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The new maid wanted to find out why the owner’s daughter cries at night in her room. But when she entered the teenager’s bedroom…

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Trying not to make any noise, 27-year-old Elizaveta Andreevna Malinkina cautiously moved down the corridor toward the room of Alisa — the 14-year-old daughter of the house owner. She needed to check if the girl was asleep so she could finally go to bed herself.

For two weeks now, Liza has been working in the house of billionaire Voropaev instead of her older sister Antonina, who suddenly fell ill during her vacation. She had to take over her duties. This job was very important for the family — the salary here was much higher than anywhere else in their area. Antonina had two children: 14-year-old Marina and six-year-old Vanechka.
Family games

The work was simple — keep the house tidy and, if possible, avoid being seen by the owners. But there was one “but”: on the days when Aleksey Voropaev and his fiancée Anzhelika were absent, Elizaveta had to spend the night in the mansion.

Aleksey Anatolyevich had a daughter, Alisa, and on such evenings she was left alone in the huge house. The servants’ quarters were on the other side of the estate.

Already on the stairs, Liza heard crying. She looked at the clock — three a.m.

“What’s this strange business? Crying again… This is beyond normal,” she muttered under her breath.

Gathering her courage, she knocked on the door. She wanted to understand what was happening. She was sure something serious had happened. If the girl had such a wealthy life, would she really be crying?

Although her sister had strictly warned her: “Don’t show yourself in front of the owners,” Malinkina still decided to go inside. Instead of just listening by the door, she opened it wide and entered the room.

“What are you doing here?! Who let you in?! Get out right now! I’ll call security!” Alisa screamed and threw a pillow at the maid.

Liza skillfully caught it and immediately threw it back. The pillow hit the mistress’s daughter right in the head.

“How dare you?! I’ll tell Dad, and you’ll be fired!” the girl protested.

“Let him fire me, I don’t care,” the woman replied with a hint of sarcasm. “It’s unbearable to live in your house. Not even peace at night. Someone is always crying. Don’t know who? — she smirked. — Oh right, it’s you. Probably Daddy didn’t give you the right star from the sky, or you broke an acrylic nail?”

Alisa burst into tears:

“You don’t understand anything! If you only knew how much I suffer!”

“I agree, hell,” Liza nodded. “If I had been driven to school by a chauffeur at 14, I’d cry too.”

“Why?” the girl asked in surprise.

“We used to go swimming after school, pick mushrooms in autumn, sometimes go to a café for ice cream. And you? No one visits you, you have no one to talk to.”

Malinkina headed toward the door, but Alisa stopped her:

“How do you find friends? I don’t have any at all.”

“None?” the woman was amazed.

“Not a single one. I used to have a mother, then my parents divorced. I was sent to study abroad, got sick there, and my father brought me back.”
Family relationship books

“Why do you live with your father, not your mother?” Liza asked, feeling a familiar pain.

“Mom doesn’t want to see me. She has a new family — a husband and little kids.”

“Did she tell you that herself?”

“No. I haven’t seen her for a long time. My father tells me,” Alisa sighed.

“Your father is an idiot!” Elizaveta couldn’t help herself. “Only a complete selfish person would say such things to their child.”

“Are you talking about me?” came a voice from the doorway.

Both froze. A man about thirty-five entered the room.

“Oh, Dad, you’re back already?” the girl panicked, hiding under the blanket.

“Stop calling Anzhelika a poodle,” Voropaev said sternly and turned to Liza: “Who are you and what are you doing in my daughter’s room?”

“I’m the housekeeper. I just wanted to check if she was asleep,” Liza answered embarrassed.

“You were warned: do not enter, only listen behind the door. If necessary, wake Tamara Petrovna, don’t barge in.”
Family games

“Yes, I was warned,” the woman lowered her eyes, unwilling to betray Alisa.

“You’re fired,” Aleksey said coldly and approached his daughter’s bed.

Liza stood, not knowing where to go. She felt humiliated and worried — how to explain everything to Antonina?

Voropaev turned around:

“You’re still here? Leave. You’re fired.”

“Dad, no, she’s not to blame,” Alisa begged. “I asked her to come in. I had a terrible nightmare.”

“All right, this time I’ll forgive you. But if I see you near my daughter again — it’s on your own head.”

Liza quickly went to her room. How foolish it had turned out. She almost let her sister down. She definitely would not go to Alisa again.

Falling asleep, Liza thought about her older sister — Antonina Grineva. To her, she was always the dearest person. The age difference between them was eight years.
Child care services

She remembered the times when their father was alive, the family was big and close, and their mother cared for them. Then their father got sick. He was taken to the city clinic and never returned.
Family games

Mother mourned for a long time but soon started abusing alcohol. Liza was thirteen then. She did not want to live with her mother and her new husband, Yuri Zhukov, and kept running away to her father’s house. They took her back by force, but she escaped again.

Once Liza went by train three hundred kilometers away. The police found her and sent her back. After that, social services intervened for the first time.

Then Antonina, who had just had her first daughter Marina, decided to take her sister in:

“Sasha, let’s take Liza? The girl will be lost,” she said to her husband.

“I don’t mind. But can you handle a baby and a teenager? Especially since I’m often on business trips,” answered Alexander, a helicopter pilot by profession.

He loved the sky but agreed to be home more for Tonya’s sake. However, he couldn’t completely give up flying.

So Antonina now lived in constant worry when her husband was on duty. But at least she saved her sister from the harsh conditions at their mother’s. Natalya Egorovna didn’t even resist — she wanted freedom, and Liza caused many problems.

The mother, handing over the younger daughter to the elder’s care, only sighed with relief and plunged fully into her careless life. Elizaveta was lucky — she ended up in Antonina’s caring home. For the first time in many years, Liza felt warmth, attention, and support.
Family relationship books

Gradually, the girl pulled herself together: calmed down, improved her studies, and began to enjoy life. Now after school she hurried home not only to do homework but also to help her beloved sister.

She no longer visited her mother, even though she lived just a few blocks away. The resentment was too great. But at night she often cried, remembering her father — the dearest person who was no longer there.

Elizaveta graduated school with a silver medal and entered university without much difficulty. After earning a law degree, she became a lawyer and within three years joined a bar association.

The young Malinkina quickly earned a reputation as a promising and competent lawyer. Colleagues and professors predicted a bright future for her. A huge role in her career was played by Naum Yakovlevich Goldman — one of the best lawyers in the region, who became not just a mentor for Liza but also a close person.

