All Amazing Babies

A tiny black lens was staring at her from between the spines of the books.

Irina brushed the dust off the shelf and froze. Her fingers stopped a millimeter from the glass. This wasn’t part of the décor.

It was a camera. Her brain refused to accept it, shoving forward rational explanations: maybe it was some kind of new “smart home” system Rodion had forgotten to tell her about?

But her intuition—that quiet voice she’d ignored for so long—was screaming the opposite.

Her husband, Rodion, had installed a camera in their home.

The thought seared like red-hot metal. Not just a thought—an understanding. Why? To watch her? Did he suspect her of something?

Absurd. She worked from home; her life was an open book, planned down to the minute. Or did he think otherwise? What did he want to see? How she drank her morning coffee? How she spoke to clients on video calls?

She didn’t touch it. She stepped back carefully, and the room—so familiar, so dear—suddenly felt foreign, hostile. Every object seemed a potential spy. Now she looked at everything differently. She searched.

She found the second one in the living room, disguised as a smoke detector on the ceiling. The third—on the kitchen counter, built into a power brick for small appliances.

He had created a network. A web in their shared home, in their shared life. And she, Irina, was the fly, every movement tracked.

 

Something snapped inside. The woman she had been five minutes earlier—loving, trusting, a little naïve—died.

In her place there was only ringing emptiness and a cold, crystal-clear rage. He hadn’t just betrayed her trust; he had trampled her self-respect and turned their home into a prison.

She picked up his tablet, which, in his usual swaggering carelessness, he’d left on the couch. The password—the date of their wedding. What cruel irony. Once that date had seemed a symbol of love; now it was a symbol of lies.

An app opened on the screen. Four squares streaming video: living room, kitchen, bedroom, entryway. All the key points of the house were under his control. All except one.

His study.

The only place he forbade her to enter without knocking. His “fortress.” And suddenly it all made sense. It wasn’t about whom he wanted to watch. It was about where he wanted to be invisible.

He was creating an alibi for himself. A safe zone for someone else.

Irina walked into the study. For the first time, without knocking. The air was different here, saturated with the scent of expensive perfume—but not his. Methodically, she searched the desk.

In the bottom drawer, under a stack of old documents, she found what she was looking for. The box from a video surveillance system. And the manual. She skimmed the text. To add a new camera to the network, you had to scan a QR code and enter the administrator password.

The password was written in pen on the cover: Rodya_King. King. How predictable. And how foolish. His arrogance had become his weakness.

Her plan formed instantly. She carefully removed the camera from the entryway. The vent grille above his massive oak desk made the perfect observation post.

From there, the leather couch was in full view. Using the app on her phone and the “king’s” password, she added the camera to his own network without any trouble.

The system even helpfully offered a “stealth mode” so the owner wouldn’t receive a notification about the new device.

She put everything back exactly as it had been, down to the last speck of dust. And she waited.

That evening Rodion came home, smiling as always. He hugged her from the side and kissed her cheek. His touch felt sticky, fake.

“Dog-tired. I’ll probably sit in the study for a bit, finish a report.”

“Of course, darling,” Irina replied, her voice smooth as a windless lake. “I’ll make dinner in the meantime.”

He disappeared behind the door of his “fortress.” She opened the app on her phone. The fifth square on the screen came to life.

At first he really was working. And then she saw it.

A girl slipped into the study. Lilia. She came in from the other side of the house. Irina knew her—the daughter of her mother’s friend, always complaining about life.

Lilia shrugged off her cardigan, left in a tight dress, and looped her arms around Rodion’s neck.

Irina started recording her screen.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Lilia drawled petulantly. “This conspiracy is killing me. When are you going to tell her everything?”

“Soon, kitten, soon,” Rodion’s voice was wheedling. “Just a little longer. I need to prepare the ground.”

“Your ‘ground’ is your parents’ money. Without them you’re nobody. You’re not planning to leave your frump with empty pockets, are you?”

Rodion grimaced.

“Of course not! I’ve thought it all through. This Saturday my parents are having the family dinner. Tradition. I’ll tell them I’ve got a brilliant business project. A startup. They’ll give me money. A large sum. And then… then we’ll just leave.”

“And Irina?” Lilia asked, a thin strand of envy threading her voice.

Rodion waved a hand.

“She won’t find out until we’re far away. She’s too proper, too trusting. She doesn’t have the brains to suspect anything.”

Irina hit “stop.” She saved the video. An hour later Rodion emerged from the study beaming.

“Mmm, smells amazing. What’s for dinner?”

“Baked fish,” Irina said evenly.

“My favorite! You’re the best wife in the world, Irisha.”

She turned slowly.

“Yes. I’m the best. And on Saturday I’ll prove it to everyone.”

The Saturday dinner unfolded in an atmosphere of family prosperity. Rodion’s parents’ house was like a museum. Everything here obeyed ritual.

Irina sat straight-backed. Rodion, beside her, was all smiles.

“Dad, Mom,” he began when dessert was served, “I’ve come up with an idea that will change everything. A startup that’s going to blow up.”

He spoke at length and with passion. Arkady Nikolaevich listened skeptically; Yelena Pavlovna—with adoration.

“To get started I need an investment,” Rodion finally said. And he named the sum.

Arkady Nikolaevich looked at Irina.

“And what do you think, daughter? Do you support your husband?”

Rodion smirked smugly.

“Irina doesn’t understand these things, of course. This is high-level stuff. But she always supports me. Right, dear?”

That was the last straw. A public humiliation.

“You know, Rodya,” she said calmly, “I’ve actually gotten quite versed in startups lately. Especially the kind that require investment for a seaside getaway. With a mistress.”

Rodion froze.

“Irisha, what are you saying?”

“Oh, nothing at all. I even have a small presentation.”

She took out her phone and connected it to the giant plasma TV.

“What are you doing? Stop it!” Rodion hissed.

But the image was already on the screen: the leather couch in his study. And on it—Rodion himself. And Lilia. The sound was crystal clear.

Yelena Pavlovna pressed a hand to her mouth. Arkady Nikolaevich’s face turned slate-gray.

Rodion stared at the screen. There was a primal terror in his eyes. A husband had secretly installed cameras in his home—only to have the first video be his own disgrace…

The video ended.

“That’s your son’s business project,” Irina said to his parents. “I won’t be participating in it. Or in your life—either.”

Irina left without looking back. The next day Arkady Nikolaevich called her.

“Irina, I want to apologize. I always believed the family’s honor was paramount. He trampled it. He won’t get another kopeck from us. The house is in my name. You can stay there.”

“Thank you, Arkady Nikolaevich. But I won’t stay.”

 

“I understand. If you need anything…”

“I need only one thing: for your family never to be part of my life again.”

She hung up. Bits of news about Rodion reached her now and then. Deprived of money, he turned out to be nobody.

Lilia vanished. He was fired. He tried calling. She changed her number.

Epilogue. Two years later.

Irina’s agency, “The Eye,” occupied half a floor in a business center. She didn’t do banal spying. She provided security: found bugs, checked home networks for vulnerabilities, consulted.

Work became her life. She hired a team—former law-enforcement officers and young IT specialists. They respected her sharp mind and steely grip.

One evening she came across a letter with no return address. Rodion’s handwriting.

“Ira, I know I have no right. I work as a loader. I live in a rented room. For a long time I blamed you. Then I understood. I ruined my life myself. The day I decided I had the right to invade your space. My main mistake was thinking you were my property. Forgive me, if you can. Rodion.”

Irina looked at the lines for a long time. She felt nothing. No gloating, no pity. She crumpled the letter and threw it away.

Her phone buzzed on the desk. Viktor, her lead specialist. And the man who had been unobtrusively inviting her to dinner for six months.

“Irina Pavlovna, we’ve finished the audit. Everything’s clean.”

“Thank you, Viktor. Excellent work.”

“Shall we celebrate? I know a place with a wonderful view.”

Before, she would have refused. But Rodion’s letter had finally set her free.

“With pleasure,” she replied, her smile light and genuine. “Pick me up in half an hour.”

She walked up to the mirror. A strong, self-assured woman looked back at her.

A woman who once found a hidden camera in her own home and, instead of becoming a victim, turned it into a tool of her freedom.

Sometimes, to build something new, you have to burn the old down to the ground. And she was not afraid of the fire.

— I know you think this is a gift, but how could you? — Elena held the white envelope between two fingers, as if it might burn her hand. — On our wedding anniversary, Nikolai! Our fifteenth anniversary!

Nikolai stood by the window, looking out at the yard flooded with July sun. His broad shoulders tensed.

— You have to understand me, Lena. I had the right to know.

Around them were the traces of a celebratory dinner — unfinished champagne, the remains of a cake with fifteen candles, a bouquet of lilies in a tall vase. Their country house, which they had bought five years earlier, suddenly felt alien and cold despite the heat outside.

— Know what? That Andrei isn’t your son? — Elena tossed the envelope onto the table. — This is some monstrous mistake. I never cheated on you, do you hear? Never!

Nikolai turned to her, anger and pain warring in his eyes.

— Then explain these results to me. Explain why they say the probability of my paternity is less than one percent!

The front door slammed. In the doorway stood Vera, their fourteen-year-old daughter. Tall like her father, with his deep-set gray eyes.

— What’s going on here? — she glanced from her father to her mother. — Are you two fighting? On your anniversary?

Elena quickly snatched the envelope from the table.

— Nothing, Vera. We’re just discussing… work things.

— On a day off? — Vera narrowed her eyes, showing the father’s keen perceptiveness she’d inherited. — Fine, if you don’t want to talk, don’t. I’m going to Katya’s — we’re heading to the movies.

When their daughter left, Elena sank into a chair.

— Where’s Andrei?

— At the Pavlovs’. They picked him up from soccer; he’s staying the night there, — Nikolai took the bottle and topped off his champagne. — Funny, isn’t it? We’re celebrating fifteen years of marriage, and I’ve just learned I’ve spent ten of them raising someone else’s child.

— He isn’t someone else’s! — Elena sprang up. — How can you say that? You’re his father — you held him as a newborn, you taught him to ride a bike, you…

— I thought he was mine! — Nikolai set his glass down hard, champagne splashing onto the tablecloth. — Now I don’t know what to think. Who is he, Lena? Whose is he?

— Mine and yours. Our son. There’s been some mistake with this test.

— I checked three times, Lena. Three! I didn’t want to believe the first result.

Elena felt the ground slide out from under her.

— When did you start doubting? Why did you do this test at all?

Nikolai was silent for a moment, then sighed heavily.

— Viktor.

— Viktor? Your former colleague? What does he have to do with this?

— Two weeks ago we bumped into each other at a home-improvement store. We talked. He asked about you, about the kids. And then… then he said something that made me start thinking.

Elena felt her hands go cold.

— What exactly?

— He hinted that you two had an affair. That you… that you… — Nikolai couldn’t finish the sentence.

— What?! — Elena shot to her feet. — Me and Viktor? Are you out of your mind? I couldn’t stand him! He always tried to set you up at work — you said so yourself!

— I know, — Nikolai ran a hand through his hair. — But then I started remembering… Andrei looks nothing like me. Or anyone in my family. And his age roughly lines up with the period when I was working that job in Kazan and was away for a week at a time…

— I can’t believe you don’t trust me, — Elena sank back into the chair. — Fifteen years of marriage, and you believe Viktor over me.

— I wanted to believe you! That’s why I did the test — to prove to myself that Viktor was lying. But the results… — Nikolai nodded at the envelope. — The results say otherwise.

A heavy silence settled over the room.

— What now? — Elena asked at last.

— I don’t know, — Nikolai picked up his bag. — I need time to think. I’ll stay with Igor for a couple of days.

Elena wanted to object, but the words stuck in her throat. She watched in silence as her husband walked out of the house they had built together. When the door closed, she lowered her head onto her arms and burst into tears.

— I don’t get it, — Igor, Nikolai’s younger brother, handed him a cup of coffee. — Why did you do that test in the first place?

They sat in the kitchen of Igor’s apartment — small, but cozy. Nikolai hadn’t slept all night, and the dark circles under his eyes showed it.

— You didn’t see how Viktor looked at me when he said it. With such… certainty. And then, you know yourself Andrei doesn’t look like me.

— He looks like Elena, — Igor shrugged. — So what? My Dima looks more like Yulia than me, too.

— But the results…

— Are you sure they’re right? Who ran the analysis?

Nikolai pulled a crumpled business card from his pocket.

— “GenLab.” A private lab, but with good reviews. I checked.

Igor took the card and turned it over in his hands.

— And what are you going to do now?

— I don’t know, — Nikolai rubbed his face with his palms. — It feels like my world collapsed.

— Did you talk to Elena? What does she say?

— That she never cheated on me. That it’s a mistake.

— And do you believe her?

Nikolai raised his eyes to his brother.

— I believed her for fifteen years. And now… I don’t know.

Elena sat in the office of the director of the “MedTest” laboratory. She had barely slept, but she looked composed and determined.

— I need the results as quickly as possible, — she said, handing over vials with samples. — I’m willing to pay extra to rush it.

The director, a plump woman in glasses, nodded.

— We can do it in three days. But I must warn you, a DNA paternity test is a serious procedure. If you’re doubting the results of another lab…

— I’m more than sure there was a mistake there, — Elena said firmly. — My husband is my son’s father. I want to prove it.

Leaving the lab, Elena called her friend Marina.

— I need your help. You worked at the city hospital ten years ago, right? Do you remember a nurse named Irina from the maternity ward?

Vera found her mother at the computer. Elena was searching something quickly online and jotting notes in a notebook.

— Mom, what’s going on? Where’s Dad? He isn’t answering my messages.

Elena flinched and closed the laptop.

— Dad went to Uncle Igor’s. We have… a small disagreement.

— What kind of disagreement? — Vera crossed her arms. — What did you fight about?

Elena sighed. Vera was too smart to be put off with simple excuses.

— Your father… doubts that he’s Andrei’s biological father.

Vera froze, eyes wide.

— What? But how… why?

— He did a DNA test. The results said that genetically he isn’t Andrei’s father. But it’s a mistake, Vera. I’m sure it’s a mistake.

— You… you cheated on Dad? — Vera’s voice trembled.

— No! Never! — Elena grabbed her daughter’s hands. — I swear to you, I never cheated on your father. I love him. I’ve always loved him.

Vera jerked her hands away.

— Then where did Andrei come from? — there was a challenge in her voice. — DNA doesn’t lie, Mom.

— Tests can be wrong. Labs can make mistakes. People can manipulate results.

— What are you talking about?

Elena opened her notebook.

— I think the results were forged. Or there was a mix-up at the hospital. Or…

— You’re inventing some crazy theories instead of admitting the truth! — Vera burst out. — You lied to all of us! Poor Dad! Poor Andrei!

