone rang. Her younger sister:
“Esy, guess what? I got the job! I’m a financial director now too!”

“Congrats, baby!” Yeseniya beamed. “Get ready — there’s a lot of work.”

“I can handle it! I’ve got you — you’ll teach me everything.”

“I will,” she said, glancing at a childhood photo of the two of them. “Just remember — never let anyone call you a milk factory.”

Laughter echoed through the phone.

“You’ll definitely teach me that! Hey, maybe we should start something together? Our own business?”

“Maybe,” Yeseniya grabbed her bag. “Come over this weekend. We’ll talk.”

She walked to the metro.
People rushed past — tired, serious, each with their own story. She knew: some of them were just like her. Brave enough to start over. To believe in themselves. To learn to say no.

At home, she kicked off her shoes, turned on the kettle, and opened her laptop. She sketched out a new business idea — with her sister. Something simple and useful. No flash, no ego.
Maybe accounting workshops for beginners? Or consulting for women launching their own ventures?

Rain tapped at the window.
She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and smiled at her thoughts.

Tomorrow would be a new day.
And it would definitely be better than the last.

Four rooms, a bright kitchen, and a living-room the size of a dance floor—Sasha led Alena through the new flat like a tour guide showing off a museum of his own achievements.

“Look at the scale of it all!” he swept his arm across the living-room. “Now every relative can fit in—and we’ll still have space left over. Mum says she’s dreamed of a place where the whole family can gather.”

Alena listened and nodded. A twenty-year mortgage was serious, of course, but at least the home was theirs—no more rentals, no more living with parents. After five years in a studio whose kitchen was hardly bigger than a wardrobe, this felt like a real palace.

The first months disappeared into renovations and furnishing. Full of enthusiasm, Sasha chose wallpaper, argued with builders, and sketched furniture layouts. He proudly showed every stage to friends who dropped by—each with a bottle—to toast the new place.

Quietly, Alena rejoiced over the new kitchen appliances: dinner could now be cooked in half the time.

“Can you imagine the feasts we’ll throw?” Sasha repeated again and again. “Everyone in my family loves getting together! Mum adores big family gatherings.”

Alena could imagine. Her mother-in-law, Svetlana Pavlovna, already liked to appear for surprise inspections—to see how her precious son was living. What would happen now?

They celebrated the move modestly—Sasha wanted a huge party, but Alena insisted they settle in first.

“We’ll have time,” she said. “Let’s unpack every box and put everything in its place.”

That conversation happened on a Friday. On Sunday morning the phone rang.

“Sashenka, we thought we’d drop by and see how you’ve settled,” his mother’s voice sounded so innocent that Alena instantly understood—they were prepared for a full visit.

“Who’s ‘we’?” she asked tensely.

“Mum and Natasha. They won’t stay long,” Sasha waved it off. “Just tea.”

“Just tea” stretched into the whole day. The moment she crossed the threshold, Svetlana Pavlovna began giving orders:

“Alena, put the kettle on. What do you have for tea? Nothing? Well, I brought something.”

She settled into an armchair like a queen on her throne and pulled a box of pastries from her bag.

“I don’t eat these shop-bought things,” she declared, “but I bought them for you.”

Natasha, Sasha’s sister, immediately set off on a tour of the flat.

“Such… interesting wallpaper,” she commented in the bedroom. “An unusual choice.”

Alena let it slide. Wallpaper was wallpaper—neutral grey with a faint pattern.

“And what kind of tiles do you have in the kitchen? I’d never have chosen those,” Natasha ran a finger along the worktop. “Is white even practical?”

By evening, when the visitors finally left, Alena felt wrung out like a sponge. She cleared cups, washed pastry plates, and said to Sasha,

“Next time they should warn us, all right? I’d at least fix my hair properly.”

Sasha just laughed. “Come on, it’s my family—no formalities.”

The next visit didn’t take long to arrive. A week later Kolya—Sasha’s brother—appeared at the door with his wife Irina and their two kids.

“Hi-hi! Mum said you’re living in style now,” Kolya clapped Sasha on the shoulder and barged in without wiping his feet.

The children scattered through the rooms, while Irina perched on the sofa, looking around with interest.

“We’re only here for an hour,” she said. “Just to have a look.”

That “hour” lasted until late evening. The kids tore around like two little hurricanes. One knocked over a vase of flowers, soaking the new rug. Alena rushed to mop up, but Irina only waved a hand:

“Oh, it’ll dry. It’s just water! Kids will be kids.”