Naum Yakovlevich had his own daughter but they had long lost touch — the Goldman family moved to Canada after a divorce. He stayed in Russia and now considered Liza his spiritual daughter. To many, he was a legend — not just talented, but a true genius of his craft.

Liza fully understood this and always considered it her fortune to study under such a master. And the only pain in his life was loneliness. Malinkina became his support. It was especially touching that she resembled his own daughter, so Goldman affectionately called her “my child.”
Child care services

They met when Liza was lucky to become his intern. Later, starting her own practice, she maintained trusting relations with him, continuing to help and communicate almost like family.

“I will never abandon you, Naum Yakovlevich. Don’t even hope!” Liza said, driving the old man to his dacha.

“My child, I could get there myself. Why did you rush in the morning?”

“Get dressed and don’t argue. I’m waiting for you in the car. Where are your things?”

“I’ll pack my bags myself. I’m a man, after all. Or should I swallow them? Wait, I’ll be soon. You’ll have time to scold me,” Goldman grumbled hiding a smile.

Such dialogues were common between them — two people who became closer than family. Naum Yakovlevich even changed his will, leaving half of his fortune to Liza. Although she knew nothing about it — and did not strive for wealth.

For Elizaveta, the most valuable thing was the very presence of this person. Next to Goldman, she felt peace, protection, security — a feeling she had only experienced in childhood while her father was alive.

The old lawyer also couldn’t imagine life without Liza. He feared that one day she would leave — marry, start a family. If he had survived parting with his own daughter, now he could not. But he didn’t want to talk about it.
Family games

He made plans for Liza: marry, create a family, have children, become the country’s best lawyer. And thought of himself last.

Meanwhile, they only parted once a year — during vacations, when Liza went to her sister. Antonina had cared for her for so many years that Malinkina wanted to repay by helping, being near, at least partly repaying the debt.

Although now Liza could afford any travels, she still chose her sister’s home. It was a way to say “thank you” and simply spend time with loved ones.

She repeatedly offered Tonya to move to the city, where they could rent a spacious apartment, work, and raise children together. But Antonina refused. She was waiting for her husband — Alexander Grishin, a helicopter pilot whose aircraft crashed five years ago during a mission. The body was never found, and he was officially declared dead.

But Tonya did not believe this:

“I won’t go anywhere, Lizonka. What if Sashka returns? How will he find us in the city?”

“We will leave a note with the address,” Liza joked though feeling bitter.

She admired her sister’s strength of spirit, loyalty, and love. But deep down she felt sorry — years go by, life moves on. And Tonya keeps waiting…

Semyon Krachkov had long courted her, but she refused:

“How can I marry if my husband is alive? No one has seen his body — so he will return.”

Thus the Grishins lived in the village. Only when their daughter Marina finishes school and goes to study in the city, Liza would take care of her niece. Meanwhile, she visited relatives on holidays, sometimes on weekends, and always for her entire vacation.

It was during one of those vacations that Liza had to urgently come to help. Antonina had been suffering for the third day in pain but couldn’t afford to miss work. She was a housekeeper in the house of billionaire Voropaev.

The rich like to live outside the city — they buy plots, build houses. The staff is usually recruited from local residents. The village was nearby; it took ten minutes by bike to get to work.

Therefore, Liza easily agreed with other workers — they agreed to cover the replacement and not tell anyone that Antonina was being substituted by her sister. The owners would not find out since most of the servants were strangers to them. Staff had to be invisible, trying not to be seen.

There were no such strict rules before, but since Voropaev’s fiancée Anzhelika moved in, everything changed. The future wife did not tolerate people without a million in their pocket. She despised the servants and did not want to see them.

The mistress demanded that cleaning be done outside the family’s presence, and when seeing any owner, workers had to disappear immediately.

“So we have to move like shadows?” Liza smirked hearing this for the first time.

“Yes, something like that,” shrugged housekeeper Tamara Petrovna, who had worked in the house for many years. “It’s all Anzhelika’s doing. She’s not even the wife yet but already acting like the boss.”

“While she’s the fiancée, and that means a guest,” Malinkina noted. “Guests can ask, but they don’t have the right to command.”

“Of course,” sighed Tamara Petrovna, “but no one wants to get involved with her. Voropaev proposed, gave her a diamond ring — the wedding is soon.”

“Well, good,” Liza smiled, “it works in my favor. Nobody knows me, so no one will guess I’m substituting for my sister.”

“To be honest, Lizonka, you better hide well if you suddenly see Anzhelika,” Tamara Petrovna grimaced.

“Why?” Malinkina frowned.

“You’re too young and beautiful. They don’t allow such to work here. Even your sister, Antonina, is too young for a servant — she’s the same age as Voropaev. And you are even younger…”

“Is she really that jealous?” Liza asked thoughtfully.

“Definitely! She even fired Masha Grenkina, though she’s not a beauty. But Anzhelika knows all about female cunning. They say she used to work in escort. Now she decided to ‘settle down’ — age is catching up, the forties are near,” the housekeeper lowered her voice.

It was clear the woman was eager to gossip. Liza already noticed that the household staff loved to discuss the owners among themselves, but no gossip left the mansion. Disclosure meant dismissal — not just for one but the whole staff. Everyone understood and treated the rule as a commandment. The job was too good to lose.

“Why did Aleksey Anatolyevich decide to marry such a woman?” Liza asked.

“Do you know how cunning she is? Like a fox. Years in escort gave her social manners: she speaks English, follows the news, understands politics, fashion, show business. With her, it’s not shameful to appear in public, and she looks decent. Now you understand?”

“No,” Elizaveta shook her head.

“Well, well, Liza! Aleksey never loved anyone. I’ve seen many women here, but he only looked at Vera — his first wife. He really loved her. The rest were indifferent. Anzhelika is part of the image. He buys her trinkets, takes her out. A man like Voropaev needs a wife.”

“A married businessman inspires more trust among partners. A bachelor is somehow unrespectable. So he decided to marry.”

“So he’s buying her?” Liza said thoughtfully.

“You could say that,” nodded Tamara Petrovna. “He pays, and we have to tolerate this village geisha. And Alisa doesn’t like her at all,” the housekeeper grimaced.

“Why did Voropaev separate from Alisa’s mother? The girl seems to suffer a lot.”
Family relationship books

“Vera couldn’t take it. She felt like a bird in a cage here. Aleksey loved her, spoiled her, protected her, but almost never had time for her. He came home late when she was already asleep and left early before she woke up. Then he sent their daughter to study in Europe — that’s when Vera got really sad.”