— Vera, please, — Elena reached out to her daughter, but she recoiled.

— Don’t touch me! I… I don’t want to talk to you!

Vera ran out of the room, slamming the door. Elena sank into a chair, feeling tears stream from her eyes again. Her whole world was falling apart before her eyes.

Marina brought Elena to a small café on the outskirts of the city.

— She’ll be here in five minutes, — Marina said, checking her phone. — I told her I wanted to meet a former colleague. I didn’t mention you.

— Thank you, — Elena nervously twisted a napkin in her hands. — Are you sure it’s the same Irina?

— Absolutely. Irina Savelieva. She worked in the maternity hospital when you delivered Andrei. Then she quit quickly and left the city. Only came back a couple of years ago.

The café door opened and a woman of about forty with a short haircut and wary eyes walked in. Seeing Elena, she froze.

— What does this mean, Marina? Why did you trick me?

— Please, Irina, — Elena stood up. — I just need to ask a few questions.

— I have nothing to say to you, — Irina turned toward the exit.

— I know you dated Nikolai before me! — Elena blurted out. — And I know you worked at the maternity hospital when my son was born.

Irina slowly turned back.

— So what?

— Was there… a mix-up with the babies? Or… — Elena couldn’t bring herself to say the word “switch.”

Irina let out a bitter little laugh.

— You think I switched your baby out of revenge? Seriously?

— I don’t know what to think! — Elena cried. — The DNA test says my husband isn’t my son’s father. I never cheated on Nikolai. How do I explain that?

Irina came over to the table and sat down.

— Listen, I won’t pretend I was thrilled when Nikolai dumped me for you. Yes, I was hurt. Yes, I worked at the maternity hospital when you gave birth. But I’m not crazy enough to switch babies!

— Then what happened? — Elena threw up her hands in despair.

Irina looked at her intently.

— And what did the test show? That Nikolai isn’t the father? Or that the child isn’t yours at all?

— Only that Nikolai isn’t the father.

— And where was that test done?

— At “GenLab.”

Irina pondered for a moment.

— You know, it’s a strange coincidence, but my niece works at GenLab. Alisa Savelieva. She handles processing the results.

Elena and Marina exchanged glances.

— And she could have… altered the results? — Marina asked carefully.

— I didn’t say that, — Irina replied quickly. — But Alisa… she’s very attached to me. And she knows the history with Nikolai.

Tamara Petrovna, Nikolai’s grandmother, was waiting for him in her small apartment. Despite being eighty, she retained a clear mind and a firm character.

— Sit down, grandson, — she pointed to a chair. — Igor told me everything. What nonsense have you gotten yourself into?

Nikolai sat down.

— Grandma, this isn’t nonsense. I have the test results…

— Tests! — the old woman snorted. — Have you looked in the mirror lately? At your grandfather?

She got up and went to an old dresser, taking out a battered photo album.

— Here, look.

She opened the album to a yellowed photograph. A boy of about ten looked out — astonishingly like Andrei.

— Who… is this? — Nikolai asked.

— Your grandfather Vladimir. My husband, God rest his soul. This photo is from 1953.

Nikolai took the photograph with trembling hands.

— But… that’s Andrei! How?

— In our family, Kolya, genes play strange tricks. They skip a generation. You take after your father, Igor takes after me. And Andryusha is the spitting image of Volodya.

— But the test…

— The test, the test! — Grandma waved a hand. — Do you know your grandfather had a rare blood type? And you have the same. And Andryusha too.

— That proves nothing, Grandma.

— And the fact you’re ready to destroy your family over a piece of paper — what does that prove? Your foolishness, that’s what!

Elena sat in the “MedTest” director’s office, staring at the second test results. They confirmed the first — Nikolai was not Andrei’s biological father.

— Is it possible for two different tests to be wrong? — she asked in a trembling voice.

The director shook her head.

— The likelihood is very small. But… there are some genetic anomalies that can affect the results. Very rare ones.

— Which ones exactly?

— For example, chimerism — when a person has cells with different genetic material. Or certain mutations that affect the standard markers used in paternity tests.

Elena recalled Tamara Petrovna’s words about a rare blood type.

— And where can we do a deeper analysis? One that would account for these anomalies?

— At the state genetic laboratory. But it’s expensive and takes a long time.

— I don’t care. I want to know the truth.

Viktor didn’t expect to see Nikolai on his doorstep.

— Kolya? What are you…

He didn’t have time to finish. Nikolai grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

— What the hell did you tell me about Elena? Why did you lie?

— I… I didn’t lie, — Viktor tried to free himself. — Let me go!

Nikolai released him, and Viktor slid down the wall.

— Your niece works at GenLab, right? — Nikolai asked. — Alisa Savelieva.

Viktor turned pale.

— I don’t know what you’re talking about.

— Stop lying! — Nikolai pulled out his phone and showed a photo. — That’s you and Alisa at GenLab’s corporate party. A photo from their website.

Viktor covered his face with his hands.

— Why, Viktor? — Nikolai asked quietly. — Why did you do it?

— You got the promotion that should have been mine, — Viktor answered dully. — You were always the boss’s favorite. Then you started your own company and became so successful… And I’ve got nothing. No career, no family.

— So you decided to destroy mine out of envy?

— I just wanted you to feel as rotten as I do.

Elena and Nikolai sat in the waiting room of the state genetic laboratory. Between them, on the chair, sat Andrei, swinging his legs and playing on his phone. He didn’t understand why they all had to give some tests, but he was happy to skip school.

— Did you talk to Viktor? — Elena asked quietly.

Nikolai nodded.

— He confessed to everything. He wanted revenge for old grudges.

— And his niece?

— She confessed too. She falsified the results at his request.

— And the second test? At MedTest?

Nikolai shook his head.

— That’s the strange part. They insist their results are accurate. And they have no connection to Viktor.

— The Sokolov family? — a doctor with a folder in his hands came into the waiting room. — Please come to my office.

In the office, the doctor — an elderly man with an attentive gaze — spread several sheets with graphs and tables before them.

— I have unusual news for you, — he said. — From the standpoint of standard analysis, Nikolai Sokolov is indeed not the biological father of Andrei Sokolov.

Elena turned pale, and Nikolai clenched his fists.

— But, — the doctor continued, — we ran an expanded analysis and found something interesting. You, Nikolai, have a rare genetic feature — a mutation in one of the key markers used in standard paternity tests.

— What does that mean? — Nikolai asked.

— It means the standard test will show a false negative. With deeper analysis we see the genetic material matches. You are definitely Andrei’s father.

Elena covered her face with her hands, unable to hold back tears of relief.

— Is this mutation rare? — Nikolai asked, remembering his grandmother’s words.

— Very rare. It occurs in roughly one person in ten thousand. And it’s inherited. Andrei has this mutation as well.

That evening the whole family gathered for dinner. Vera, wary at first, gradually thawed as she watched her parents holding hands again and smiling at each other.

— So it was all because of some mutation? — she asked.

— And because of one man’s envy, — Nikolai nodded. — Viktor knew about my doubts regarding Andrei’s looks and decided to exploit them.

— But how did he know about the mutation? — Vera was surprised.

— He didn’t, — Elena replied. — He just asked his niece to fake the first test results. And the second test showed the same thing because of the mutation no one suspected.

Andrei, who was devouring his pizza, looked up.

— What mutation are you talking about? Am I like a mutant from X-Men?

Everyone laughed, and the tension of the last few days began to fade.

— No, son, — Nikolai ruffled his hair. — It’s just that you and I have a rare genetic quirk. It makes us… special.

— Cool! — Andrei brightened. — What superpowers do we have?

— The main superpower is being a family, — Elena smiled. — No matter what.

Later, when the kids had gone to bed, Nikolai and Elena were alone in the kitchen.

— Forgive me, — Nikolai said quietly. — I should have trusted you, not some tests.

— And I should have understood your doubts, — Elena replied. — Andrei really doesn’t look like you on the outside.

— But he’s the spitting image of my granddad, — Nikolai smiled. — Grandma was right.

Elena leaned into her husband.

— You know, this was the worst anniversary gift ever.

— I promise, next time it’ll be only flowers and jewelry.

— And no envelopes with test results?

— No envelopes, — Nikolai confirmed, kissing her.

A full moon shone through the window, bathing the kitchen in soft light. The family storm had passed, leaving behind an understanding of how important trust is — and how fragile. And perhaps that understanding was the most precious gift of their fifteenth anniversary.

— I know you think this is a gift, but how could you? — Elena held the white envelope between two fingers, as if it might burn her hand. — On our wedding anniversary, Nikolai! Our fifteenth anniversary!

Nikolai stood by the window, looking out at the yard flooded with July sun. His broad shoulders tensed.

 

— You have to understand me, Lena. I had the right to know.

Around them were the traces of a celebratory dinner — unfinished champagne, the remains of a cake with fifteen candles, a bouquet of lilies in a tall vase. Their country house, which they had bought five years earlier, suddenly felt alien and cold despite the heat outside.

— Know what? That Andrei isn’t your son? — Elena tossed the envelope onto the table. — This is some monstrous mistake. I never cheated on you, do you hear? Never!

Nikolai turned to her, anger and pain warring in his eyes.

— Then explain these results to me. Explain why they say the probability of my paternity is less than one percent!

The front door slammed. In the doorway stood Vera, their fourteen-year-old daughter. Tall like her father, with his deep-set gray eyes.

— What’s going on here? — she glanced from her father to her mother. — Are you two fighting? On your anniversary?

Elena quickly snatched the envelope from the table.

— Nothing, Vera. We’re just discussing… work things.

— On a day off? — Vera narrowed her eyes, showing the father’s keen perceptiveness she’d inherited. — Fine, if you don’t want to talk, don’t. I’m going to Katya’s — we’re heading to the movies.

When their daughter left, Elena sank into a chair.

— Where’s Andrei?

— At the Pavlovs’. They picked him up from soccer; he’s staying the night there, — Nikolai took the bottle and topped off his champagne. — Funny, isn’t it? We’re celebrating fifteen years of marriage, and I’ve just learned I’ve spent ten of them raising someone else’s child.

— He isn’t someone else’s! — Elena sprang up. — How can you say that? You’re his father — you held him as a newborn, you taught him to ride a bike, you…

— I thought he was mine! — Nikolai set his glass down hard, champagne splashing onto the tablecloth. — Now I don’t know what to think. Who is he, Lena? Whose is he?

— Mine and yours. Our son. There’s been some mistake with this test.

— I checked three times, Lena. Three! I didn’t want to believe the first result.

Elena felt the ground slide out from under her.

— When did you start doubting? Why did you do this test at all?

Nikolai was silent for a moment, then sighed heavily.

— Viktor.

— Viktor? Your former colleague? What does he have to do with this?

— Two weeks ago we bumped into each other at a home-improvement store. We talked. He asked about you, about the kids. And then… then he said something that made me start thinking.

Elena felt her hands go cold.

— What exactly?

— He hinted that you two had an affair. That you… that you… — Nikolai couldn’t finish the sentence.

— What?! — Elena shot to her feet. — Me and Viktor? Are you out of your mind? I couldn’t stand him! He always tried to set you up at work — you said so yourself!

— I know, — Nikolai ran a hand through his hair. — But then I started remembering… Andrei looks nothing like me. Or anyone in my family. And his age roughly lines up with the period when I was working that job in Kazan and was away for a week at a time…

— I can’t believe you don’t trust me, — Elena sank back into the chair. — Fifteen years of marriage, and you believe Viktor over me.

— I wanted to believe you! That’s why I did the test — to prove to myself that Viktor was lying. But the results… — Nikolai nodded at the envelope. — The results say otherwise.

A heavy silence settled over the room.

— What now? — Elena asked at last.

— I don’t know, — Nikolai picked up his bag. — I need time to think. I’ll stay with Igor for a couple of days.

Elena wanted to object, but the words stuck in her throat. She watched in silence as her husband walked out of the house they had built together. When the door closed, she lowered her head onto her arms and burst into tears.

— I don’t get it, — Igor, Nikolai’s younger brother, handed him a cup of coffee. — Why did you do that test in the first place?

They sat in the kitchen of Igor’s apartment — small, but cozy. Nikolai hadn’t slept all night, and the dark circles under his eyes showed it.

— You didn’t see how Viktor looked at me when he said it. With such… certainty. And then, you know yourself Andrei doesn’t look like me.

— He looks like Elena, — Igor shrugged. — So what? My Dima looks more like Yulia than me, too.

— But the results…

— Are you sure they’re right? Who ran the analysis?

Nikolai pulled a crumpled business card from his pocket.

— “GenLab.” A private lab, but with good reviews. I checked.

Igor took the card and turned it over in his hands.

— And what are you going to do now?

— I don’t know, — Nikolai rubbed his face with his palms. — It feels like my world collapsed.

— Did you talk to Elena? What does she say?

— That she never cheated on me. That it’s a mistake.

— And do you believe her?

Nikolai raised his eyes to his brother.

— I believed her for fifteen years. And now… I don’t know.

Elena sat in the office of the director of the “MedTest” laboratory. She had barely slept, but she looked composed and determined.

— I need the results as quickly as possible, — she said, handing over vials with samples. — I’m willing to pay extra to rush it.

The director, a plump woman in glasses, nodded.

— We can do it in three days. But I must warn you, a DNA paternity test is a serious procedure. If you’re doubting the results of another lab…

— I’m more than sure there was a mistake there, — Elena said firmly. — My husband is my son’s father. I want to prove it.

Leaving the lab, Elena called her friend Marina.

 

— I need your help. You worked at the city hospital ten years ago, right? Do you remember a nurse named Irina from the maternity ward?

Vera found her mother at the computer. Elena was searching something quickly online and jotting notes in a notebook.

— Mom, what’s going on? Where’s Dad? He isn’t answering my messages.

Elena flinched and closed the laptop.

— Dad went to Uncle Igor’s. We have… a small disagreement.

— What kind of disagreement? — Vera crossed her arms. — What did you fight about?

Elena sighed. Vera was too smart to be put off with simple excuses.

— Your father… doubts that he’s Andrei’s biological father.

Vera froze, eyes wide.

— What? But how… why?

— He did a DNA test. The results said that genetically he isn’t Andrei’s father. But it’s a mistake, Vera. I’m sure it’s a mistake.

— You… you cheated on Dad? — Vera’s voice trembled.

— No! Never! — Elena grabbed her daughter’s hands. — I swear to you, I never cheated on your father. I love him. I’ve always loved him.

Vera jerked her hands away.

— Then where did Andrei come from? — there was a challenge in her voice. — DNA doesn’t lie, Mom.

— Tests can be wrong. Labs can make mistakes. People can manipulate results.

— What are you talking about?