At ten o’clock, when the guests finally gathered their things, Alena felt a fierce urge to bolt the door and never open it again.

“Great evening,” Sasha yawned after the door closed. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Sometime,” Alena echoed, staring at the stain on the carpet.

But “sometime” came the very next week. And the week after. And the one after that.

Sunday visits slowly became tradition. Sometimes Sasha’s mother showed up with Natasha, sometimes Kolya arrived with his clan, and sometimes they all came together. Every time, Alena ended up at the stove.

“You won’t serve guests an empty table, will you?” Sasha was baffled whenever she protested. “That’s rude. Whip something up. You know there’ll probably be visitors on Sunday—stock up for everyone.”

By the tenth Sunday Alena had learned to get up an hour early so lunch would be ready before the guests arrived. By the twentieth she stopped making her own weekend plans. By the thirtieth she counted down the days to the next visit with dread, like waiting for an inevitable disaster.

Sasha openly enjoyed the gatherings. He glowed when his mum praised Alena’s cooking, or when Kolya looked around the spacious living-room with awe and envy.

“It’s like a good restaurant now!” he boasted. “Always a laid table, pleasant music, room for everyone.”

 

Alena just smiled through her fatigue. At the college where she lectured on literature, people thought her patient and gentle. Students loved her classes; colleagues valued her calm. No one saw how, every Sunday, she turned into a workhorse pulling an endless cart of obligations she’d never wanted.

By the end of the first year she stopped asking questions. She spent half of every Friday inventing menus, shopped on Saturday, and rose with the first light on Sunday to cook. By year two she could smile so convincingly no one saw the strain. By year three she’d almost accepted that her home had become a public thoroughfare and she herself a silent attachment to the stove.

Three years. One hundred fifty-six Sundays. Thousands of hours spent cooking, setting tables, cleaning up. Alena counted the time the way prisoners count the days to freedom.

Her mother-in-law gradually came to see the visits as a given. She no longer asked if she might come—she simply arrived with a box of chocolates or a supermarket cake. Sometimes on Saturday, sometimes Sunday.

“I was just passing by,” she’d say, heading straight for the kitchen. “Thought I’d pop in on the kids.”

Every time, Alena mentally inventoried the fridge, guessing what could be made quickly from what was on hand. Even if her mother-in-law turned up unannounced, there had to be food in the house—an unwritten rule after all these years. And if Alena didn’t manage to cook something in time, Sasha always reminded her once the guests had left.

“Mum loves your casserole,” he’d say with reproach. “And you couldn’t be bothered to make anything decent. They don’t come every day—only on weekends.”

“They come every Sunday, Sasha. And often without notice,” Alena tried to argue.

“They’re my family,” he snapped. “I want them to feel at home here.”

And Alena wondered more and more—where she was supposed to feel at home.

She knew altogether too much about this family’s tastes: his mother hated anything spicy, Natasha wouldn’t touch onion, Kolya accepted only Olivier salad, and his kids turned up their noses at anything not resembling fast food.

Weekdays were calmer. Alena taught at the college, Sasha worked at his office, their son Denis was at school. Evenings they ate together and watched films; sometimes Alena managed to read. But once the weekend arrived, order crumbled and the house filled with other people’s voices, requests, demands.

She tried to talk to Sasha.

“Could we meet up less often?” she ventured. “Maybe once a month?”

“What?” he was genuinely surprised. “Why? Mum likes visiting us.”

“But it’s every week, Sasha. I’m exhausted.”

“Exhausted from what?” he stared at her. “You cook every day anyway.”

“Compare making a simple dinner for three to a feast for ten!” Alena burst out. “Your mum wants one thing, Natasha another, Kolya something else, and the kids won’t eat anything. It’s not just the cooking—it’s a whole day of tension when I can’t rest, read, or even take a shower in peace.”

Sasha frowned, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

“Mum says a proper woman should be able to host guests,” he said slowly. “It’s a sign of a good homemaker. You wouldn’t want her to think you’re—”

“Think I’m what?” Alena cut in. “A bad homemaker? A bad wife? Or simply a person with her own needs and wishes?”

“Don’t twist my words,” he winced. “I just want a normal, close-knit family. For Mum and the others to feel good here.”

“And what about me feeling good? Does that fit your definition of a normal family?”