“Then she found another man. Conflicts began due to her husband’s constant absence. Aleksey shouted money doesn’t fall from the sky, and Vera needed simple human relationships. But he couldn’t change his schedule.”

“Then Voropaev advised his wife to find something to do: entertain herself or find a hobby. Vera had graduated from art academy. She started attending exhibitions, communicating with artists, and asked to buy her a studio. Aleksey agreed. Since then she hardly left it.”

“One day at breakfast, as if casually, she said:
— Lesha, I’m leaving you.
— Why? — he was shocked.
— I fell in love with another man.”

It turned out she had been corresponding with an Englishman Jack — a famous and wealthy artist. They met at a Russian exhibition where he bought paintings. Then he came several times to Russia and met Vera in that very studio Voropaev gave her.

Now Vera is married to Jack and lives in London. After the divorce, Aleksey immediately brought their daughter back from Europe and transferred her to a Russian school. He forbade his ex-wife to see Alisa — still does not allow it.

The girl cannot adapt. Although she has been in Russia for three years, she can’t get along with classmates. She is too withdrawn and keeps everything inside. Childhood trauma and separation from her mother take their toll.

“In Aleksey’s soul lives resentment toward Vera, but his daughter suffers,” sighed Tamara Petrovna.

“You’re a real psychologist,” Liza smiled.

“Oh, come on! I’ve lived long and seen everything. Sometimes I say better than any psychologist: you are not one of us. Not the right berry from the bush.”

“What do you mean?” the girl asked surprised.

“What I see. You feel like a different breed — educated, intelligent. You’re clearly not a servant. Your sister is a simple woman, but who are you?”

Liza did not plan to reveal more about herself, so she answered evasively:

“I’m from a district center. Raised there but studied in the city. Now, excuse me, I have to go. The owners will wake up soon, and I haven’t cleaned the gazebo. They will have breakfast there.”

“True!” Tamara exclaimed. “What am I talking about? If Kopeykin wakes up, we’ll all be in trouble.”

“Who is Kopeykin?” Liza didn’t understand.

“That’s Anzhelika!” the housekeeper laughed. “She pretends to be an aristocrat, but in fact — Anzhela Vasilievna Kopeykin, daughter of our village’s zootechnician. From my village — from Sinkovka. Familiar name?”

“Familiar,” Malinkina smiled, grabbed a bucket of water, and ran to clean.

The girl hurried so fast she didn’t notice she bumped right into the house owner himself. Water spilled from the full bucket right on Aleksey Anatolyevich’s pants and shoes.

The billionaire’s eyes widened; he was speechless for a second but quickly composed himself:

“Again you? Listen, you weren’t fired yesterday only because Alisa asked. But that won’t save you from being fired for other offenses. Get out…”

“Forgive me… forgive me…” Liza took a brush from her apron pocket and began moving it through the puddles on the floor.

“Are you completely crazy? Do you think you can clean water with these brushes?” the owner shouted angrily. He was about to leave to change but suddenly stopped and sharply turned: “Tell me, how long have you been working as a housekeeper? It seems you don’t understand how to do it at all.”

“No-no, what are you saying! I’ve done all the housework since childhood. I have huge experience,” Liza’s heart pounded with fear — she was afraid she would be fired again.

“What’s your name?”

“Liza.”

“All right, Liza, keep working. For now.”

Malinkina quickly headed to the gazebo that needed cleaning for a long time. On the way, she overheard a fragment of a conversation between the owner and his fiancée:

“She poured water on you? You fired her, darling? Why?! Where is this person? I’ll kick her out myself right now!”

What Voropaev answered was unheard, but Liza felt he was persuading Anzhelika not to touch the staff.

While Liza feverishly prepared the gazebo for breakfast, Alisa came up to her:

“Hi. What are you doing?”

“Hi. Don’t bother me, please. Your dad almost fired me for the second time in the last twelve hours. At this rate, I’ll definitely lose this job soon. And I need to stay here, you understand?”

“Why?”

Liza stopped and stopped wiping the table:

“It’s a secret. Can you keep secrets?”

“Of course,” the girl blushed. Until then, no one had ever trusted her with real adult secrets. Her father always sent her out of the room when serious talks started.

“Then swear — not even under torture will you spill.”

“I swear,” Alisa whispered.

“All right. Just remember — this is very important. I’m not just a servant. I snuck in here secretly. Actually, I don’t work here.”

Alisa covered her mouth to keep from gasping and also whispered:

“You’re a spy?”

“No. Listen carefully.”

Liza told a little about her childhood, about her sister, and how she was ready to do anything for the family. Now her sister was sick and in the hospital, and Liza was substituting for her at work. Besides, she now had two nephews — fourteen-year-old Marina and six-year-old Pavlik. Marina tried to look after her brother while Liza worked, but the responsibility was still on her.
Family games

Alisa herself did not notice how she began helping to clean. Together they finished quickly, and from that moment their shared secret made them so close that the girl felt initiated into the most important cause in the world.

“I will never betray you, Liza,” she promised seriously, putting her hand on her chest.

“Thank you. You’re a true friend,” Liza said sincerely. Alisa took these words deeply and even cried:

“Really? Can I be your friend?”

Liza was a little confused but quickly recovered:

“Alisa Voropaeva, I offer you the hand of friendship.”

She did not yet know she had just found her most faithful friend. Alisa had never had friends before but was smart, loved books, and perfectly understood what true friendship was. Deceit, betrayal, and distrust were alien to her.

“Liza, are you staying here again tonight? What about Marina and Pavlik?”

“Yes, I’ll pick them up in the evening. But no one must be invited to my room — what if the owner finds out?”

“It’s okay, they can stay with us. We’ll swim in the pool, watch movies in the home theater, order pizza and sushi — Konstantin cooks great!”

“Who is Konstantin?”

“Our chef,” Alisa laughed.

“No way, I’ll definitely be fired if they find out.”

“They won’t. My friend can be anywhere he wants here. So don’t worry. And I’ll deal with the poodle myself.”

“What poodle?”

“Anzhelika,” the girl answered shortly, and they both laughed.

At that moment, Voropaev’s fiancée entered the gazebo. She looked contemptuously at Alisa and the housekeeper:

“Alisa, what are you doing here? Go into the house. When breakfast is served, you will be called. Until then, you have nothing to do here, especially with the servants.”