Elena opened her notebook.

— I think the results were forged. Or there was a mix-up at the hospital. Or…

— You’re inventing some crazy theories instead of admitting the truth! — Vera burst out. — You lied to all of us! Poor Dad! Poor Andrei!

— Vera, please, — Elena reached out to her daughter, but she recoiled.

— Don’t touch me! I… I don’t want to talk to you!

Vera ran out of the room, slamming the door. Elena sank into a chair, feeling tears stream from her eyes again. Her whole world was falling apart before her eyes.

Marina brought Elena to a small café on the outskirts of the city.

— She’ll be here in five minutes, — Marina said, checking her phone. — I told her I wanted to meet a former colleague. I didn’t mention you.

— Thank you, — Elena nervously twisted a napkin in her hands. — Are you sure it’s the same Irina?

— Absolutely. Irina Savelieva. She worked in the maternity hospital when you delivered Andrei. Then she quit quickly and left the city. Only came back a couple of years ago.

The café door opened and a woman of about forty with a short haircut and wary eyes walked in. Seeing Elena, she froze.

— What does this mean, Marina? Why did you trick me?

— Please, Irina, — Elena stood up. — I just need to ask a few questions.

— I have nothing to say to you, — Irina turned toward the exit.

— I know you dated Nikolai before me! — Elena blurted out. — And I know you worked at the maternity hospital when my son was born.

Irina slowly turned back.

— So what?

— Was there… a mix-up with the babies? Or… — Elena couldn’t bring herself to say the word “switch.”

Irina let out a bitter little laugh.

— You think I switched your baby out of revenge? Seriously?

— I don’t know what to think! — Elena cried. — The DNA test says my husband isn’t my son’s father. I never cheated on Nikolai. How do I explain that?

Irina came over to the table and sat down.

— Listen, I won’t pretend I was thrilled when Nikolai dumped me for you. Yes, I was hurt. Yes, I worked at the maternity hospital when you gave birth. But I’m not crazy enough to switch babies!

— Then what happened? — Elena threw up her hands in despair.

Irina looked at her intently.

— And what did the test show? That Nikolai isn’t the father? Or that the child isn’t yours at all?

— Only that Nikolai isn’t the father.

— And where was that test done?

— At “GenLab.”

Irina pondered for a moment.

— You know, it’s a strange coincidence, but my niece works at GenLab. Alisa Savelieva. She handles processing the results.

Elena and Marina exchanged glances.

— And she could have… altered the results? — Marina asked carefully.

— I didn’t say that, — Irina replied quickly. — But Alisa… she’s very attached to me. And she knows the history with Nikolai.

Tamara Petrovna, Nikolai’s grandmother, was waiting for him in her small apartment. Despite being eighty, she retained a clear mind and a firm character.

— Sit down, grandson, — she pointed to a chair. — Igor told me everything. What nonsense have you gotten yourself into?

Nikolai sat down.

— Grandma, this isn’t nonsense. I have the test results…

— Tests! — the old woman snorted. — Have you looked in the mirror lately? At your grandfather?

She got up and went to an old dresser, taking out a battered photo album.

— Here, look.

She opened the album to a yellowed photograph. A boy of about ten looked out — astonishingly like Andrei.

— Who… is this? — Nikolai asked.

— Your grandfather Vladimir. My husband, God rest his soul. This photo is from 1953.

Nikolai took the photograph with trembling hands.

— But… that’s Andrei! How?

— In our family, Kolya, genes play strange tricks. They skip a generation. You take after your father, Igor takes after me. And Andryusha is the spitting image of Volodya.

— But the test…

— The test, the test! — Grandma waved a hand. — Do you know your grandfather had a rare blood type? And you have the same. And Andryusha too.

— That proves nothing, Grandma.

— And the fact you’re ready to destroy your family over a piece of paper — what does that prove? Your foolishness, that’s what!

Elena sat in the “MedTest” director’s office, staring at the second test results. They confirmed the first — Nikolai was not Andrei’s biological father.

— Is it possible for two different tests to be wrong? — she asked in a trembling voice.

The director shook her head.

— The likelihood is very small. But… there are some genetic anomalies that can affect the results. Very rare ones.

— Which ones exactly?

— For example, chimerism — when a person has cells with different genetic material. Or certain mutations that affect the standard markers used in paternity tests.

Elena recalled Tamara Petrovna’s words about a rare blood type.

— And where can we do a deeper analysis? One that would account for these anomalies?

— At the state genetic laboratory. But it’s expensive and takes a long time.

— I don’t care. I want to know the truth.

Viktor didn’t expect to see Nikolai on his doorstep.

— Kolya? What are you…

He didn’t have time to finish. Nikolai grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

— What the hell did you tell me about Elena? Why did you lie?

— I… I didn’t lie, — Viktor tried to free himself. — Let me go!

Nikolai released him, and Viktor slid down the wall.

— Your niece works at GenLab, right? — Nikolai asked. — Alisa Savelieva.

Viktor turned pale.

— I don’t know what you’re talking about.

— Stop lying! — Nikolai pulled out his phone and showed a photo. — That’s you and Alisa at GenLab’s corporate party. A photo from their website.

Viktor covered his face with his hands.

— Why, Viktor? — Nikolai asked quietly. — Why did you do it?

— You got the promotion that should have been mine, — Viktor answered dully. — You were always the boss’s favorite. Then you started your own company and became so successful… And I’ve got nothing. No career, no family.

— So you decided to destroy mine out of envy?

— I just wanted you to feel as rotten as I do.

Elena and Nikolai sat in the waiting room of the state genetic laboratory. Between them, on the chair, sat Andrei, swinging his legs and playing on his phone. He didn’t understand why they all had to give some tests, but he was happy to skip school.

— Did you talk to Viktor? — Elena asked quietly.

Nikolai nodded.

— He confessed to everything. He wanted revenge for old grudges.

— And his niece?

— She confessed too. She falsified the results at his request.

— And the second test? At MedTest?

Nikolai shook his head.

— That’s the strange part. They insist their results are accurate. And they have no connection to Viktor.

— The Sokolov family? — a doctor with a folder in his hands came into the waiting room. — Please come to my office.

In the office, the doctor — an elderly man with an attentive gaze — spread several sheets with graphs and tables before them.

— I have unusual news for you, — he said. — From the standpoint of standard analysis, Nikolai Sokolov is indeed not the biological father of Andrei Sokolov.

Elena turned pale, and Nikolai clenched his fists.

— But, — the doctor continued, — we ran an expanded analysis and found something interesting. You, Nikolai, have a rare genetic feature — a mutation in one of the key markers used in standard paternity tests.

— What does that mean? — Nikolai asked.

— It means the standard test will show a false negative. With deeper analysis we see the genetic material matches. You are definitely Andrei’s father.

Elena covered her face with her hands, unable to hold back tears of relief.

 

— Is this mutation rare? — Nikolai asked, remembering his grandmother’s words.

— Very rare. It occurs in roughly one person in ten thousand. And it’s inherited. Andrei has this mutation as well.

That evening the whole family gathered for dinner. Vera, wary at first, gradually thawed as she watched her parents holding hands again and smiling at each other.

— So it was all because of some mutation? — she asked.

— And because of one man’s envy, — Nikolai nodded. — Viktor knew about my doubts regarding Andrei’s looks and decided to exploit them.

— But how did he know about the mutation? — Vera was surprised.

— He didn’t, — Elena replied. — He just asked his niece to fake the first test results. And the second test showed the same thing because of the mutation no one suspected.

Andrei, who was devouring his pizza, looked up.

— What mutation are you talking about? Am I like a mutant from X-Men?

Everyone laughed, and the tension of the last few days began to fade.

— No, son, — Nikolai ruffled his hair. — It’s just that you and I have a rare genetic quirk. It makes us… special.

— Cool! — Andrei brightened. — What superpowers do we have?

— The main superpower is being a family, — Elena smiled. — No matter what.

Later, when the kids had gone to bed, Nikolai and Elena were alone in the kitchen.

— Forgive me, — Nikolai said quietly. — I should have trusted you, not some tests.

— And I should have understood your doubts, — Elena replied. — Andrei really doesn’t look like you on the outside.

— But he’s the spitting image of my granddad, — Nikolai smiled. — Grandma was right.

Elena leaned into her husband.

— You know, this was the worst anniversary gift ever.

— I promise, next time it’ll be only flowers and jewelry.

— And no envelopes with test results?

— No envelopes, — Nikolai confirmed, kissing her.

A full moon shone through the window, bathing the kitchen in soft light. The family storm had passed, leaving behind an understanding of how important trust is — and how fragile. And perhaps that understanding was the most precious gift of their fifteenth anniversary.

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Marina stopped on the kitchen threshold and felt the unspoken words catch in her throat. Her hand tightened around her phone—still warm from the director’s message about her bonus. Three voice notes from Lena, her friend with whom she had almost bought tickets for a two-week vacation in Turkey.

“What?” was all she managed to say.

Her mother didn’t even turn away from the stove, where she was stirring her signature borscht. Laughter floated in from the living room—Anya, the younger sister, was watching yet another reality show.

“You heard me. Anya and that… what’s his name…” Her mother winced, trying to recall, “Kirill decided to rent an apartment. The landlady wants six months up front. Where is she supposed to get that kind of money? Your bonus is exactly what’s needed.”

It wasn’t a question, but a statement. As it always was in their house.

Marina took off her coat and carefully hung it on the hook in the entryway. Her movements were unhurried, deliberate—that was how she always handled inner tension. Twenty-eight years of practice keeping her emotions in check around her mother.

“Mom, I was going to use that money,” she began cautiously. “Lena and I were planning—”
“Oh, Lena again,” her mother waved a hand, checking the pies in the oven. “She’s always dragging you somewhere. You’re almost thirty, and you’re still gallivanting around the seas with your girlfriend. You’d do better to think about starting a family.”

Anya drifted into the kitchen—a twenty-three-year-old copy of their mother, only younger and with a tattoo on her wrist. She went to the fridge, took out a yogurt, and leaned against the doorframe, watching her sister with a slight smirk.

“Marinka, why the long face? You got a bonus, right? That’s awesome,” she scooped up a spoonful of yogurt. “Kirill found such a great place yesterday, can you imagine? Two rooms, windows facing the courtyard, and the landlady’s a decent woman. She just says—either six months up front, or look elsewhere.”

Marina looked at her sister. Unlike Marina herself—with her dark hair pulled into a strict bun and perpetually tired eyes—Anya glowed. Light curls, dimples in her cheeks, a serene gaze. Mommy’s princess, as their dad used to say before he left three years ago for the bookkeeper in his office.

“Anya, why can’t Kirill pay for this apartment himself?” Marina asked, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. “He’s already twenty-six. His parents could give him money.”

Anya rolled her eyes.

“You know they’re having business problems right now. Temporary difficulties. And he’ll pay it all back later. Besides, we’re a couple, we’re supposed to help each other.”

“Supposed to. Each other,” Marina stressed the last words. “Not ask your sister to hand over the money she set aside.”

“Oh, come on, Marinka,” Anya came closer and put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “You’ll have plenty of time to go to your precious sea. But we really need this apartment now. You get that, right? Kirill and I want to live together, to test our relationship.”

Their mother snorted loudly without looking up from the cooking.

“They’re going to ‘test’ it… You’d do better to get married properly.”

“Mom, everyone lives like that first these days,” Anya drawled. “Right, Marina?”

Marina stayed silent. For four years she had worked at an international company, for the last year as a senior analyst. Every day she got up at six, came home at nine in the evening. She often spent weekends with her laptop. Her last real vacation had been two years ago.

And Anya… After college, Anya had changed jobs three times, never staying anywhere longer than three months. Now she was “finding herself,” while taking an online nail-design course on the side. Kirill was also “finding himself,” promising to start a business, then become a trader, then get into web design.

“Marina,” her mother’s voice grew harder. “Don’t be selfish. Your sister needs help. This is family, do you understand? Family.”

Marina felt something crack inside. Selfish? She, who handed over half her salary every month for household expenses, while Anya spent her odd earnings on new dresses and outings with Kirill?

“I was going to take a vacation, Mom,” she said quietly. “Just for two weeks. I’ve been saving all year for this trip.”

“Vacation!” her mother threw up her hands. “What vacation when your sister is getting her life in order? You only think about yourself. It’s always been that way.”

Anya stepped up to Marina and looked into her eyes with that signature pleading gaze.

“Marinka, please. I’ll pay it all back. Later. When I find a proper job.”

“When will you find it, that job?” Marina couldn’t hold back. “You’ve been about to for three years already.”

“Not everyone’s a careerist like you,” her mother chimed in, clattering a pot lid. “Anya still needs to start a family. Have children.”

“And I’m not supposed to start one or have children, is that it?” burst out of Marina.

Her mother looked at her with a strange expression—a mix of pity and irritation.

“And when would you have time, with that job of yours? Always tired, always busy. Men don’t like women like that. But Anya—she’s homey, warm.”

Marina pressed her lips together. Meanwhile, Anya casually took her sister’s phone and started scrolling through photos of Turkish hotels.

 

“Wow, you were going for five stars?” she whistled. “Yeah, not cheap. But you know, you could go for three stars. Or just go to Sochi. There’s a sea there too.”

Marina took the phone back.

“I wanted a good hotel,” she said. “Once every two years I can afford that.”

“Of course you can,” her mother nodded. “But right now it’s more important to help your sister. You can rest later.”

Later. The eternal “later.”

“Anya,” Marina looked at her sister. “Why can’t you find a place that takes monthly payments?”

“Because those end up more expensive!” Anya exclaimed. “And this one has the metro nearby and shops. And the landlady doesn’t mind that Kirill has a dog. You know how he loves his Charlie.”

Charlie. A German Spitz, whom Kirill walked three times a day—the only thing he did regularly.

“How much do you need?” Marina asked, already knowing she had lost.

Anya beamed.

“Two hundred fifty thousand. But that’s for six months! Can you imagine? That’s under fifty a month. A great deal.”

Marina froze. Two hundred fifty. Almost all of her bonus.

“Anya, I…”

“Marina,” her mother turned her whole body toward her. “You won’t refuse your sister. You’re not that kind of person. I didn’t raise you to be that way.”

At that moment the doorbell rang. Anya jumped.

“That’s Kirill! I told him to come for dinner. Mom, set the table. Marinka, are you joining us?”

Marina slowly shook her head.

“No, I… I’ll go to my room. I’m tired.”

In her room, Marina sat on the bed, staring at a single spot. Five new messages from Lena lit up her phone.

“So? Did you get the bonus? Are we buying swimsuits tomorrow?)))” “Marinka, you alive over there?” “I found another great hotel, but we need to book today, rooms are running out” “Hellooo?” “Why so quiet? Everything okay?”