Sasha didn’t reply. He just waved a hand and left the room—the conversation over before it had begun, like so many before it.

She submitted. Or nearly did. Outwardly, yes—she no longer argued, rose early every Sunday, and cooked for the crowd. But inside, irritation and incomprehension kept piling up.
“You’re acting so strange lately,” Sasha remarked one day. “So quiet and withdrawn.”

“I’ve always been quiet,” she replied.

“No, you used to be… different,” he tried to find the right words. “More cheerful, perhaps.”

Alёna fell silent. What can you say when no one really listens anyway? What can you say when constant tension and endless work for the public leave you with no strength even for a smile? When exhaustion piles up like a snowball, pressing and pressing…

That fateful Sunday, nothing heralded any change. An ordinary day, ordinary guests, ordinary conversation at the table. Her mother-in-law had arrived early—to “help,” which in her language meant to sit in the kitchen and dole out advice. Natasha had brought another box of candies, which was immediately opened and devoured with tea. Kolya, along with his wife and children, joined for lunch.

From the morning, Alёna felt a vague irritability. Not anger, not wrath—just a dull, endless weariness, like a toothache that just wouldn’t quit.

“Alёnchka, why are you so sullen?” her mother-in-law inquired as she watched Alёna slicing vegetables. “Did you not sleep well?”

“Everything’s fine,” Alёna answered without looking up.

“And what kind of salad are you going to make? With mayonnaise? You know, I’m on a diet.”

“Dressing on the side—I remember.”

“And will you roast or fry the chicken?”

“I’ll roast it.”

“Mmm. I much prefer it fried.”

Alёna silently opened the refrigerator and pulled out a second chicken. So, it would have to be done both ways. Well, not the first time.

By one o’clock the table was set. Roasted chicken, fried chicken, potatoes, two types of salad, sauces, bread, drinks. Alёna called everyone to the table.

“Oh, how beautiful!” Natasha exclaimed as she sat down. “You’re always amazing.”

Alёna forced a weak smile and remained at the stove—she needed to take the pie out of the oven.

“Alёn, where’s the salt?” Sasha called out to her.

“It’s on the table.”

“I don’t see it.”

Alёna approached and silently placed the salt shaker right in front of him.

“Alёnchka,” her mother-in-law interjected immediately, “is there any sauce for the chicken? It seems a bit dry, doesn’t it?”

“Right there in the sauce boat,” Alёna nodded in that direction.

“And what about the garlic one? You know I get heartburn from garlic.”

Alёna returned to the kitchen and made another sauce, this time without garlic. Yet again today, yet again in these three years.

Returning to the living room, she found that everyone was already enthusiastically devouring the meal, talking loudly. Her place at the table had been taken by her mother-in-law’s purse.

“Oh, sorry,” the woman feigned a sudden start upon noticing Alёna’s look. “I just put my things here. I’ll remove it right now.”

Alёna set the sauce on the table and sat on the edge of a chair. She wasn’t hungry. She wanted to lie down, close her eyes, and have everything vanish. To have silence descend.

“Why aren’t you eating?” Sasha asked with a mouthful. “It’ll get cold.”

“Later,” she shook her head.

 

The conversation at the table went on as usual. They discussed someone’s wedding, then rising prices, then the children’s success at school. Alёna could only catch fragments of phrases, as if through cotton.

“Alёna, where’s that wonderful mustard of yours?” Kolya suddenly asked. “Remember, last time it was so sharp you’d lick your fingers.”

“I’ll bring it right now,” she said as she stood and went into the kitchen.

But there was no mustard in the refrigerator. Apparently, it was finished; maybe she’d forgotten to buy it. Or not forgotten, just overlooked—amid an endless cycle of shopping and cooking, it wasn’t surprising to miss something.

“No mustard,” she said upon returning.

“What do you mean, no mustard?” Kolya theatrically flailed his arms. “How can I live without mustard? Oh, you’ve completely disrespected your guests!”

It was a joke. She knew it was a joke. But something inside her trembled, stretched to its limit like a string just before it snapped.

“Alёn,” Sasha said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “there’s still some compote in the fridge. Bring some, will you?”

Silently, she went and brought the compote. She poured it into glasses and returned to her seat.

“Just a little for me,” her mother-in-law capriciously insisted. “I might get diabetes from too much sweetness.”

Alёna took her glass and poured about half of it back into the jug.