“But you didn’t ask,” the girl answered boldly. “You are nobody here. Manage your village.”

“Ah, you… Wait, when my time comes — then you’ll dance!” Anzhelika hissed through her teeth. Her lips trembled, fists clenched. It seemed she was about to attack Alisa. But suddenly she glanced at Liza, who lowered her eyes hiding her face. She remembered Tamara Petrovna’s warning: the bride fires young maids without hesitation.

This time Liza was lucky — the storm passed her by. She hurried to clean Voropaev’s and Anzhelika’s bedroom while everyone went to breakfast. After Aleksey Anatolyevich left on business, the usual work hustle began in the house.

Gardeners, cooks, guards, maids — all worked trying not to provoke the owner’s displeasure. Everyone wanted to keep their job.

After cleaning, Liza rested a little, talked on the phone with Marina and Pavlik, called her sister, and promised the children she would pick them up in the evening and they would spend time together in the billionaire’s house. Pavlik was thrilled — mom never allowed them to play in the mansion.

Having settled her affairs, Liza went to Voropaev’s office. The door was ajar, which seemed strange — usually the office was locked. Having gotten the key earlier from the head of security, she knew she had to return it after cleaning.

She stopped, thought, carefully leaned the cleaning equipment against the wall, and crept to the door. What she saw shocked her to the core.

Anzhelika, Aleksey Anatolyevich’s fiancée, was rummaging through the safe. She took out several documents, photographed them, carefully put them back, closed the safe, and wiped it with a handkerchief. Then she took off her gloves, hid the phone in her pocket, and straightened papers on the table.

Liza managed to record video and take several photos. When the woman finished, Malinkina grabbed her buckets and cloths and hid around the corner to avoid being noticed.

A moment later, Anzhelika left the office, looked around, locked the door, and hurried away. Liza took a deep breath — the danger passed. Barely had her heart stopped pounding when she cautiously peeked from behind the corner.

With trembling hands, Malinkina opened the door and began cleaning. When finished, she watched the recorded video several times, checked the quality, and sent it to Naum Yakovlevich. Then they exchanged a few messages, after which Liza smiled, said goodbye, and confidently walked down the corridor. She knew: now she had to strictly follow the instructions of her old mentor.

As soon as she told the lawyer everything that happened during her work at the Voropaev house, he sighed heavily:

“My little bird, how come you constantly find yourself at the center of the most scandalous stories?”

“I don’t understand myself, Naum Yakovlevich. I didn’t want to interfere with anyone. Tonya got sick, so I had to substitute her. Otherwise, she could have lost her job. And the owner’s fiancée — she’s just a snake! You can’t imagine. She fires all the young maids, and if someone is sick — immediately ‘out of the house.’ In her opinion, the staff must be flawless, like robots.”

“Voropaev… Aleksey Anatolyevich?” the lawyer was surprised.

“Yes, that’s him. Do you know him?”

“More than that. I’ve handled his family affairs for a long time. His father, Anatoly Mikhailovich, was a kind man. I defended his interests back in the eighties. Aleksey has been familiar to me since childhood. So you are now in his house?”
Family games

“Exactly there.”

“Listen carefully: don’t take any independent action. I’ll check Anzhelika through my channels first, then we’ll decide what to do next. I promise — quickly. Can you hold out a couple of days?”

“Of course,” Liza smiled.

The conversation ended. After work, when Voropaev and his fiancée flew to Sochi for the weekend, Liza took Marina and Pavlik, and together with Alisa, they had a real celebration.

They spent the whole evening having fun, playing, laughing. At night, when the children fell asleep, Liza checked on Alisa to make sure the girl was asleep. The room was silent — Alisa was indeed peacefully dozing. Today she was happier than ever. Malinkina understood how hard life was for her with her father and his new fiancée. But she also knew: the main thing is attention, care, and love. That was exactly what the girl lacked.

Elizaveta decided for herself that even when this story ended, she would remain in Alisa’s life. She imagined how many years later she would say: “I have known Alisa Alekseevna since childhood. I was always there when she had a hard time.”

Liza smiled but at that moment bumped into Voropaev himself in the corridor.

“It’s you again?” he was surprised.

“What are you doing here?” the girl asked fearfully. Thoughts raced: her nephews were sleeping in her room, the living room was still messy after the party.

“I live here,” Voropaev laughed quietly. “And you seem to feel at home already. This is the second time we meet in the corridor at night.”

“Sorry,” Liza smiled and whispered, “I was just checking if Alisa was asleep.”

“And?”

 

“She is. For the first time so peacefully and without worries.”

“What did you do to her? She suffered from insomnia for years.”

“I just became a true friend to her,” Liza shrugged.

“Listen, Liza, come to my office. We need to talk about my daughter. We stand like in the square, and it’s night outside.”

They quietly went inside. The owner offered the girl to sit in a soft chair and handed her a glass of drink.

“Sorry for my frankness, but why did you return early? Your fiancée is in Sochi, isn’t she?”

“Troubles in business. Someone got information he shouldn’t have known. Oleg Zaporozhnikov — my old friend and enemy. I think he leaked the data. I don’t understand how he managed to get the project before the tender announcement.”

“Do you think the staff won’t understand you?” Liza asked, slightly offended.

“No, not at all! I don’t think that. Forgive me for these words. By the way, about Anzhelika… I myself feel disgusted that she fires people without reason. But soon she will become the mistress of the house, and such decisions will no longer be mine.”

“Then why do you marry her if you don’t love her?” Liza asked, blushing but holding his long look.

“It’s not about love. I need a woman who will play the role of mistress, Mrs. Voropaev.”

Malinkina’s eyes widened:

“But that’s wrong. You can’t live without love. Love is the meaning of life. Love your children, your woman, your Motherland — that is the true goal of a person.”

“I don’t know how to love,” Voropaev interrupted. “Those I loved are long gone. And my ex-wife, whom I loved very much, left me for another. Maybe I just love wrong. Even my daughter…”

“Then you need someone who will teach you to love. But it’s definitely not Anzhelika. She will destroy you with her coldness. Because she doesn’t love you as you love her.”

Voropaev pondered:

“Could you teach me to love?”

Liza blushed and didn’t manage to answer — at that moment the door opened, and sleepy Alisa entered the office:

“Liza, I was looking for you! I came to your room, but you weren’t there.” She ran to the chair, sat beside her friend, and hugged her. A few minutes later, the girl fell sound asleep.

“Well, we didn’t talk again,” Liza smiled. “Maybe you’ll tell me why you came back so suddenly, leaving your fiancée alone?”