From the kitchen came Anya’s laughter, Kirill’s booming comments, and the approving clink of her mother’s spoon against a plate.

“Len, I won’t be able to go,” Marina typed.

“WHAT? WHY???”

Marina sighed. How to explain? How to explain this never-ending pattern she kept falling into again and again?

“Family circumstances.”

“Your sister again, isn’t it? Marina, when are you going to stop supporting all of them?”

Marina didn’t answer. Suddenly the little room where she’d lived since her teens felt stifling. The same wallpaper, the same squeaky wardrobe, the same photos on the wall. Only the computer had changed—she used it for work when she lacked the strength to stay late at the office.

She left the room and slipped quietly to the front door. Threw on her coat.

“Where are you going?” her mother’s voice rang out from the kitchen.

“For a walk. I’ve got a headache.”

“Don’t be late. And don’t forget about the money for Anya tomorrow.”

Without waiting for a reply, her mother went back to dinner.

Marina walked through the neighborhood in the evening, not noticing the passersby. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—Lena wouldn’t give up. She opened the messages.

“Marina, I’m serious. I get that it’s complicated over there, but you can’t sacrifice yourself forever.” “You told me you wanted to rent your own place this year. What’s stopping you?” “Marina, answer me.”

Marina stopped at the parapet along the embankment. In the distance, the windows of the high-rises glowed—homes of strangers with their own troubles and joys. Since childhood she had watched those windows, imagining another life.

She typed to Lena: “I’m flying with you.”

“What??? Really??? What about the ‘family circumstances’?”

“Let them sort out their circumstances themselves.”

Marina drew a deep breath of the cold evening air. Inside, there was a strange emptiness, but also relief—as if a heavy backpack had been lifted from her shoulders.

“Are you sure? You won’t change your mind by tomorrow?” Lena couldn’t believe it.

“I’m sure. I’ll book the tickets tonight.”

And she did—right there on the embankment, with fingers trembling from the cold and from nerves, she paid for two tickets to Antalya.

Marina came home late. The apartment was quiet; only soft music drifted from Anya’s room. Her mother was apparently already asleep.

In the morning, getting ready for work, she ran into her mother in the kitchen.

“Transfer the money to your sister’s card,” her mother said without looking at her. “She’s going to review the contract today and make the down payment.”

“What money?” Marina asked, pouring herself coffee.

Her mother frowned.

“What do you mean, what money? Your bonus. I got a notification that funds were deposited into the account. Transfer them to Anya right away so you don’t forget.”

Marina froze with the cup in her hand.

“You… what?”

“Don’t look at me like that,” her mother waved her off. “We have a joint account. For family expenses.”

 

A joint account. Long ago, Marina had given her mother an additional card to her bank account so she could withdraw money or buy groceries when Marina worked late. She had never imagined her deposits would be monitored so closely.

“Mom, that money… I’ve already spent it,” Marina said slowly.

“What do you mean?” her mother finally looked at her.

“I bought tickets. To the sea. With Lena.”

A heavy silence fell over the kitchen.

“What have you done?” her mother asked quietly, in a frightening tone. “You knew your sister needed that money. I told you clearly yesterday.”

“And I clearly answered that I was planning a vacation,” Marina’s voice sounded unfamiliar to herself—firm, without the usual apologetic notes.

“Cancel your tickets,” her mother ordered. “Immediately. Anya already arranged things with the landlady; she’s signing the contract today.”

“I’m not canceling anything.”

Her mother stared at her as if seeing her for the first time.

“What’s happening to you? You’ve always been a good daughter, responsible. Now you’re acting like… like a selfish person.”

“No, Mom,” Marina set the cup on the table. “I’ve always been the convenient daughter. The one who works, pays, and doesn’t complain. And Anya… Anya gets to live as she pleases because there’s me and you to catch her when she falls.”

Sleepy-eyed Anya appeared in the kitchen doorway in unicorn pajamas.

“What’s going on? Why are you yelling so early?”

“Your sister decided her vacation is more important than your apartment,” their mother said. “She spent all her bonus on some trip with that Lena of hers.”

Anya stared at Marina in genuine surprise.

“Really? But… what about Kirill and me? We already started packing.”

“Anya,” Marina looked at her sister. “You’re twenty-three. You have hands and a head. Get a job. Earn money for your own apartment.”

“Easy for you to say!” Anya cried. “You’ve always been so… proper. And I can’t sit in an office from nine to six, okay? I’m different!”

“But you can sit on my neck, right?” Marina felt a wave rising inside her that she had held back for years. “You’re different, you’re special, everyone owes you—me, Mom, and Kirill with his parents. When are you going to start giving something to the world instead of only taking?”

“Enough!” her mother shouted. “How dare you talk to your sister like that?”

“How do you dare,” Marina turned to her, “to manage my money without asking? My life? My time?”

Her mother paled.

“I raised you both alone. I did everything for you. And now…”

“Now you do everything for Anya,” Marina finished. “And me? I’m just the ATM on standby.”

“Get out,” her mother suddenly said. “If that’s what you think of your family, get out of this house.”

Marina looked at the two women before her—so alike in appearance, with the same expression of wounded dignity on their faces. They truly didn’t understand.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll go. Right after my vacation.”

Two weeks in Turkey flew by in a flash. Sun, sea, excursions, evening walks along the promenade. She and Lena took photos against the backdrop of sailboats, tried local cuisine, danced at beach parties. For the first time in many years, Marina felt alive, real.

She turned on her phone only in the evenings. Dozens of missed calls from Anya, several messages from her mother—ranging from threats to attempts at shaming. Marina didn’t respond.

On the last evening before the flight home, she sat on the balcony with a glass of wine, watching the sun sink into the sea.

“What are you thinking about?” Lena asked, settling in beside her.

“About how I’ve got nowhere to return to.”

“What do you mean, nowhere? The apartment? Your job?”

“The job, yes. But the apartment… Mom told me to leave. And you know, I’m glad. It’s about time.”

Lena put a hand on her shoulder.

“You can stay with me until you find a place. I’ve got a pull-out couch.”

Marina smiled.

“Thanks. But I think I’ve already found one.”

She pulled out her phone and showed Lena a photo of a small studio with floor-to-ceiling windows.

“I saw the listing before we left. Messaged the landlady. I can move in when we get back.”

“Wow!” Lena examined the photos. “Cute little place. And on your own! Finally!”

“Yeah,” Marina nodded. “On my own. Without Mom’s reproaches and Anya’s constant requests.”

“And what about them? Your family?”

Marina shrugged.

“I don’t know. Let them learn to live within their means. Let Anya finally grow up. As for me… I’m going to have my own life now.”

She took a sip of wine, looking at the darkening horizon. The future was unknown, but for the first time in a long while, it didn’t scare her—it inspired her.

A month later, Marina sat in her new apartment, unpacking the last boxes. The laptop screen glowed on the table—she was finishing a presentation for a new project at work.

Her phone buzzed. “Mom” lit up on the screen.

She looked at the word for a few seconds and then, with a sigh, answered.

“Yes?”

“Marina,” her mother’s voice sounded unusually quiet. “How are you?”

“Fine. Getting settled little by little.”

A pause. Marina could hear her mother breathing on the other end.

“Anya moved out of the landlady’s,” her mother finally said. “She and Kirill had a fight. She came back home.”

Marina stayed silent. She waited for the follow-up she already knew by heart.

“She needs money,” her mother said. “The landlady didn’t return the down payment.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Marina replied calmly.

 

Silence again.

“Could you… could you help? Just a little. She needs to pay for courses. She found a job, but there’s training to complete.”

“No, Mom,” Marina looked out the window at the evening city. “I’m not going to help anymore. Not you, not Anya. Not because I don’t love you. But because by helping the way I used to, I only make things worse for you.”

“But we’re family,” there was genuine confusion in her mother’s voice.

“Yes, family. And in a healthy family, everyone is responsible for themselves. I learned that far too late, but I learned it.”

Her mother sniffled on the other end of the line.

“You’ve changed, Marina. You’ve become hard.”

“No, Mom. I’ve finally become myself.”

After the call, Marina stood by the window for a long time, gazing at the city lights. Her phone buzzed again. This time it was Anya.

Marina turned off the phone and went back to her presentation. Rumor at the office had it a promotion was coming. And she’d already picked out a lovely spring tour of the south.

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My Husband and His Parents Demanded a DNA Test for Our Son — I Agreed, But What I Asked in Return Changed Everything

I never thought the man I loved—the father of my child—would ever look me straight in the eye and doubt that our son was his. Yet, there I was, sitting on our beige couch, cradling our tiny boy while my husband and his parents threw accusations like daggers.

It all began with a look. When my mother-in-law, Patricia, first saw Ethan in the hospital, she frowned. Whispering to my husband, Mark, while I was supposedly asleep, she said, “He doesn’t look like a Collins.” I pretended not to hear, but her words cut deeper than the stitches from my C-section.

 

At first, Mark dismissed it. We laughed about how babies change so much, how Ethan had my nose and Mark’s chin. But that seed of doubt had been planted, and Patricia watered it with suspicion every chance she got.

“You know, Mark had blue eyes as a baby,” she’d say pointedly, holding Ethan up to the light. “Isn’t it odd that Ethan’s are so dark?”

One evening, when Ethan was three months old, Mark came home late from work. I was on the couch feeding the baby, my hair unwashed, exhaustion weighing on me like a heavy coat. He didn’t even kiss me hello. He just stood there, arms crossed.

“We need to talk,” he said.

I already knew what was coming.

“Mom and Dad think… it’s best if we do a DNA test. To clear the air.”

“To clear the air?” I echoed, my voice hoarse with disbelief. “You think I cheated on you?”

Mark shifted uneasily. “No, Emma. Not at all. But they’re worried. I just want to settle this—for everyone.”

My heart dropped. For everyone. Not for me. Not for Ethan. For them.

“Fine,” I said after a long pause, holding back tears. “You want a test? You’ll get one. But I want something in return.”

Mark frowned. “What do you mean?”

“If I agree to this insult, then you agree to let me handle things my way if the results come back the way I know they will. And you promise, right now, in front of your parents, that anyone who still doubts me after this will be cut off.”

Mark hesitated. Behind him, Patricia stiffened, arms crossed, eyes icy.

“And if I refuse?”

I met his eyes, feeling Ethan’s gentle breaths against my chest. “Then you can all leave. Don’t come back.”

The silence was thick. Patricia opened her mouth to argue, but Mark silenced her with a glance. He knew I wasn’t bluffing. He knew I never cheated. Ethan was his son—his mirror image if only he looked past his mother’s poison.

“Fine,” Mark said finally, running his hand through his hair. “We’ll do the test. And if it proves what you say, that’s it. No more accusations.”

Patricia looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. “This is ridiculous,” she hissed. “If you have nothing to hide—”

“Oh, I have nothing to hide,” I snapped. “But you do—your hatred, your constant meddling. It ends once the test is done. Or you’ll never see your son or grandson again.”

Mark winced but didn’t argue.

Two days later, the test was done. A nurse swabbed Ethan’s tiny mouth while he whimpered in my arms. Mark did his, his face grim. That night I held Ethan close, rocking him softly, whispering apologies he couldn’t understand.

I barely slept. Mark dozed on the couch. I couldn’t bear having him in our bed while he doubted me—and our baby.

When the results came, Mark read them first. He sank to his knees before me, paper trembling in hand. “Emma… I’m so sorry. I never should have—”

“Don’t apologize to me,” I said coldly, picking Ethan up from his crib and sitting him on my lap. “Apologize to your son. And to yourself. Because you lost something you can never get back.”

But my battle wasn’t over. The test was only the beginning.

Mark knelt there, still clutching the proof of what he should have always known. His eyes were red, but I felt nothing—no warmth, no pity. Just cold emptiness where trust once lived.

Behind him, Patricia and my father-in-law, Gerald, stood frozen. Patricia’s lips were so tight they were white. She didn’t dare meet my gaze. Good.

“You promised,” I said calmly, rocking Ethan, who gurgled happily, unaware of the family storm. “You said that if the test cleared the air, you’d cut out anyone still doubting me.”

Mark swallowed hard. “Emma, please. She’s my mother. She was just worried—”

“Worried?” I laughed sharply, making Ethan flinch. I kissed his soft hair. “She poisoned you against your own wife and son. Called me a liar and a cheat—all because she can’t stand not controlling your life.”

Patricia stepped forward, her voice trembling with righteous venom. “Emma, don’t be dramatic. We did what any family would. We had to be sure—”

“No,” I interrupted. “Normal families trust each other. Normal husbands don’t make their wives prove their children are theirs. You wanted proof? You got it. Now you’ll get something else.”

Mark looked at me, confused. “Emma, what do you mean?”

I took a deep breath, feeling Ethan’s heartbeat against my chest. “I want all of you gone. Now.”

Patricia gasped. Gerald sputtered. Mark’s eyes widened. “What? Emma, you can’t—this is our house—”

“No,” I said firmly. “This is Ethan’s house. Mine and his. And you three broke it. You doubted us, humiliated me. You will not raise my son in a home where his mother is called a liar.”

Mark stood, anger rising as guilt vanished. “Emma, be reasonable—”

“I was reasonable,” I snapped. “When I agreed to that disgusting test. When I bit my tongue as your mother made digs about my hair, my cooking, my family. I was reasonable letting her into our lives at all.”

I stood, holding Ethan tighter. “But I’m done being reasonable. You want to stay here? Fine. But your parents leave. Today. Or you all leave.”

 

Patricia’s voice shrilled. “Mark! Are you really letting her do this? Your own mother—”

Mark looked at me, then at Ethan, then at the floor. For the first time in years, he looked like a lost boy in his own home. He turned to Patricia and Gerald. “Mom. Dad. Maybe you should go.”

The silence cracked Patricia’s perfect mask. Her face twisted with fury and disbelief. Gerald placed a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

“This is your wife’s doing,” she hissed at Mark. “Don’t expect forgiveness.”

She turned to me, eyes sharp as knives. “You’ll regret this. You think you won, but you’ll regret it when he comes crawling back.”

I smiled. “Goodbye, Patricia.”

In minutes, Gerald grabbed their coats, mumbling apologies Mark couldn’t answer. Patricia left without looking back. When the door shut, the house felt bigger, emptier—but lighter.

Mark sat on the couch’s edge, staring at his hands. He looked up at me, voice barely a whisper. “Emma… I’m sorry. I should’ve stood up for you—for us.”

I nodded. “Yes. You should’ve.”

He reached for my hand. I let him take it for a moment—just a moment—then pulled away. “Mark, I don’t know if I can forgive you. This broke my trust in them and in you.”