“Don’t you feel like you’re a bit twitchy today?” Sasha whispered to her as he leaned in. “At least smile a little—the guests will get cold food.”

She forced a smile, one that made her lips spasm painfully.

“That’s it, dear,” he patted her hand. “You know how much I love it when you smile.”

The meal was nearing its end. Alёna began gathering the empty plates.

“Leave them; you can wash them later,” Sasha waved his hand. “Bring the pie.”

She brought the pie, cut it, and served each person a slice.

“Alёn, where are the whipped cream?” Kolya immediately asked. “You always brought whipped cream with the pie!”

“And make me some coffee too,” Sasha added. “Coffee goes so much better with pie than tea.”

She made the coffee. She whipped the cream. She served everyone and then sat down again in her chair, feeling her shoulders numb with exhaustion.

“Exquisite!” Sasha said as he delightedly took a bite of the pie, smearing his lips with cream. He reached toward the vase of fruit and pulled out a big orange.

“Peel it for me, will you?” he said, handing the orange to Alёna. “I’d get my hands all messy and then have to wash up again.”

She looked at his hands. They were clean, neat—even with a tidy manicure. She looked at the orange—a round, ordinary, orange fruit. Then she looked back at Sasha, then at her mother-in-law, and then at all the others seated at the table.

Three years. And this orange. This very ordinary orange.

“No,” she said.

Her voice rang out unexpectedly loud in the sudden silence. She herself was surprised at how distinctly that single word had sounded.

“What?” Sasha asked, not believing his ears.

“I said—no,” Alёna repeated. “I’m not going to peel your orange.”

A silence fell over the table so deep that the ticking of clocks in another room could be heard. Her mother-in-law froze with a fork in hand, not even managing to get a piece of pie to her mouth. Natasha snickered nervously as if she’d heard an indecent joke. Kolya stared into his cup, trying with all his might to ignore the awkwardness.

“Are you… joking?” Sasha attempted a smile, but it came out crooked and forced.

“No, I’m not joking,” Alёna replied. Now, with that first word spoken, everything came pouring out. “I’m not going to peel your orange. And I’m not going to bring any more compote. And I’m not going to top it off any longer. Enough.”

“Alёna, what’s gotten into you?” her mother-in-law’s voice carried a tinge of righteous indignation. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Absolutely fine,” Alёna nodded. “For the first time in a long time.”

“Let’s go to the kitchen,” Sasha said, standing abruptly and knocking over a chair. “We need to talk.”

He grabbed her hand and almost forcibly dragged her into the kitchen. Once there, he firmly closed the door and turned to her.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, barely holding back from yelling. “Did you decide to embarrass me in front of the whole family?”

“I’m not embarrassing anyone,” Alёna leaned against the refrigerator. “I just said ‘no.’”

“But why do it in front of everyone? Why not later, or in private? How dare you say ‘no’ right there in front of your mother-in-law!”

“Sure, in front of your mother, your brother, your sister. Get used to it.”

Sasha looked at her as though she had suddenly started speaking an alien language.

“Have you decided to humiliate me?” he spat out between gritted teeth. “Is this some sort of revenge?”

“No, Sasha. I’m not trying to humiliate you. And it’s not revenge,” Alёna shook her head. “I’m just tired of being treated like furniture with arms. I said ‘no’—directly to you. And to all this… circus.”

“What circus?”

“This one right here,” she said, gesturing around the kitchen. “Every Sunday I get up at the crack of dawn to cook for ten people. I set the table, clear it, wash the dishes, cook again, set the table again. And all the time you all sit there, talk, have fun. And I… I serve you. And you’ve all gotten so used to it that you don’t even notice.”

“You’re saying some nonsense,” Sasha began to pace the kitchen nervously. “No one’s forcing you…”

“Of course no one is forcing me,” Alёna agreed. “And that’s what hurts even more. You all think that this is just how it should be. That it’s normal—to come into someone else’s home and expect to be served as if in a restaurant.”

“This isn’t someone else’s home—it’s my family’s home!”

“And mine too,” Alёna said quietly. “But I feel as though I’m not living here, I’m working. And you know what’s the most painful part? That all these years it would have been enough for me to say just one word: ‘no.’ But I never said it. And now I have.”

Sasha opened his mouth, ready to argue, but at that moment the kitchen door cracked open, and her mother-in-law’s head appeared in the doorway.