“Let her stay alone for now. I need to sort out business. The project that the whole team worked on may fail. A competitor submitted my proposal before me. I don’t understand how he learned about it. There are no traitors among the staff.”

“Tomorrow I’ll gather the board of directors, and the day after tomorrow my lawyer will come. I’ll have to close the project, but we’ll move on.”

“Remember who knew about the case. Who benefits,” Liza said thoughtfully. She already knew who was behind it but didn’t hurry to reveal the cards — she promised Naum Yakovlevich.

On Sunday morning, Liza went to the hospital with the children to see her sister. Antonina was almost recovered, and doctors planned to discharge her soon. That meant Liza’s work in the Voropaev house was coming to an end.

Liza thought with light sadness that she would soon leave this house. She didn’t want to go. Aleksey Anatolyevich was becoming closer, more interesting to her. And she felt that he looked at her not just as a servant. But how could a lawyer, even a promising and talented one, quit her practice and continue working as a maid?

At the thought, Liza even laughed.

Meanwhile, Alisa persuaded them to go with the company to the hospital to see Tonya, and then they all went to the beach together. Voropaev’s daughter looked at everything around with curiosity. It turned out she had never eaten cotton candy, never ridden a Ferris wheel, and never swam in a river.

The girl had expensive entertainment, luxurious trips, travels across Europe… but simple joys — those usually given to ordinary children — she didn’t have. She never jumped from a bridge into the water, never played in fountains, never went camping or roasted potatoes over a fire.

“I promise, this summer I’ll introduce you to all these things,” Marina promised. “And if Dad allows, we’ll even go to Liza’s city for overnight stays!”

“Really? Do you live in the city, Liza?” Alisa was surprised.

“Of course,” Marina blurted out and immediately bit her tongue.

“Seriously?” the girl said sadly.

“Yes, it’s true. I really live in the city and work as a lawyer,” Liza admitted. “Don’t be upset, girlfriend. We will definitely see each other. I think good relations are developing between me and your dad. So you will visit us.”

Alisa hugged Liza and smiled:

“Let’s have you and Dad get married! Imagine that?”

Liza didn’t answer, only blushed deeply. The idea suddenly stopped seeming absurd. Although not long ago she was afraid of Voropaev like fire.

The day went wonderfully. In the evening, Liza with her nephews saw Alisa home and returned to the village herself. It was her day off — the first in a long time. Tomorrow she had to go back to the Voropaev mansion.

In the morning, the phone insisted, the alarm demanded to wake up, but Liza postponed it again and again, hoping to sleep a little longer. Fatigue had accumulated: she had worked more in a week than in the whole year, and also checked at night if Alisa was sleeping.

As a result — she was late. Liza hurried as best she could but still arrived after breakfast.

“If I worked here permanently, I’d have been fired a long time ago. I’d have been kicked out of any house,” she thought, approaching the yard.

Alisa was already waiting for her on the porch:

“Faster, I covered for you. Dad already asked where you are. I said you’re helping in the kitchen.”

“Thanks, dear, you owe me,” Liza hurriedly replied, parked her bike, and went inside.

As soon as she changed clothes and entered the living room with Alisa, she saw two men — Voropaev and Naum Yakovlevich.

“Good morning,” Liza said embarrassedly.

“Hello, Liza. I was looking for you,” the owner smiled.

“I was in the kitchen… cleaning, cutting… and all that,” the girl tried to explain, trying not to look at the lawyer.

“She was cleaning, cutting,” Goldman chuckled. “Elizaveta, you overslept again. Tell the truth.”

Voropaev looked at him surprised.

“Aleksey Anatolyevich,” Naum Yakovlevich began, “let me introduce you to my partner, student, friend, and one of the best lawyers in our city — after me, of course. This is Elizaveta Andreevna Malinkina.”

“Sorry… and this is my maid — Liza… what’s her patronymic?” Voropaev puzzled.

“Elizaveta Andreevna… Malinkina,” the girl modestly replied, lowering her eyes.

Alisa watched with a satisfied smile. Now it was clear — the only one who didn’t know anything was Voropaev himself.

“What’s going on?” the man smiled confusedly.

“I’ll explain now,” Naum Yakovlevich said, swallowing a pill. “Liza is on vacation, temporarily replacing her sick sister. She’s the one who accidentally noticed Anzhelika rummaging in the safe and photographing documents. The video I showed you was made by Liza. So, while she was dusting your office, she got rid of the spy who was supposed to become your wife.”

 

At that moment, Anzhelika entered the house. She rolled a wheeled suitcase and was clearly furious:

“You left me alone, didn’t come back, didn’t send a helicopter, no one met me at the airport. I need to think well about whether to marry you, Aleksey!”

“Of course not,” Voropaev answered calmly. “Pack your things and leave. Before I call the police.”

Anzhelika looked around stunned.

“What is a servant doing here? Why is she even here?”

Without a word, Aleksey played the video and put the phone on the table next to her. Anzhelika understood everything. She turned pale but a second later began to scream hysterically that Voropaev was heartless, his daughter was nasty, and one day he would regret his decision.

Anzhelika left, the engagement was broken off. Voropaev really lost the tender, the project had to be closed. But new opportunities already loomed on the horizon, and Aleksey even felt relieved — everything happened exactly as it should.

Now he was seeing the city’s best lawyer (after Naum Yakovlevich, of course). Elizaveta became not only his beloved woman but also Alisa’s close friend.

Moreover, Liza convinced Voropaev to restore relations between Alisa and her mother. Aleksey did everything possible so they could see, communicate, and spend as much time together as they wished.
Family relationship books

And so, in August, Alisa met her mother — Vera specially flew in from London. The girl hadn’t been so happy for a long time. And it was all thanks to Liza, who was soon going to give Alisa another important gift — to become her new mother.

From this day on, you’re a homeless nobody!” my husband smirked, not knowing I’d already transferred all the property.

0

Liliya bought an apartment at twenty-six. She’d saved for five years while working as a manager at a trading company. Every kopeck went into savings: she gave up entertainment, wore old clothes, economized on everything. When she finally signed the purchase contract, her hands trembled with happiness. A one-room place on the edge of the city—but her own.

She met Dmitry a year after the purchase. At a colleague’s office party. Tall, charming, knew how to give compliments. He courted her beautifully: flowers, restaurants, evening strolls through the city. After six months he suggested moving in with Liliya.