Tears filled his eyes. “Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”

I looked down at Ethan, who yawned and curled his tiny fingers around my sweater. “Start by earning it back. Be the father he deserves. Be the husband I deserve—if you want that chance. And if you ever let them near me or Ethan again without my permission, you won’t see us again. Understand?”

Mark nodded, shoulders slumping. “I understand.”

In the following weeks, things changed. Patricia called, begged, threatened—I didn’t answer. Mark didn’t either. He came home early every night, took Ethan for walks so I could rest, cooked dinner. He looked at our son like seeing him for the first time—because maybe, in a way, he was.

Rebuilding trust isn’t easy. Some nights I lie awake wondering if I’ll ever see Mark the same way. But every morning, when I see him feeding Ethan breakfast, making him laugh, I think maybe—just maybe—we’ll be okay.

We’re not perfect. But we’re ours. And that’s enough.

Irina was sitting at her desk when someone knocked on the office door. Oleg peeked inside, looking at the familiar space with a somehow new gaze.

“May I come in?” he asked, though he had already stepped over the threshold.

She nodded without taking her eyes off the screen. The house had been inherited from her aunt Lida five years ago. Spacious, bright, with three rooms. Irina had turned one of them into the perfect workspace — here, order and silence reigned.

“Listen,” her husband began, sitting on the edge of the sofa, “my parents are complaining again about the city hustle.”

Irina finally turned to him. Over ten years of marriage, she had learned to recognize his intonations. There was some uncertainty in his voice now.

“Mom says she sleeps badly because of the noise,” Oleg continued. “And Dad keeps saying he’s tired of all this running around. Plus, the rent keeps going up.”

“I see,” she replied shortly, returning to her work.

But the talks about his parents didn’t stop. Every evening Oleg found a new reason to mention their problems. Sometimes it was the pressure that spikes due to city air, sometimes noisy neighbors upstairs, sometimes the staircase in the building was too steep.

 

“They dream of quiet, you know?” he said once at dinner. “Of peace, of a real home.”

Irina chewed slowly, pondering. Oleg had never been talkative. Such attention to his parents’ troubles seemed strange.

“So what do you suggest?” she asked cautiously.

“Nothing special,” he shrugged. “Just thinking about them.”

A week later, Irina noticed her husband coming into her office more often than usual. At first, under the pretext of looking for documents, then just because. He would stop by the wall, as if measuring something with his eyes.

“Nice room,” he remarked one evening. “Bright, spacious.”

Irina looked up from her papers. There was something new in his tone. Something like an evaluation.

“Yes, I like working here,” she answered.

“You know,” said Oleg, approaching the window, “maybe you should think about moving your workspace to the bedroom? You can set up a workspace there too.”

Something tightened inside her. Irina put down her pen and looked carefully at her husband.

“Why should I move? It’s comfortable here.”

“Well, I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Just thought about it.”

But thoughts of moving would not leave her alone. Irina began to notice how Oleg scanned the office, mentally rearranging the furniture. How he lingered at the doorframe, as if already seeing something different here.

“Listen,” he said a few days later, “isn’t it time to free up your office? Just in case.”

The question sounded as if it were a given decision. Irina flinched.

“Why should I free up the room?” she asked more sharply than she intended.

“Just thinking,” Oleg hesitated. “I thought we could have a room to put guests.”

But she already understood. All these talks about his parents, all these casual remarks about the office — parts of one plan. A plan in which her opinion was somehow not taken into account.

“Oleg,” she said slowly, “tell me straight. What’s going on?”

He turned away to the window, avoiding her gaze. Silence stretched on. Irina realized — something had already been decided. Without her.

“Oleg,” she repeated firmly, “what’s going on?”

Her husband slowly turned, his face frozen in embarrassment. But a flicker of resolve flashed in his eyes.

“Well, my parents are really tired of the city bustle,” he began cautiously. “They need peace, you know?”

Irina got up from the desk. Anxiety grew inside her, one she had tried to ignore for weeks.

“And what do you suggest?” she asked, though she already guessed.

“We’re one family,” Oleg said, as if that explained everything. “We have an extra room.”

Extra. Her office, her refuge, her space — an extra room. Irina clenched her fists.

“This is not an extra room,” she said slowly. “This is my office.”

“Yes, but you can work in the bedroom,” shrugged her husband. “And my parents have nowhere else to go.”

The phrase sounded rehearsed. Irina understood — this conversation was not the first. Just not with her.

“Oleg, this is my house,” she said sharply. “And I never agreed to your parents moving in.”

“But you don’t mind, do you?” he countered, a note of irritation in his voice. “We’re family, right?”

Again that excuse. Family. As if belonging to a family automatically deprived her of a voice. Irina stepped toward the window, trying to calm down.

“And what if I mind?” she asked without turning around.

“Don’t be selfish,” Oleg threw. “It’s about elderly people.”

Selfish. For not wanting to give up her workspace. For thinking such decisions should be discussed. Irina turned to her husband.

“Selfish?” she repeated. “For wanting my opinion to be considered?”

“Come on,” Oleg waved his hand. “It’s a family duty. We can’t abandon them.”

Family duty. Another pretty phrase meant to shut her up. But Irina was no longer going to stay silent.

“And what about my duty to myself?” she asked.

“Stop dramatizing,” her husband waved off. “It’s not a big deal, just move the computer to another room.”

Not a big deal. Her many years of hard work creating the perfect workspace — not a big deal. Irina suddenly saw her husband as if for the first time.

“When did you manage to decide everything?” she asked quietly.

“I didn’t decide anything,” Oleg began to justify himself. “Just thinking about options.”

“You’re lying,” she said. “You’ve already discussed it with your parents, haven’t you?”

The silence was more eloquent than any words. Irina sat down in her chair, trying to process what was happening.

“So, you consulted with everyone except me,” she stated.

“Stop it,” Oleg exploded. “What difference does it make who talked to whom?”

What difference. Her opinion, her consent, her home — what difference. Irina realized her husband was acting like the owner, ignoring her ownership rights.

The next morning Oleg came into the kitchen looking like a man who had made a final decision. Irina sat at the table with a cup of coffee, waiting for the continuation of yesterday’s conversation.

“Listen,” he began without preamble, “my parents have finally decided to move.”

Irina looked up. There was no room for discussion in his tone.

“Clear out a room in the house, now my parents will live there,” he added, as if giving an order.

For Irina, this was a moment of revelation. They hadn’t even consulted her. Her husband didn’t just not ask — he excluded her from the decision.

The cup trembled in her hands. Inside, everything turned over as she realized the scale of betrayal. Oleg stood waiting for her reaction as if giving orders to servants.

“Are you serious?” she said slowly. “You just took it upon yourself to decide for me? I clearly said yesterday I’m against it!”

“Calm down,” her husband waved off. “It’s logical. Where else can they live?”

Irina put the cup on the table and stood up. Her hands trembled slightly from accumulated anger.

“Oleg, you betrayed me,” she said directly. “You put your parents’ interests above our marriage.”

“Don’t dramatize,” he muttered. “It’s family.”

“And what am I, a stranger?” Irina’s voice sharpened. “You violated my boundaries and ignored my voice in my own home!”

Oleg turned away, clearly not expecting such a reaction. All these years she had obediently agreed to his decisions. But now something had broken.

“You treat me like the help,” Irina continued. “You decided I should endure and be silent.”

“Stop hysterics,” her husband snapped irritated. “Nothing serious is happening.”

Nothing serious. Her opinion ignored, her space taken away — and that’s nothing serious. Irina stepped closer to her husband.

“I refuse to give up my room,” she stated firmly. “And even more so to let your parents into the house when nobody invited them.”

“How dare you?” Oleg exploded. “They are my parents!”

“And this is my house!” Irina shouted back. “And I’m not going to live with a man who sees me as a nobody!”

Her husband stepped back, seeing her truly enraged for the first time in many years. In her eyes burned a resolve he had never noticed.

 

“You don’t understand,” he began confusedly. “My parents are counting on us.”

“And you don’t understand me,” Irina cut in. “Ten years and you still don’t get that I’m not a toy in your hands.”

She walked across the kitchen, gathering her thoughts. Words that had been building up for years finally burst out.

“You know what, Oleg?” she said, turning to him. “Get out of my house.”

“What?” her husband was taken aback. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m no longer willing to live with a man who doesn’t consider me,” Irina said slowly and clearly.

Oleg opened his mouth but found no words. He clearly didn’t expect such a turn.

“This is our house,” he mumbled.

“Legally, the house belongs to me,” Irina reminded him coldly. “And I have every right to kick you out.”

Her husband stood as if not believing what he heard. In shock, he realized he had crossed some invisible line.

“Ira, let’s talk calmly,” he tried. “We can come to an agreement.”

“Too late,” she cut in. “The agreement should have been made before you decided.”

Oleg tried to object but saw such stubbornness in her eyes that the words stuck in his throat. Irina was no longer the compliant wife who had made concessions for years.

“Pack your things,” she said calmly.

A week later, Irina sat in her office enjoying the silence. The house seemed bigger without the presence of strangers. The order she so valued was finally restored.

She felt no regret. Inside settled a sense that what happened was right. For the first time in many years, she defended her boundaries and self-respect.

The phone rang. It was Oleg’s number. Irina declined the call and returned to work. Love and family are impossible without respect. And no debts to relatives give anyone the right to trample on the person next to them.

She understood that. Finally.

The plate with dinner flew into the trash can. The sharp crash of porcelain against plastic made me flinch.

“Even the dog won’t eat your cutlets,” my husband laughed, pointing to the dog who demonstratively turned away from the piece offered to him.

Dmitry wiped his hands on an expensive kitchen towel I had bought specifically to match the new furniture.

 

He had always been obsessed with details when it came to his image.

“Anya, I told you. No homemade cooking when I’m expecting partners. It’s unprofessional. It smells… like poverty.”

He said the word with such disgust as if it left a rotten aftertaste in his mouth.

I looked at him, at his perfectly ironed shirt, at the expensive watch he never took off even at home.

And for the first time in many years, I felt neither resentment nor the urge to justify myself. Only cold. Piercing, crystal cold.

“They will arrive in an hour,” he continued, not noticing how I felt. “Order steaks from ‘Grand Royal.’ And a salad. The one with seafood. And do something with yourself. Put on that blue dress.”

He cast a quick, appraising glance at me.

“And fix your hair. That hairstyle would forgive you.”

I silently nodded. Just a mechanical up-and-down movement of my head.

While he spoke on the phone, giving instructions to his assistant, I slowly gathered the shards of the plate.

Each shard was as sharp as his words. I didn’t try to argue. What was the point?

All my attempts to “be better for him” always ended the same way — with humiliation.

He mocked my sommelier courses, calling them “a club for bored housewives.”

My attempts to do home decor — “tastelessness.” My food, into which I put not only effort but some last hope for warmth, was thrown into the trash.

“Yes, and bring some good wine,” Dima said into the phone. “Just not the kind Anya tried in her courses. Something decent.”

I got up from the floor, threw away the shards, and looked at my reflection in the dark oven screen. A tired woman with dull eyes. A woman who had tried for too long to become a convenient piece of the interior.

I went to the bedroom. But not for the blue dress. I opened the closet and took out a travel bag.

He called two hours later when I was already settling into a cheap hotel on the outskirts of town. I deliberately did not go to friends so he wouldn’t find me right away.

“Where are you?” His voice was calm, but there was a threat hidden in that calm. Like a surgeon looking at a tumor before cutting it out. “Guests have arrived, but the hostess is not here. Not good.”

“I’m not coming, Dima.”

“What do you mean ‘not coming’? Are you upset over the cutlets? Anya, don’t act like a child. Come back.”

He wasn’t asking. He was ordering. Confident that his word was law.

“I’m filing for divorce.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. I heard quiet music playing somewhere in the background and the clinking of glasses. His evening continued.

“I see,” he finally said with an icy chuckle. “Decided to show some attitude. Fine. Play independence. Let’s see how long you last. Three days?”

He hung up. He didn’t believe it. To him, I was just a thing temporarily out of order.

Our meeting took place a week later in the conference room of his office. He sat at the head of a long table, next to him — a slick lawyer with the face of a card shark. I came alone. On purpose.

 

“So, had enough fun?” Dima smiled his trademark condescending smile. “I’m ready to forgive you. If, of course, you apologize for this circus.”

I silently put the divorce papers on the table.

His smile faded. He nodded to his lawyer.

“My client,” the lawyer began in a coaxing voice, “is ready to meet you halfway. Considering your, shall we say, unstable emotional state and your lack of any income.”

He slid a folder toward me.

“Dmitry is leaving you your car. And he is ready to pay you alimony for six months. The amount is more than generous, believe me. So you can rent modest housing and find a job.”

I opened the folder. The amount was humiliating. It wasn’t even crumbs from his table, but dust beneath it.

“The apartment, of course, remains with Dmitry,” the lawyer continued. “It was purchased before the marriage.”

The business was his too. There was essentially no jointly acquired property. After all, you didn’t work.

“I ran the household,” I said quietly but firmly. “I created the coziness he came back to. I arranged his receptions that helped him close deals.”

Dmitry snorted.

“Coziness? Receptions? Anya, don’t be ridiculous. Any housekeeper could have done better. And cheaper. You were just… a pretty accessory. Which, by the way, has gone downhill lately.”

He wanted to hit harder. And he succeeded. But the effect was not what he expected. Instead of tears, rage boiled inside me.

“I won’t sign this,” I pushed the folder away.

“You don’t understand,” Dima intervened, leaning forward. His eyes narrowed. “This is not an offer.”

It’s an ultimatum. Either you take this and leave quietly, or you get nothing. I have the best lawyers. They will prove you were just living off me. Like a parasite.”

He savored the word.

“You’re nothing without me. An empty space. You can’t even fry normal cutlets. What kind of opponent are you in court?”

I looked up at him. For the first time in a long time, I looked at him not as a wife, but as a stranger.

And I saw not a strong man, but a scared, self-absorbed boy who is panicked about losing control.

“We’ll see each other in court, Dima. And yes, I won’t come alone.”

I stood and walked to the exit, feeling his burning, hateful gaze on my back.

The door closed behind me, cutting off the past. I knew he wouldn’t let it go. He would try to destroy me. But for the first time in my life, I was ready for it.

The trial was quick and humiliating. Dmitry’s lawyers portrayed me as an infantile dependent who, after a quarrel over a “failed dinner,” decided to take revenge on her husband.

My lawyer, an elderly and very calm woman, did not argue. She simply methodically presented receipts and bank statements.

Receipts for groceries for those very “unprofessional” dinners. Bills for dry cleaning Dmitry’s suits before every important meeting.

Tickets I paid for events where he made useful contacts.

It was painstaking, tedious work proving not my contribution to the business, no. It proved that I was not a parasite. I was an unpaid employee.