“Is everything all right?” she asked. “We just finished our tea…”

“Everything’s fine, Mom,” Sasha replied without looking at her. “Go on, we’re coming.”

The door closed, yet the presence of her mother-in-law seemed to linger in the air—unseen but palpable.

 

“Listen,” Sasha lowered his voice, “maybe you’re just exhausted? Is it work stress?”

Alёna let out a soft, genuine laugh.

“No, Sasha,” she shook her head. “This isn’t about being tired or stressed. It’s a revelation. I suddenly realized that I am a person too. And I have the right to say ‘no.’”

She turned and left the kitchen, feeling an unprecedented lightness—as if she had shed a heavy backpack she’d been carrying for years.

In the living room a deathly silence reigned. Everyone pretended to be absorbed in the contents of their plates, but the tense postures made it clear—everyone had heard every word. Alёna approached the table, picked up the orange from the vase, sat down, and began peeling it. Slowly and carefully she removed the peel in a spiral, just as she had done in her childhood.

Sasha stood at the doorway, frozen, not knowing what to do next. Alёna divided the orange into sections, handed one to her son—who had silently observed everything the whole time.

“Thank you, Mom,” he whispered, and in his eyes Alёna saw something new—respect.

Sasha resumed his seat, took a second orange, and clumsily began peeling it, tearing off uneven pieces of the skin. No one uttered a word. Her mother-in-law opened her mouth several times but said nothing.

“Perhaps we should be going,” Natasha finally said as she rose. “Thank you for the lunch, Alёna.”

“Thank you.” For the first time in three years, Alёna heard that word of gratitude from her.

The guests departed with surprising speed. Usually they would stay until late into the night, but today everyone suddenly remembered they had urgent matters. Within half an hour the apartment was empty.

Sasha stood by the window, watching as relatives hurried into their cars.

“Are you satisfied?” he asked without turning around. “You chased them all away.”

“I didn’t chase anyone away,” Alёna said, gathering the plates from the table. “I simply said ‘no.’”

“And now what?” he turned to her. “You’re never going to cook for my family again? You’re going to ban them from coming?”

“No, Sasha. I don’t mind if your family comes. I’m against being a waitress in my own home. If your relatives want to come—let them come. But from now on, we’ll cook together. Or order food. Or they can bring something with them. Like in a normal family.”

“You do know Mom can’t cook…”

“At seventy-plus, one could have learned by now,” Alёna shrugged. “Besides, there are plenty of delivery services, semi-prepared meals, ready-made salads. We’re not living in the Stone Age.”

Sasha sank onto the couch and hid his face in his hands, exhausted.

“I don’t understand what came over you,” he murmured. “You’ve always been so… accommodating.”

“Exactly,” Alёna said as she sat down beside him. “Too accommodating. But you know what? I learned one simple thing: ‘No’ is also a word. And it’s important to know how to say it.”

She rose and walked to the kitchen to wash the dishes—not because she had to, but because she chose to. And that was the fundamental difference.

The following Sunday, the phone was silent. No one came. Sasha spent the day looking sullenly at his watch, but by evening he couldn’t bear it any longer and called his mother.

“Mom, aren’t you coming today?”

Alёna didn’t hear what his mother replied, but from the expression on her husband’s face she understood—something had changed.

 

A week later, her mother-in-law herself called.

“Sashenka, Natasha and I want to drop by. Just for a little while. I made a salad and baked a pie.”

When they arrived, Alёna greeted them at the door like ordinary guests, not like masters come to inspect her domain. Her mother-in-law awkwardly extended containers of food.

“Here, I prepared a little something… Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think you should…”

“Thank you,” Alёna said sincerely. “It means a lot.”

They sat down at the table of four—Alёna, Sasha, her mother-in-law, and Natasha. Alёna brought out a cake she had purchased from a confectioner; Sasha made the coffee; her mother-in-law distributed her salad onto the plates. All together.

“You know, it’s actually even more pleasant this way,” Natasha suddenly remarked as she served herself a slice of pie. “It feels… homely.”

Alёna caught Sasha’s eye across the table. In his gaze she saw surprise and something else—perhaps understanding? She smiled at him and, for the first time in a long while, felt not like a servant but the mistress of her own home. Of her own life.

No—that is also a word. And sometimes that single word is worth more than a thousand meaningless “yes.”

Do you agree with Alёna’s stance?