“Why are you paying for a rental?” Liliya asked. “Move in with me.”
Quality properties for rent

Dmitry agreed. He brought two bags of clothes and a box of books. Settled on the couch and turned on the TV.

“It’s cozy here,” he said. “Feels like home.”

The first months went by peacefully. Dmitry worked as a programmer and came home late, tired. Liliya made dinner, tried to create comfort. Everything felt right, dependable.

A year later Dmitry suggested they get married. Liliya agreed without hesitation. The wedding was modest, just close family. Liliya’s parents came from another city, Dmitry’s parents—from a neighboring district. They celebrated in a café, danced, offered congratulations.

After the wedding Dmitry raised the question of ownership.

“Lilya, let’s put the apartment in both our names,” he said one evening. “We’re a family now. Everything between spouses should be fair.”

Liliya hesitated.

“Why? The apartment is already mine, and you live here.”
Bookshelves

“I understand,” Dmitry nodded. “But legally I’m nobody. What if something happens? Better to be safe.”

 

“What could happen?”

“Anything can happen. Documents should be done properly. I just want everything to be fair.”

Liliya thought for a long time. On the one hand, she’d bought the apartment before the marriage with her own money. On the other hand, Dmitry was her husband; it felt awkward to refuse. In the end she agreed.

“Alright. Let’s do it.”

A week later they went to a notary. They registered a share for Dmitry. Now the apartment belonged to both of them—half each. Dmitry beamed and hugged his wife.

“Thank you, Lilyechka. You can’t imagine how important it is for me to feel like a full-fledged owner.”

Liliya smiled. Something pricked inside, but she chased away the doubt. He was her husband, her own person. Not an enemy.

Several months passed. Dmitry began showing a strange interest in the documents. He might casually ask where the apartment papers were kept. Or ask to see the certificate of ownership.
Family games

“Why do you need it?” Liliya was surprised.

“Just curious,” he would reply. “I want to make sure everything is in order.”

Liliya showed him. Dmitry studied them carefully, nodded, and put them back.

One autumn evening Liliya came home earlier than usual. Classes at school had been canceled due to heating repairs. She opened the door quietly, in case her husband was asleep. But Dmitry wasn’t sleeping. He was talking on the phone in the kitchen, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Liliya stopped in the hallway and listened.

“Yes, we’ll move quickly, the client is reliable, I’ll handle everything,” Dmitry was saying. “It’s a good apartment, decent condition. There’s already a buyer; all that’s left is to sign the contract.”

Liliya froze. What apartment? What deal?

“Does Lilya know anything?” someone on the other end asked. The voice was muffled, but Liliya caught the question.

“No, she doesn’t,” Dmitry said. “And she won’t, not until everything’s ready. I’ll tell her we’re selling to buy something bigger. She’ll agree. She always agrees.”

Liliya stood in the hallway unable to move. Her heart pounded so loudly she thought he would hear it. Dmitry went on, discussing details, dates, sums.

Liliya slipped quietly out of the apartment. She went down to the first floor and sat on the bench by the entrance. Her hands trembled; her vision swam. Dmitry was going to sell the apartment. Her apartment. The very one she’d saved for five years to buy. And do it without her knowledge.

She took out her phone and opened Dmitry’s recent calls. They shared a plan, so all calls were visible in their online account. She found the number he had just been talking to. It was unfamiliar, but there was a name next to it: Sergei.

Liliya dialed the number. He answered immediately.

“Hello, real estate agency, how can I help you?” a man’s voice said.

“Good afternoon,” Liliya tried to keep her voice steady. “My name is Svetlana. I’m looking for a one-bedroom apartment. I was told to ask for Sergei.”

“That’s me. How can I help?”

“Do you have any one-bedrooms on the outskirts?”

“There’s one that’s just coming available. Dmitry has put his apartment up for sale; he’s ready to close within a week. Would you like to see it?”

Liliya clenched her teeth.

“Yes. Can I have the address?”

The realtor gave the address. The address of Liliya’s apartment.

“Thank you, I’ll think about it and call back,” she said and hung up.

She sat on the bench staring into space. Her husband was selling the apartment. Without her knowledge, without her consent. He’d simply decided and set everything in motion. As if Liliya didn’t exist.

She stood up and started walking. The November wind tugged at her hair, but she didn’t feel the cold. Inside burned a fire of anger and hurt. She had to act. Fast.

When she returned home, Dmitry was on the couch watching TV.

“You’re back already?” he was surprised. “You’re early today.”

“They’re fixing the heating—they let us out early,” Liliya said shortly.

“Got it. Are you making dinner?”

“I am.”

She went into the kitchen and started chopping vegetables. Her hands moved automatically while her thoughts spun. She needed a plan. Clear, quick, effective.

That night, after Dmitry fell asleep, Liliya took all the apartment documents from the safe: the certificate of ownership, the purchase contract, the technical passport. She put them in a folder and hid it in her bag.

The next day after work she didn’t go home—she went to a lawyer she knew. Aleksei Petrovich worked at a private firm, helped with paperwork, and consulted on complicated matters. Liliya had gone to him a year earlier when she transferred a share to Dmitry.

“Liliya Sergeyevna, what brings you here?” he greeted her warmly, ushering her into his office.

“I need help,” Liliya said, taking a seat. “Urgently.”

“I’m listening.”

She told him everything: the overheard conversation, the call to the realtor, her husband’s plans. The lawyer listened attentively, nodding now and then.

“I see,” he said when she finished. “It’s a tricky situation, but solvable. You want the apartment back in your sole name?”

“Yes. As soon as possible.”

“That’s possible. We’ll do a deed of gift. Dmitry will gift you his share, and the apartment will be yours alone again.”
Gift baskets

“But Dmitry won’t agree to that! He’s about to sell!”

Aleksei Petrovich smirked.

“He’ll agree if we pitch it right. Tell him it’s needed for tax benefits. Or to get a loan. We’ll come up with a story. The main thing is to get his signature on the gift deed.”

“And if he doesn’t buy it?”

“Then we go to court. But that takes time. Better to do it amicably.”

Liliya thought. Lying to her husband was repugnant, but she had no choice. Dmitry had already lied first.

“Alright. Let’s try.”

He prepared the documents—a gift deed for Dmitry’s share in favor of Liliya—properly and legally.

“Come with your husband tomorrow at ten in the morning,” the lawyer said. “I’ll explain everything, and he’ll sign.”

The next day Liliya got up early and made breakfast. Dmitry shuffled out of the bedroom, stretching.