In the end, I won a little more than he offered, but much less than I deserved. The main thing was not the money.

The main thing — I did not let myself be trampled.

The first months were the hardest. I rented a tiny studio on the top floor of an old building.

Money was tight. But for the first time in ten years, I fell asleep without fear of hearing another humiliation in the morning.

The idea came suddenly. One evening, while cooking dinner for myself, I realized I was enjoying it.

I remembered his words: “It smells like poverty.” But what if poverty could smell expensive?

I started experimenting. I took simple ingredients and turned them into something exquisite.

Those very cutlets I made from three kinds of meat with a wild berry sauce. I developed recipes for complex dishes that could be prepared at home in twenty minutes.

It was restaurant-level food but in the form of semi-finished products. For those who have no time but have taste.

I called my project “Dinner by Anna.” Created a simple social media page and began posting photos. At first, orders were few. But then word of mouth worked.

The turning point came when Larisa, the wife of one of Dmitry’s former partners, wrote to me.

She had been at that very ruined dinner. “Anya, I remember how Dima humiliated you then. Can I try your famous cutlets?”

She didn’t just try them. She wrote a rave review in her popular blog. And orders started pouring in.

Six months later, I was already renting a small workshop and had hired two assistants. My concept of “home fine dining” became a trend.

Then serious people contacted me. Representatives of a large retail chain looking for a new supplier for their premium line. My presentation was flawless.

I spoke about taste, quality, and saving time for successful people. I offered not just food but a lifestyle.

When they asked about the price, I named a figure that took my own breath away. They agreed without bargaining.

Around the same time, I heard news about Dmitry from mutual acquaintances. His overconfidence played a cruel joke on him.

He invested all the money, including loans, into a risky construction project abroad, confident he would hit the jackpot.

But his partners betrayed him. The same ones for whom he ordered steaks considered him unreliable after the divorce story. They simply left the project, and the entire financial scheme collapsed, burying Dima under the rubble.

At first, he sold the business to pay off the most impatient creditors. Then the car.

The last to go was the apartment. The very one he considered his impregnable fortress. He was left on the street with huge debts.

Part of my contract with the retail chain was a charity program.

 

I had to choose a foundation and become its public sponsor. I chose the city canteen for the homeless and the poor. Not for PR. For myself. It was important.

One day I came there unannounced, in simple clothes, and stood serving food with the volunteers.

I wanted to see everything from the inside. The smell of boiled cabbage and cheap bread. Tired, indifferent faces in line. The hum of voices.

I worked mechanically, putting buckwheat and goulash on plates. And suddenly I froze.

He was in the line.

Haggard, stubbly, in some strange, too large jacket. He looked at the floor, trying not to meet anyone’s gaze. He was so afraid of being recognized.

The line moved. Now he was in front of me. He extended a plastic plate, not raising his head.

“Hello,” I said quietly.

He flinched. Slowly, with incredible effort, he raised his eyes. I saw disbelief, shock, horror, and finally overwhelming, crushing shame pass through them.

He wanted to say something, opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

I took a ladle and put two large, rosy cutlets on his plate. The very ones.

My signature recipe, which I had specially developed for this canteen. So that people who had lost everything could at least feel human for dinner.

He looked at me, then at the food on his plate. At the cutlets that once flew into the trash under his laughter.

I said nothing. No reproach, no hint of gloating in my voice. I just looked at him. Calmly.

Almost indifferently. All the pain, all the resentment that had boiled inside me for years burned out to ashes, leaving behind only even, cold ash.

He silently took the plate and, stooping even more, shuffled to a distant table.

I watched him go. I didn’t feel triumph. There was no joy of revenge. There was only a strange, empty feeling of closure. The circle was complete.

The story was over. And in that quiet, cabbage-scented canteen, I realized the winner is not the one who stands on his feet, but the one who found the strength to get up after being trampled in the dirt.

And to feed the one who did it.

— Where were you wandering until eleven, huh? — Maxim’s voice came from the bathroom. He slipped through the morning like a drop of ketchup on a white shirt: not a catastrophe, but it spoiled the mood.

Elena, already fully ready to go, keys in hand and a serious face, froze at the kitchen doorway. She turned slowly, as if this wasn’t a conversation with her husband but a scene from a detective story — now the suspenseful violin would play, and the credits would roll.

— I was at work. Where else? I have a deadline. A project. We discussed this, Maxim. More than once. Even twice. Or were you just nodding like a Chinese bobblehead on the dashboard then?

 

— Oh, don’t start… — came the object of the discussion himself, stepping out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, with an expression that said, “I don’t care, but I’m going to say it anyway.” — I just asked. Why are you getting all worked up right away?

— Because you “ask” like a corruption investigator in a TV series. I barely managed to pour my coffee, and I’m already under suspicion.

— Who’s jealous of you anyway, Lena? — he snorted and pretended that it was even funny. But his eyes darted around. An experienced eye would see the movement of a schoolboy caught with a phone during a test. — You’re always buried in work and deadlines. I’m just worried. You never know.

There it is. The symptoms of chronic manipulation. It always starts with “I’m worried.” Then comes “a little money for mom’s medicine,” and ends with “let’s register the car under mom’s name, she has benefits, she’s a pensioner.”

She looked at Maxim with the expression only women who have fed, sheltered, and been disappointed can afford. He was well-groomed, fit, with that same self-satisfied smirk that once seemed sexy. Now — it irritated her. Like the elevator’s sound notification passing by the wrong floor.

— Did you call your mom? — she asked, pouring herself coffee. — Or are you waiting again for me to transfer the money myself?

— Lena, you said yourself it’s no big deal. She has high blood pressure. — Maxim tried to look sympathetic with a serious face. It didn’t work well, like an actor who forgot his lines and decided to improvise.

— Sure. I just finished a million-ruble project, but I’m supposed to send your mother to the ICU. Not you, who forgot her birthday and only remembered after the message: “Son, do you still remember me?”

Maxim put on a hurt look, switching to the “I’m small but proud” mode.

— You feel sorry? Only five thousand.

— It’s not the money. It’s that I live with a man who starts interrogating me in the morning, then asks for money, then makes excuses, all under the guise of “I’m worried.”

He turned away, buried himself in his phone with a look like he was about to find a way to become a good husband on sale. No investment or obligations required.

— Everything’s clear with you. As always. You don’t care.

As always. She wasn’t even surprised. Their four years of life together fit into that “as always.” He — touchy and convinced the whole world underestimated him. She — tired and no longer believing he could be changed. Their evening show always ended with him going to the computer looking important, and her to the bathroom with a blanket and a cup.

Elena stood by the window and looked outside. Moscow’s June was in full swing: hot, dusty, and the asphalt smelled like it was fed up with everything. Everything was usual. Everything except herself.

She was tired. Really tired. Not just after work. But like people get tired when they realize: they’re not just unheard. They’re being used.

In the evening, she decided to walk. With no goal. No route. Just walking. She wanted to stop being Maxim’s wife, a project manager, an adult person — even if just for half an hour. Just someone. Maybe even a ghost.

And then — a café. Nothing special. Plastic chairs, the smell of coffee and pastries. But she froze. There, by the window, sat Maxim.

Not alone.

With a woman. Young, lively, with those very lips made only by special order at a cosmetologist. They were laughing. She poked him in the shoulder, and he looked at her the way he once looked at Elena.

And then she heard.

Not everything. One fragment. But sometimes one is enough for a whole life to come together like a puzzle. Or fall apart like a house of cards.

— As soon as she signs the power of attorney, I’ll file for divorce. It’s almost in the bag.

She didn’t remember how she got home. How she took off her shoes. How she entered the bathroom.

She stood in front of the mirror and whispered:

— In the bag, huh… In what kind of bag do you have me, bastard?..

Maxim came home late. As if nothing had happened. Smiling. Handed her a bag:

— Bought you soap. The lavender one. You said it calms you.

She took the bag as if there was a snake wrapped in cellophane inside.

— Do you remember what you said this morning? That you were “worried”? About “mom”? Or did you mean your new girl from the café? The one who will help you “divorce me”?

He froze. A moment — and everything hung in the air.

— You’re crazy, Lena.

But she was already walking to the bathroom. No shouting. No hysteria. Just closed the door.

Didn’t lock it.

Because she knew: the worst storms don’t start with thunder. They start with silence.

Night fell on the apartment like a heavy blanket. Maxim entered the bedroom cautiously, like a cat who knows: the curtains are torn, so it’s better not to make noise.

Elena lay on her side, the light was off, but the window let in the dim orange light of a streetlamp. In the twilight, the room looked like an interrogation zone. Only this time, she was the interrogator.

— Lena… — he began softly, as if testing the water temperature before putting his foot in. — Are you serious now?

She didn’t answer. Pretending to be asleep made no sense: even through the blanket, you could see her shoulder trembling. Not from cold — from rage. The kind that builds up over years and then bursts out when you stand in front of a mirror and whisper: “in the bag…”

Maxim sat on the edge of the bed, cautiously. He switched on the “quiet kitty” voice, though as always, it carried an inner arrogance.

 

— You made something up. Maybe someone said something. You’re always like that — overthinking, complicating…

— I saw you, — she said sharply. Without trembling. Without emotion. Just stating a fact. Like “it’s raining outside.” — Heard you. You were with her. In the café. She was laughing, and you said everything was almost “in the bag.”

He froze. His face looked like a frozen pizza — and not a tasty one.

— That’s not what you think…

She jumped up:

— Why do you all say that when you’re caught?! “It’s not what you think,” “You misunderstood,” “It fell by itself!” Do you have any more excuses, or is everything already rehearsed with the new actress?

Maxim exploded:

— Why are you shouting, huh?! Do you think you’re perfect?! And who am I — a dog in your rich life?

— A dog?! — she stood up. — You’ve been living in my apartment for four years! Driving my car! Your mom drinks my medicine, by the way!

He stood up too. There was metal in his voice.

— And what would you have achieved without me, huh? Our smart businesswoman! You think you carried me? You were just convenient. Convenient! You have everything: connections, money, friends. And me? I’m a shadow!

— A shadow doesn’t ask to register the car under his mother’s name, — she said. — You’re not a shadow. You’re a project. One I should have shut down a long time ago. With losses.

He turned away as if restraining himself, but she saw — that was it, the curtain. The masks were off. Now he wasn’t playing the “good husband.” Now he was real.

— You won’t give me a penny, right? Even if I leave peacefully?

She laughed. Dry and hoarse.

— I’ll give you. A toothbrush. And slippers. So you don’t walk barefoot into your new life.

Maxim chuckled.

— You’ve become cruel, Lena. Thanks to you, actually.

She turned and went to the kitchen. No dramatic door slams, no yelling. Just like someone who decided to make herself tea, because the only thing that calms her is old green jasmine tea.

He stayed in the bedroom. Then moved to the sofa in the living room. With the remote, chips, and a shadow of resentment. Lay down like a temporary tenant. Like someone who still believes: maybe she’ll come to her senses?

The morning was quiet. Suspiciously quiet. She packed her bag, documents, laptop. Everything — as usual. Except her heart. Instead of it — something cold, like a safe door. And only she knew the code.

Before leaving, she approached the sofa. He lay there with his mouth open, breathing heavily. On the table — a remote, an empty cup, a candy wrapper. A painfully domestic sight.

—I blocked the account, — she said calmly. — The apartment is in my name. The car too. You can go. To your mom. Or to court. Or… wherever you want.

He didn’t move. Only his lips twitched slightly. Maybe he hadn’t slept. Maybe he didn’t want to wake up.

When the door closed behind her, the sky was overcast. The rain hadn’t started yet but promised to. She was ready. For the first time. For a fight.

At the office, she went straight to the lawyer. He, as always, with coffee and a steel smile.

— Viktor Igorevich, file it. Divorce. Without division. Just like we discussed.

He nodded:

— No problem. Everything’s prepared. He’s not resisting — it will be easy.

— Great, — she answered. — File it today. Before I change my mind.

The whole day passed on autopilot. She sat before an Excel spreadsheet with the project budget, thinking about the spreadsheet of her life. Before him. With him. After. The last column was empty but already labeled: “Freedom.”

Maxim showed up in the evening. From the doorway. Theatrical.

— Are you crazy?! I’m not your enemy! Lena, you’re destroying everything!

— No, Maxim. You destroyed it. All these years. I only just saw it. Next time come with a lawyer. Or with your mom. Actually, better with your mom. At least she deserves some pity.

He slammed the door. For real. And left. This time — without pause or intrigue.

The apartment became quiet. But not empty. Truly quiet. Spacious. And for the first time in a long time — free.

Three weeks passed.

Elena lived alone. And every day felt like a long-awaited vacation she could never afford. No questions: “Where were you until nine?” No claims from Sasha the accountant’s WhatsApp. No foreign socks in the bathroom and empty promises of “I’ll do it myself.”

The divorce went surprisingly fast. The lawyer even raised an eyebrow:

— He didn’t file a single objection. Almost like he was glad.

— Not glad. Just looking for other ways to cling, — Elena said calmly. — A snake doesn’t attack when wounded. It accumulates venom.

And she knew: this was not the end. Only intermission.

He came back suddenly. As always — without a call. Without “may I?” or “is it convenient?” or “hello.”

Elena just closed her laptop, was about to pour herself tea when the doorbell rang. The ring was short but brazen. Just like Maxim’s whole manner of living in her home and lying to her face.

She opened — and there they were: Maxim, with his signature smirk of “we’re just here,” and next to him — Olga.

Olga looked like she had just stepped off the poster “Woman of Dreams”: hair like a shampoo ad, lips colored “berry mousse,” smile fragile, porcelain. The kind you want to carefully put back in the box.

— Elena Nikolaevna? — she sang brightly, as if rehearsing in the car.

— Is that really me, — Elena said calmly, leaning on the door handle. — And who are you? The newbie? A direct replacement or just passing the casting?

Maxim laughed as if it was all cute. And without asking, went into the kitchen. As if he still lived here. As if it was his apartment. As if he had any shame.

— We just wanted to talk, — Olga began, stepping after him. — Maxim said you’re an adult. You’ll understand…

— Did he say that? — Elena closed the door and crossed her arms. — Well, talk. Since you came all this way.

Maxim was already settled at the table. Pulling a pizza box from a bag as if it was an important diplomatic gesture.

— Lena, we want to offer you a deal.

— How lovely. You’re a couple now, and I’m who? The sponsor? Or the venture fool?

— Don’t be like that, — Olga interrupted. — We’re not enemies. Just… a complicated situation.

— That’s putting it mildly.

— Maxim owes money. Not just to me. He has obligations. We thought maybe you…

— Maybe I’ll give you money? — Elena asked, looking at them like lost tour guides from another world. — Wait. You’re not serious…

Maxim shrugged. Scratched his head.