“Why are you up so early?” he asked.

“We need to see the lawyer,” Liliya said, pouring coffee. “Aleksei Petrovich called yesterday. Says we need to re-do the apartment documents—for tax benefits.”

Dmitry tensed.

“What benefits?”

“Well, if the apartment is in one name, you can get a bigger deduction. When it’s in two names, the deduction is smaller. He explained it; I didn’t catch everything. Better if you hear it from him.”

He frowned.

“Why do we need a deduction? We’re not selling the apartment.”

Liliya froze. Her heart dropped. He was watching her intently.

“Well, you never know,” she tried to sound calm. “It might come in handy someday. Aleksei says it’s better to set it up in advance.”

Dmitry was silent for a moment, then nodded.

 

“Fine. Let’s go.”

They arrived at the lawyer’s at ten. Aleksei greeted them pleasantly and seated them at the table.

“So,” he began, “Liliya Sergeyevna, Dmitry—you own the apartment jointly. That’s not always convenient. If one spouse decides to sell a share, the other may not have time to buy it out. Problems start.”

“We’re not planning to sell,” Dmitry said.

“Of course, of course,” Aleksei nodded. “But it’s better to be cautious. I suggest a gift deed. Dmitry gifts his share to Liliya; the apartment becomes her sole property. It’s simpler and safer.”

“Safer for whom?” Dmitry smirked. “For Liliya?”

“For both of you. If a property is in one person’s name, no one can sell it without the owner’s knowledge. When it’s in two names, each can dispose of their share.”

Dmitry thought it over. Liliya sat beside him trying not to show her anxiety. Her fingers clenched the handle of her bag until they hurt.

“What if I don’t want to gift it?” Dmitry asked.
Gift baskets

“That’s your right,” the lawyer said calmly. “But then you might run into complications. For example, if you decide to sell and buy a new place. You’ll need powers of attorney, consents. Extra bureaucracy.”
Gift baskets

“We’re not selling,” Dmitry repeated.

“Alright. Then leave it as is.”

Dmitry looked at Liliya.

“Why are you quiet?”

“I agree with Aleksei Petrovich,” she said softly. “It seems simpler to me.”

“Simpler for you,” Dmitry noted. “For me it makes no difference.”

“Then sign. If it makes no difference.”

He hesitated, then took the pen and signed the gift deed. Aleksei notarized the signature and gathered the papers.

 

“Excellent. Now we submit it to Rosreestr. In a week everything will be ready.”

They left the office. Dmitry was grim and silent the whole ride home. Liliya was silent too, but inside she exulted. The first step was done.

A week later Aleksei called.

“Liliya Sergeyevna, the documents are ready. The apartment is yours again. Congratulations.”

Liliya exhaled in relief. Now Dmitry wouldn’t be able to sell the home. The apartment belonged only to her.

But Dmitry didn’t know. He kept calling the realtor, discussing details. Liliya listened from the next room, amazed each time at her husband’s gall.

“Yes, everything’s on track,” Dmitry would say. “Next week we’ll meet the buyer, negotiate the price. My wife suspects nothing.”

Liliya clenched her teeth. “My wife suspects nothing.” How wrong he was.

One evening Dmitry announced:

“Lilya, we need to talk.”

“About what?” Liliya set her book aside.
Bookshelves

“About our future. I’ve been thinking… Maybe we should sell the apartment and buy something bigger? A two-bedroom, say. Or a three-bedroom. So the kids have room.”

“What kids? We don’t have kids.”

“We will. Sooner or later. We should think ahead.”

Liliya looked at him and didn’t recognize him. This man could lie to her face without blinking. He talked about children, about the future, while planning to sell the apartment and pocket the money.

“I don’t want to sell,” Liliya said firmly.

“Why not? We could buy something better!”

“I don’t want to. This apartment is mine; I bought it with my own money. I’m not going to sell.”

Dmitry scowled.

“Yours? Lilya, we put it in both our names!”

“We did. Then we put it back.”

He froze.

“What do you mean, put it back?”

“You signed a gift deed. A week ago. At Aleksei Petrovich’s. The apartment is mine again.”
Gift baskets

His face went pale.

“You… You tricked me?”

“You were tricking me. You wanted to sell the apartment behind my back. Thought I wouldn’t find out?”

Dmitry leapt up.

“How do you know?!”

“I heard your conversation with the realtor. Then I called Sergei myself. He told me everything.”

He stood in the middle of the room, mouth open. Then his face twisted in anger.

“You… you set this up on purpose! You forced me to sign that deed!”

“I didn’t force you. You signed it yourself. Aleksei Petrovich is a witness.”

“I signed because you lied! You told me about tax benefits!”

“And you planned to sell the apartment without my consent. Which of us is the bigger liar?”

Dmitry clenched his fists. Liliya stood up, bracing for the worst. But he didn’t hit her. He simply turned and left the room, slamming the door.

Liliya heard him calling someone. His voice was loud and furious.

“Mom, I’ve got a problem. Lilya transferred the apartment back to herself. What should I do?”

She couldn’t hear the answer, but she could guess. His mother always took his side and thought her daughter-in-law unworthy.

Dmitry returned ten minutes later. His face was dark but calm.

“Fine,” he said. “You won this round. But the game isn’t over.”

“What game?” Liliya asked, surprised.

“Life. Marriage. Money. It’s all a game. And I know how to play.”

He went into the bedroom and shut the door. Liliya stood in the living room feeling a rising unease. What was he plotting?

The next day Dmitry behaved oddly. He was polite, even gracious. He made breakfast, washed the dishes, asked about her day. Liliya grew wary. This wasn’t like him.

“Lilya, forgive me,” Dmitry said in the evening. “I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have planned a sale without telling you.”

“Are you seriously apologizing?”

“I am. I was wrong. The apartment’s yours; you have every right to do as you wish.”

Liliya didn’t believe a word. Dmitry wasn’t the type to admit mistakes. He was up to something. Something bad.

“Alright,” she said carefully. “I accept your apology.”

“Great. Then let’s forget this and start fresh.”

He hugged her. Liliya went rigid in his arms, sensing the falseness in every gesture.

 

A week passed. Dmitry kept playing the devoted husband. He helped around the house, bought flowers, paid her compliments. Liliya endured it, but inside her certainty grew: something was coming soon.

And it did.

On Friday evening Dmitry came home wearing a smug smile. His face shone; his step was light, almost dancing. He tossed his jacket on the floor in the entryway, went to the kitchen, and pulled a beer from the fridge.