 

— You’re well-off. I invested years in you. And now you just want to cut it all off?

— Invested?! — Elena’s voice trembled. — You invested? What did you invest, Maxim? Your laziness? Or your socks in the bathroom?

He stood up. His eyes hardened, his face like an actor who wasn’t cast in the series and came to find out why.

— I invested myself. My best years. I supported you when you cried after meetings. I was there!

— You were there when I ordered sushi and you got half. And when I was really sick — you left. Or drank. Or went to your mom to discuss how “difficult a woman” I am.

— Screw you, Lena! — he yelled. — You think I put up with you for love? I thought you were smart! But you’re just a bitch in a business suit!

Then Olga stood up. Her voice was ringing. Too ringing.

— Enough! We’re going to have a child!

Silence.

At that second, the whole world froze. The air, the tea in the cup, the drops on the windowsill. Only that “we” sounded like a shot. Or like a bankruptcy declaration.

Elena looked at her as if she saw a “detour” sign. Didn’t believe. Neither in the child nor that Maxim was the father.

— Child, — she repeated. — Well, congratulations. Maxim is a dad? Well, good luck. You’ll quickly learn how much diapers cost. And how often he will “not cope.”

— We want to start over, — Olga whispered. — Just need help.

Elena silently went to the closet. Took out an envelope. Handed it over.

— Here. Help. The last one. A gift, you might say.

Olga took it. Opened it. Inside — a copy of the lawsuit. All transfers. Documents. Receipts. His IOUs, carefully retyped and bound.

Maxim paled.

— You have no right…

—I do. Everything’s legal. And now — get out. Both of you. Good luck. I sincerely hope the child is someone else’s. Because if it’s yours, Maxim — he doesn’t stand a chance.

They left. Olga — in tears, Maxim — with the “we’re underestimated again” face.

Elena sat down. Looked at the turned-off TV. Then took her phone and booked tickets. Bora Bora. A hotel with an ocean view and breakfasts without whining.

She didn’t smile. But she breathed freely.

It was not emptiness.

— “I told your sister not to come today. The guys are coming over—we’ll play poker.”

The morning was perfect. The kind that happen only in a new apartment, when the smell of fresh paint hasn’t fully faded and the sunbeams, slipping through perfectly clean glass, seem especially bright and full of promise. Liza sat at the new kitchen table, cupping a warm mug of coffee in both hands. She savored the quiet, the feeling of a space that finally, at last, was hers. Kirill’s words dropped into that peaceful stillness like a dirty stone into a clear spring.

She didn’t respond right away, letting the meaning seep slowly into her mind. He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t suggested. He’d simply presented her with a fait accompli. Kirill, leaning against the doorframe, crossed his arms over his chest. The pose of an owner, king of the hill. That stance had appeared recently, right after the move. In the rental where they’d squeezed by for three years, he’d been different: softer, more accommodating, a partner. But here, within these walls—gifted to her by her parents as a wedding present—he seemed to be trying on a new, alien role that didn’t suit him at all.

Liza slowly set her cup on the saucer. The clink of porcelain on porcelain sounded unnaturally loud and sharp in the morning quiet.

“— What did you do?” Her voice was even, but there was metal ringing in it.

 

“— What you heard,” he shrugged lazily, a faint, dismissive smirk touching his lips. “I called Katka and told her we’ve got other plans. She understood everything. Don’t worry.”

He said “Katka.” Not “Katya,” not “your sister.” It was another marker of the new status he’d assigned himself. A status in which he could call her sister by a chum’s nickname, cancel her personal plans, and run her time and her home as he pleased.

“— You canceled my meeting with my sister. In my apartment. Without asking me,” Liza stated, not as a question but as a reading of charges, point by point.

“— And what, I was supposed to ask?” His smirk widened. He was clearly enjoying the situation, his power. “I’m the master here, I decide. The guys are coming, we’ll relax properly. What were you two going to do anyway? Gossip and sip tea?”

That was the last straw. Not the decision itself, but the ease and certainty of his supposed right to make it and announce it. Liza stood up. Not sharply, not on impulse. She straightened to her full height, and her gaze—warm and drowsy a moment ago—turned hard as polished steel. The sunlit kitchen suddenly felt cramped and stifling.

“— No! You will never be the master here! This is MY apartment! It was gifted to me! And you’re just… my husband here, which means you’re nobody!”

Kirill was taken aback. The smirk slid from his face, replaced by a look of offended bewilderment. He peeled himself off the doorframe, his body tense. He’d expected anything—an argument, pleading, hurt—but not this direct, annihilating blow to his newly swollen pride.

“— Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

“— Keep listening,” she cut him off, taking a step toward him. There was no hysteria in her voice, only cold, concentrated fury. “Right now. You. Take your phone. And you call your buddies. You tell them there’s no poker tonight. Because my sister is coming over today, just like we arranged. And if you don’t like it—” she jerked her chin at the front door, “— the door’s right there. You can go find someplace else where you get to play the master.”

She stood and stared him down, without looking away. There was so much unwavering will in that look that for the first time in weeks Kirill deflated. His puffed-up, lord-of-the-house swagger crumbled, leaving only confusion and a bitter grievance. He stared at her in silence, his gaze flicking from her face to the door and back. He realized this wasn’t a bluff. Slowly he pulled out his phone; his fingers stumbled clumsily over the screen. Liza didn’t move, watching his every gesture like an overseer. He’d lost this battle. But standing there under her icy stare, canceling his plans in humiliation, he already knew this wasn’t the last fight. This was only the beginning of a war.

He flung his phone onto the couch as if he meant to punch through the upholstery with it. It didn’t work. The soft cushion swallowed his anger, and the device just bounced weakly aside. Kirill didn’t say a word. He simply stood in the middle of the living room, breathing heavily, looking at Liza as though she weren’t his wife but a mortal enemy who had just taken everything from him. The air in the kitchen thickened, viscous with unspoken rage. Liza felt it on her skin, but she didn’t retreat. She calmly finished her cooled coffee, rinsed the cup, and set it in the rack, ostentatiously ignoring the storm raging two meters away.

When Katya arrived an hour later, Kirill had already switched tactics. He hadn’t left, as Liza had offered. He stayed, turning himself into the very embodiment of martyrdom. He sat in an armchair in the corner, eyes glued to his phone screen, but Liza knew he was listening. He soaked up every word of the sisters’ conversation, every joke, every giggle, and smelted it inside himself into pure, concentrated fuel for his grievance. To Katya’s polite “Kirill, hi, how are you?” he replied without looking up:

“— Fine.”

And that “fine” sounded as if he’d just come back from hard labor. Katya shot Liza a questioning glance, but Liza only gave the slightest shake of her head. Their girlish chatter, their plans and laughter, all played out against the backdrop of that silent, heavy figure in the corner. He was like a black hole, swallowing light and joy. When Katya left, he didn’t even get up to say goodbye.

That day marked the start of the war. Quiet, dirty, exhausting. Kirill understood that storming the fortress head-on was useless. Which meant he had to make the life of the fortress’s commandant unbearable. He no longer argued. He simply started messing things up. Pettily, methodically, calculated so that each act could be written off as an accident or forgetfulness.

He started with the kitchen, the heart of her apartment. Liza would spend half an hour bringing the countertop to a mirror shine, and ten minutes later she’d find a scatter of breadcrumbs and a sticky ring from his mug. He would “forget” to put away his plate, leaving it on the table with dried buckwheat stuck to it. He could finish the milk and put the empty carton back in the fridge. When she finally asked why he was doing it, he looked at her with the most innocent expression.

“— Oh, sorry, got busy, totally slipped my mind. Why are you so nervous about trifles?”

In the bathroom he stopped closing the toothpaste cap, and it hardened into an ugly crust. After his shower he left a lake on the floor and tossed his wet towel not into the hamper but onto her side of the bed. Every time she caught the damp, musty smell of his towel on her clean sheets, she understood—this wasn’t forgetfulness. It was a message: “I don’t care about your comfort. I don’t care about your rules. I’ll do what I want on your turf.”

She understood the rules of this new, filthy game. His goal was to provoke her, to drag her into another scandal where he could accuse her of pettiness, fault-finding, and hysteria. “I apologized, didn’t I? What more do you want?!”—that’s what he wanted to force from her. And the best way to win was not to play at all. She wiped up the crumbs in silence. Threw out his empty cartons in silence. Rehung the towel in silence. Her silence infuriated him far more than shouting. He wasn’t getting a reaction, no feed for his ego.

The apex of this quiet war came on Tuesday evening. Liza was reading a new book with relish—a pricey gift edition with a beautiful cover she’d saved for the right mood. Kirill sat beside her, watching some action movie and drinking beer straight from the bottle. At some point Liza set the book on the coffee table and went to the kitchen to make tea. When she returned, she froze. Right in the middle of the glossy cover of her new book stood his sweating beer bottle. Under it a wet ring had already spread, and the cardboard was starting to ripple. Kirill stared at the TV, but she could see how tense his back was. He was waiting.

Liza walked to the table. She picked up the bottle, cold to the touch, and set it on the floor. Then she took her ruined book. She ran a finger over the damp, wrinkled cardboard. Inside, everything boiled with the urge to scream, to hurl the bottle at the wall. But she held back. She looked silently at the back of her husband’s head. Then she closed the book and put it on the shelf. She didn’t say a word. She simply sat down in her chair and pretended to bury herself in her phone. Kirill lost his patience first. He snorted loudly, stood up, and went to smoke on the balcony. He realized the quiet sabotage wasn’t working. He couldn’t get to her. Which meant it was time to move to open hostilities. And bring in the heavy artillery.

A week turned into a sluggish, silent tug-of-war. Kirill no longer left crumbs and cleaned up his dishes. But he did it with the air of doing her a great favor. His politeness was colder than any quarrel. He moved through the apartment like a stranger, like a disgruntled guest in a cheap hotel, and that weighed on Liza more than open enmity. She sensed he was plotting something, that this lull was only a gathering of strength before a new, more powerful strike.

The showdown came on Thursday evening. Liza had a crucial video conference—a presentation of her design project to a potential client. The contract she’d spent six months working toward hinged on this conversation. She’d prepared all day: laid out sketches on the table, rehearsed her speech, put on a crisp silk blouse, and did flawless makeup. No one would see the pajama bottoms under the desk anyway. Ten minutes before the start, she sat in front of her laptop, checking audio and lighting, feeling the familiar pre-start tension mounting inside.

At that moment a key turned in the lock. Kirill came in. And he wasn’t alone. Three of his buddies tumbled into the hallway behind him—Stas, Vova, and Anton. Loud, smelling of the street and cheap cologne, they carried bags that clinked in a very telling way.

“— Liza, hey! We, uh… decided to have a ‘cultured’ evening,” boomed Stas, plunking the bags right down on the clean hallway floor.

 

Liza froze in her desk chair. Her heart dropped. She looked at Kirill. His face wore the mask of a gracious host, but triumphant, vicious sparks danced in his eyes. He saw her blouse, saw the open laptop. He knew perfectly well. This wasn’t an accident. This was an execution.

“— Kirill, I have a call in five minutes. Important,” she said quietly enough that his friends wouldn’t hear.

“— We’ll be quiet,” he answered just as quietly, without changing his expression. “Relax. We won’t bother you.”

It was a brazen, outright lie. The company trooped into the living room, which adjoined her workspace. They dropped themselves onto the new light-colored sofa—which Liza wiped down with special cleaner every other day—with a crash. Anton, without taking off his shoes, threw his dirty sneakers up on the armrest. A lighter clicked; the room filled with cigarette smoke—Kirill had allowed smoking in the room. The hiss of bottles being opened cut the air.

Liza put on her headphones, trying to wall herself off from the circus. The call began. She smiled at the camera, spoke confidently about the concept, about color choices, but her brain was desperately filtering sound. Under her professional monologue rolled the guys’ raucous laughter, the blare of the TV with a football match on, and periodic shouts of “Crush him!” She saw Kirill, sitting at the center of the chaos, sneaking glances at her. He wasn’t just hanging out. He was savoring her helplessness. He was showing her—and more importantly, his friends—who really set the rules here.

She somehow finished the presentation, stumbling a few times when a particularly loud burst of laughter broke through even her headphones. She said polite goodbyes, closed the laptop, and in the stillness that followed for her, the party noise seemed deafening. She slowly took off her headphones. No one noticed her. The whole group was consumed by the game on the screen.

Liza stood. She didn’t go to them. She didn’t start shouting or demanding quiet. Her movements were calm and frighteningly methodical. She walked to the TV stand, where Kirill’s game console sat—his pride and joy, his shrine. Without a word, she unplugged everything: the power cable, the HDMI. She picked up the two controllers lying on the couch. She gathered the stack of game discs from the table. The TV screen went black.

“— Hey, what are you doing?” Vova was the first to come to.

Liza didn’t answer. With an armful of cords, console, and discs, she walked through the room in silence. She didn’t look at Kirill. She went to the front door, opened it, and carefully—almost tenderly—laid his gaming treasure on the doormat in the hallway. Then, just as silently, she returned, sat back down, and opened her laptop as if to continue working.

A dead, baffled silence settled over the room, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator. Kirill’s friends looked from her to their speechless buddy, then to the open door where his console lay on the floor outside. Slowly, inevitably, the sheer humiliation of the situation dawned on them. The party was over. They’d been demonstratively thrown out without so much as a word.

“— Well, Kirill, we should probably get going,” Stas coughed awkwardly, getting up. “Stuff to do…”

They left quickly, without saying goodbye, trying not to look at either Liza or Kirill. The door closed behind them. Kirill was left alone, standing in the middle of the living room. He had been publicly, silently, and utterly crushed before his own entourage. It was worse than any shouting. It was a declaration of total war, with no more prisoners.

He stood there like a statue while their footsteps faded in the stairwell. Liza didn’t move, her gaze pinned to the laptop screen, though she wasn’t seeing the words. With every fiber of her being she felt the vibration of humiliation and fury radiating from her husband. He moved slowly, as if in a dream, to the door, opened it, and looked down at his expelled treasure on the grimy mat. He bent, gathered the cords, the console, the discs. His movements were stiff, robotic. He brought it all back in, dumped it on the couch, and the thud of plastic against the cushions was the only sound in the dead quiet.

Liza waited for the shout, the explosion, the accusations. But Kirill was silent. He paced the room from corner to corner like a caged animal. His shadow flickered across the walls. He didn’t look at her; he looked through her, through the furniture, through the walls. Inside him, some complex chemical reaction was clearly underway: humiliation was smelting into a decision. At last he stopped and turned to her. His face was strangely calm, but his eyes burned with a cold, white fire.

“— You know, you’re right,” he said quietly, and the whisper sent a chill down Liza’s spine. It was scarier than any scream. “I’m not the master here. I get it. But since I’m not the master here, I don’t have to behave like one. I don’t need to take care of this place. At all.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

“— You cling so hard to your square meters. To your ‘home.’ To your ‘fortress.’ Fine. I’ll help make this place even more precious. You know, the guest room is empty. Perfect spot. I’ll put up an ad. I’ll rent it to some student. Or two. Preferably from a band. They’ll rehearse. The money, of course, I’ll keep for myself. I’ve got to live somehow, since I’m ‘nobody’ here.”

Liza looked at him in silence. Her face was impenetrable. She could see it wasn’t just a threat. It was a detailed, thought-out plan of revenge. A plan to destroy her world.

“— And on weekends,” he went on, warming to the idea, his voice growing stronger, charged with poisonous relish, “I’ll invite the guys after all. Not for poker. Why bother? We’ll just drink. Loudly. With music. Till morning. Let the neighbors call whoever they want, you’ll be the one opening the door. You’ll be the one doing the explaining. After all, it’s YOUR apartment. And me? I’m just a guest, your husband. Or, better yet—I can register this place as the legal address for some friend’s company. Let all the correspondence come here, the inspections, the couriers. It’ll be fun. You like it when your house is full of life, right? I’ll turn your precious little nest into a thoroughfare. I’ll make it so you yourself will hate every inch of it. You won’t come here to rest, but like it’s hard labor. And one day you’ll beg me to be the master here, just to make it stop.”

He finished and looked at her triumphantly, waiting for a reaction. He’d landed his strongest, vilest blow, aiming at the very heart of her world. He expected tears, pleas, panic. But Liza slowly closed her laptop. She stood. And she looked at him the way a scientist looks at an insect under a microscope. With cold, detached curiosity.

“— I understand everything, Kirill,” her voice was flat and calm, like the surface of a frozen lake. “I’ve understood the main thing. And you helped me a lot with that.”

“— And what exactly have you understood?” he sneered, still certain of his victory.

“— The problem was never this apartment. Or who’s ‘master’ here. The problem has always been you. An apartment is just walls. And a master is someone who has something inside. A spine. Dignity. Strength. And inside you… there’s nothing. You’re empty, Kirill. You’ve been so desperate to become master of these walls because you have nothing else to own. You have no opinions of your own, no goals of your own, no world of your own. You’re a parasite looking for something to latch onto to feel important. First it was the rental, then mine. You don’t create—you only consume and destroy.”

She took a step toward him. He instinctively stepped back.

 

“— You won’t become the master not because I won’t let you. But because you can’t be one. To do that you have to be a man, not a sulking little boy who breaks other people’s toys because he wasn’t allowed to play. You won’t make my life hell. You already live in your own personal hell—the hell of your own worthlessness. And you’re trying to drag me into it.”

She fell silent. Kirill stood there, mouth open, no words coming. Each of her sentences was a precise, measured cut of a scalpel, laying bare his very core, everything he’d tried so hard to hide behind his borrowed bravado. She hadn’t destroyed his plans; she’d destroyed him.

Without waiting for a reply, Liza turned and calmly walked to the bedroom. She didn’t look back. She just walked, leaving him alone in the middle of the living room. Alone in her apartment, which had just finally and irrevocably stopped being their home. The bedroom door closed softly. The lock clicked. And that quiet click sounded louder than any fight. It was the sound of an ending. Final. Irreversible.

The next day a notification arrived in the government services app: Liza had filed for divorce. That hit him even harder than everything else. Because without his wife, without her apartment, he really was nobody—he wouldn’t even be able to rent a more or less decent place on his salary, since he made less than she did. But those were his problems now, and they had nothing to do with Liza anymore.

The door to the auto repair shop squeaked unpleasantly. The smell of gasoline and engine oil hit my nose— the scent of my past, from which I had been running for so long.

In the center of the room, under the “Ford” hanging from chains, stood he. Sergey. My ex-husband.

The same as before— in a greasy overalls, with a dirty rag sticking out of his back pocket. He was yelling at a young guy, almost a boy, and the sound of his voice made my jaw tighten.

“…Your hands grow from God knows where, not from your shoulders! I told you in plain Russian how to do it!”

I walked deeper into the room, towards the small glass-walled closet where the shop owner— a tired, elderly man with dull eyes— was sitting. He lifted his head at me.

“How can I help? If you’re here about the dent, that’s for the mechanics.”

“I’m not here about the dent,” I said, sitting down in front of him. “I’m here about your ad for the sale.”

The man perked up, leaning forward.

“Oh, so you’re the buyer? Are you serious?”

“More than serious,” my gaze flicked to Sergey. He had just slapped the boy across the head. Light, but humiliating.

The owner followed my gaze and sighed heavily.

“Yeah, my workers aren’t sugar, especially this one,” he nodded toward my ex. “He yells at everyone, scares off the clients. But he’s good at what he does, I’ll give him that. He can twist nuts like a god.”

I smirked to myself. Oh yes, he could twist nuts. And he also knew how to tell me my place was in the kitchen, and that my “silly little programs” were a waste of time. That I was nothing without him.

“How much are you asking for all of this?” I asked, scanning the dirty walls, old lifts, and scattered tools.

He quoted a price. For him, it was a fortune— one that would let him go to his dacha and peacefully greet old age.

For me, it was just a small portion of what I got for my “silly little program” for engine diagnostics.

At that moment, Sergey noticed me. He wiped his hands on his overalls and approached the glass door, peeking inside.

A flash of surprise crossed his face, quickly replaced by the familiar sneering smirk.

“Oh, look who’s here! What brings you here, Anya? Is your car broken down? I told you you’d wreck it in a month.”

He didn’t even consider that I might be here for another reason. In his world, I was still that confused woman he threw out with nothing but a suitcase.

I looked at the owner, ignoring Sergey.

“I’m in. Prepare the documents.”

The man blinked in shock, clearly expecting a long negotiation.

“R-really?”

“Really.”

I stood up. A thought flashed through my mind, clear and sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. The best revenge after a divorce— is to silently buy the auto repair shop where your rude ex-husband works as a mechanic.

I turned and walked to the exit, feeling his stunned gaze on my back. He shouted something after me, but I didn’t listen. I walked on the asphalt, each step firm and confident. The game had only just begun.

A week later, I entered the workshop, no longer as a visitor. I was wearing a strict business suit, holding a folder with documents.

The former owner, Pyotr Sergeevich, had gathered all the workers— four mechanics, including Sergey, and the young apprentice named Vitya.

“Dear colleagues,” Pyotr Sergeevich began, noticeably nervous. “Starting today, our shop has a new owner. Please welcome Anna Viktorovna.”

He pointed at me. There was a pause in the room, thick enough to touch. Sergey, who had been standing there with a cocky grin, slowly straightened up. His face went pale.

“What’s this, some joke?” he bellowed, looking between me and Pyotr Sergeevich.

“No joke, Sergey,” I replied in a calm, cold voice. “Pyotr Sergeevich sold me the business. Now I’m your boss.”

“You? Boss?” He laughed loudly, defiantly, but there was a hint of hysteria in his laughter. “You can’t even tell a wrench from a screwdriver! What are you gonna do here, Anya? File your nails?”

Two other mechanics exchanged uncertain glances. Only Vitya, the young guy, looked at me with some shy curiosity.

“First of all,” I took a step forward, and my voice suddenly sounded firm, making Sergey fall silent.

“For you, I’m Anna Viktorovna. Second, my job is to manage, and yours is to work. And judging by the state of this workshop, there’s plenty of work to do.”

I surveyed the room.

“Starting tomorrow, we begin repairs. Complete reorganization. I’ve already ordered new equipment. And today— general cleaning. Everything needs to shine. This applies to everyone.”

“I’m not participating in this circus,” Sergey spat, crossing his arms. “I’m a mechanic, not a janitor.”

“You’re wrong,” my gaze locked onto him. “You’re an employee. And you’ll do what your employer tells you. Or you can write a resignation letter right now.”

I knew he wouldn’t leave. Where would he go? With his personality, no one would put up with him for long. This workshop was his last refuge.

He gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles working. He realized I wasn’t joking. This wasn’t a prank. It was a trap, and he had walked right into it.

“So, I expect everyone in workwear in fifteen minutes. The cleaning supplies are in the back room,” I turned and walked into what had been Pyotr Sergeevich’s office— which was now mine.

I sat at the desk, feeling my hands tremble. Not from fear. But from excitement. I heard some grumbling outside the door, but then Vitya’s voice rang out:

“Where are the buckets?”

One of the mechanics answered him roughly. But the ice had broken. They obeyed. All except one.

The door to my office swung open with such force it hit the wall. Sergey stood in the doorway. His face was red, his eyes throwing daggers.

“You think I’ll let you treat me like this?” he growled. “You’ll regret messing with me. I’ll make your life hell here…”

“Go ahead,” I calmly interrupted him, raising my eyes to meet his. “Just remember, Sergey. Every mistake you make will be documented. Tardiness, rudeness to clients, failure to follow orders.”

“And then— termination for cause. And believe me, I’ll make sure you never find a job in this city, even as a janitor. Now, leave my office. And close the door. From the outside.”

Sergey fell silent. But it was the calm before the storm. He worked quietly, his face grim, but I could feel him waiting for the right moment to strike.

That moment came two weeks later, when a nearly new SUV belonging to a well-known businessman in the city was brought into the workshop.

The problem was with the electronics. Exactly my area.

I personally connected my diagnostic system— the very one that made me rich. The new equipment I bought allowed me to not only detect but also document every action the mechanic took.

Sergey didn’t know about it.

“There’s an issue with the wiring,” I told him, pointing at the laptop screen. “This block needs to be replaced. Do it carefully. The car’s expensive, and the client’s nervous.”

“Trying to teach me?” he smirked, but he started working.

An hour later, he pulled the car out of the bay.

“All done, boss. Take a look.”

That evening, an enraged businessman called.

“What have you done?! The gearbox is shot! The car won’t move! I’m suing you!”

My heart sank. I rushed to the shop. Sergey was already there, standing with an expression of wounded innocence.

“I told you that your equipment is Chinese junk!” he was telling the other mechanics. “It fried the gearbox. And now she’s trying to pin it all on me!”

“Where are the camera recordings?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“The cameras were being serviced today,” Sergey replied with a smug grin. “What a coincidence, right, Anna Viktorovna?”

He was sure he had won. He had planned everything. But he hadn’t accounted for one thing.

“We don’t need the cameras,” I calmly replied. I opened my laptop and pulled up the diagnostic log.

“My program not only tracks errors but also records all system parameters in real time.”

And it had recorded a sharp voltage spike in the gearbox solenoid. A spike that could only have happened in one case.

I turned the laptop to him. The graph lit up on the screen.

“If you connect the block directly to the battery, bypassing the controller… It’s not something you could do by accident. It can only be done intentionally.”

Sergey’s face slowly began to change color. The smirk faded like a mask.

“This… this is a setup! You planned this!”

“Really?” I pressed another key. “And here’s the log file from the control block. It recorded everything too.”

“Would you like us to send it for an independent expert review? Along with your fingerprints on the battery? I think the police will quickly figure out what intentional property damage looks like.”

I stared him down. There was no more hatred in his eyes. Only primal fear. He knew he had lost. Completely.

“Your resignation letter. On my desk. And I don’t want to see you here in ten minutes.”

He didn’t say a word. He simply turned and went to his locker for his things. The others stood silent, stunned.

When the door closed behind him, I felt… nothing. No joy, no triumph. Only emptiness. Revenge had turned out to be a dish with no taste.

Vitya, the young guy, approached me.

“Anna Viktorovna… that was impressive.”

“I’m not ‘impressive,’ Vitya. I was just protecting what’s mine,” I looked at the clean, renovated shop.

“You know what the hardest part is? It’s not punishing the guilty. It’s building something that will work after they’re gone. Want to learn how to work with diagnostics? For real?”

His eyes lit up.

“Of course I do!”

I nodded.

“Then be here tomorrow at nine. No tardiness.”

In that moment, I understood. My real victory wasn’t firing Sergey.

It was in this kid, in the new equipment, in the future of this place. Revenge is just the period at the end of one sentence. And I was about to write a new book.

Six months passed. My auto repair shop, now called “Techno-Formula,” was thriving. Vitya turned out to be an incredibly talented student and was already handling complex diagnostics on his own.

The other mechanics, freed from Sergey’s toxic influence, worked calmly and harmoniously. We became the best auto-electronics service in the city.

I had almost forgotten about my ex-husband. He had simply disappeared from my life, dissolved. The emptiness I had felt after firing him had long been filled with new plans, successes, and pride in my business.

Then I came across a post in one of the city’s social media groups. An anonymous story about the “unfortunate mechanic, thrown out by his bitch of a wife, who took his business away.”

The story was tearfully written, full of lies: how he built the shop from scratch, how I tricked him, and how now he, sick and unwanted, was scraping by with odd jobs.

There were hundreds of sympathetic comments underneath. People cursed the “spoiled businesswoman” and pitied the “poor guy.” I recognized Sergey’s style. His way of portraying himself as the victim, manipulating sympathy.

It would have killed me before. I would have rushed to write rebuttals, to prove something. But now, I just tiredly rubbed my nose. It was so petty. So pathetic.

I didn’t write anything in response. I simply called one of my regular clients, the owner of the largest news portal in the city. And asked him for a favor.

Two days later, a big article appeared on that portal with the headline: “From Rags to Riches: How a Former Housewife Created the Best Auto Service in the City.” It was my story.

No embellishments. About how I built the program from scratch, how my husband laughed at my “hobbies,” how I sold the project and invested the money into a dying workshop.

The article included interviews with satisfied clients and employees. And not a word about Sergey. He wasn’t even worth mentioning.

I found him a few days later. He was sitting in a cheap pub on the edge of the city. Gaunt, unshaven, in an old jacket. He stared into his beer mug as though he could see his future there.

I sat across from him. He looked up at me with dull eyes.

“Here to finish me off? To laugh?”

“No,” I placed the printout of the article on the table. “I came to show you that you didn’t lose when I fired you. You lost when you thought you could destroy me.”

He looked at the headline, and his lips twisted.

“You took everything from me.”

“I didn’t take anything from you, Sergey. You gave it all away. Your malice, your envy, your belief that everyone owes you something.”

“I just built my life. Without you. And you know what? It turned out much better.”

I stood to leave.

“Anya, wait…” There was something new in his voice. Desperation. “What am I supposed to do now?”

I turned around. And for the first time throughout all of this, I didn’t feel anger or pity. Nothing at all. He had become an empty space for me.

“Start working,” I said. “Stop whining, stop blaming others, and just work. Like all normal people do. Goodbye, Sergey.”