Liliya was in the living room with a book. She looked up when he flopped onto the couch across from her.
Bookshelves

“Lilya, I’ve got news for you,” Dmitry said, popping the can.

“What news?”

“Excellent news.” He took a swig and smirked. “As of today, you’re a homeless bum.”

Liliya slowly closed her book.

“What did you say?”

“I filed the sale paperwork,” Dmitry leaned back. “The deal’s tomorrow. The apartment is sold. Go wherever you want.”

She stared at him, unable to believe what she’d heard. He kept smiling, sipping his beer.

“You’re joking,” she said at last.

“No, dear. Quite serious.” He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and waved it in front of her. “Here’s the contract. There’s a buyer, the price is agreed, tomorrow we sign and that’s that. The money has already been wired.”

“Dmitry, the apartment isn’t yours anymore. You signed a gift deed.”

“I did,” he admitted. “But you forgot one detail. I managed to file the sale before the changes were registered in Rosreestr. There’s a loophole like that. My lawyer explained it. So technically the apartment is still mine. And I sold it.”
Gift baskets

Liliya stood.

“You didn’t sell anything. The apartment’s been in my name for a week. Aleksei submitted the paperwork as soon as you signed the deed.”

Dmitry laughed.

“Aleksei Petrovich is a dinosaur. Slow, old. My lawyer is faster. We beat you.”

“No, you didn’t,” Liliya said evenly. “You can check. Call your lawyer and ask him when the changes were actually registered.”

The confidence on Dmitry’s face faltered. He pulled out his phone and dialed.

“Igor, hi. Listen, can you check when the change for my apartment was entered in the registry?” He listened; his face grew steadily paler. “What do you mean a week ago? You said we’d make it!”

Igor said something on the other end. Dmitry listened, gripping the phone tighter.

“Fine, we’ll sort it out tomorrow,” he snapped and hung up.

Liliya stood by the window with her arms crossed.

“I told you. The apartment is mine.”

Dmitry jumped up.

“No matter! The deal’s tomorrow! The buyer is waiting!”

“There will be no deal. The system won’t register the sale. The owner has changed.”

“We’ll see!” he shouted and left the room.

Liliya heard him calling the realtor, explaining, arguing. His voice was frayed, breaking into a yell.

The next morning Dmitry left early. Liliya watched him go and returned to her breakfast. Two hours later his phone was vibrating nonstop with calls. Liliya didn’t answer, but saw the names on the screen: Sergei, Igor, Mom.

At noon Dmitry burst into the apartment. His face was red; his eyes darted.

“You set this up!” he yelled.

Liliya sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee.

“I didn’t set anything up. I just took back what was mine.”

“The deal fell through! Rosreestr refused! They said the owner changed!”

“I warned you.”

He grabbed her cup and hurled it at the wall. Shards scattered across the floor. Liliya didn’t even flinch.

“You’ll pay for this!” he hissed. “I’ll take you to court! I’ll say you tricked me into signing the gift deed!”

“Go ahead,” Liliya replied calmly. “Aleksei did everything correctly. You signed voluntarily, with a witness. You don’t have a case.”

Dmitry paced the kitchen, muttering to himself. Then he stopped and stared at her.

“And the buyer? He already paid a 20% deposit! Where am I going to get the money to return it?”

“Not my problem,” Liliya finished her coffee and stood. “You got yourself into this scheme.”

She went to the bedroom and took a neat folder from the closet. Back in the kitchen, she set it on the table in front of him.

“Open it.”

He frowned but opened it. Inside were documents: a fresh extract from Rosreestr, a notarized copy of the gift deed, a certificate of registered ownership.
Gift baskets

“See?” Liliya tapped the extract. “Sole owner—me. Registration date—a week ago. Everything is legal and correct.”

Dmitry flipped through the papers, his face growing paler.

“You… you planned all this…”

“I didn’t start it. You tried to sell my apartment behind my back. I just protected myself.”

He shut the folder and flung it to the floor. Papers scattered across the kitchen.

“Fine,” he grated. “You won. But I won’t forgive you.”

“No need to forgive. Just leave.”

“Leave?” He laughed. “This is my apartment! I live here!”

“You lived here. Not anymore.”

Liliya turned and left the kitchen. She took out her phone and called a locksmith.

“Hello. I need the locks changed urgently. Today, if possible.”

The locksmith agreed to come in two hours. Liliya asked Dmitry to leave the apartment while the work was done.

 

“I’m not going anywhere!” he declared.

“Stay then. But you won’t get keys.”

 

He tried to argue, but Liliya didn’t listen. She went into the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the water. She needed to be alone and pull herself together.

When the locksmith arrived, Dmitry was still there—sitting on the couch watching TV like nothing was happening. The locksmith changed the locks and handed Liliya two new keys.

“Here you go. And the receipt.”

She paid and walked him to the door. When she returned, Dmitry was staring at her with hatred.

“Are you seriously throwing me out?”

“I am.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“To your mother’s. Or to friends. Not my concern.”

“This is illegal! I’m your husband!”

“A husband, but not the owner. It’s my apartment; I decide who lives here.”

He sprang up.

“I’ll take you to court! For unlawful eviction!”

“Go ahead,” she shrugged. “But keep in mind: the court will side with me. The apartment was bought before the marriage and is registered to me. You have no rights to it.”

He stood in the middle of the room breathing heavily. Then he swung around, went to the bedroom, and started packing. He flung clothes into a bag without looking.

Twenty minutes later he came out with a stuffed bag.

“You’ll regret this,” he said as he passed her.

“I doubt it.”

He slammed the door and left. Liliya watched him go, then locked the door with all the locks. She leaned against the frame and exhaled. The tension of the past weeks released its grip.

She returned to the kitchen, gathered the scattered documents, and put them neatly back into the folder. She swept up the cup shards and threw them away. Then she sat down and poured herself some tea.

Outside, it was raining. November was drawing to a close; winter was near. Liliya watched the drops slide down the glass and thought about what lay ahead. A divorce, most likely. Dmitry wasn’t one to forgive. There would be demands, disputes, maybe even court.

But Liliya was ready. The apartment was hers, the paperwork in order, the lawyer on call. Everything under control.

An hour later the doorbell rang. Liliya looked through the peephole. Dmitry stood in the hall, trying to put his key in the lock. The key wouldn’t go in. He tried again, then banged on the door.

“Lilya! Open up!”

She didn’t answer. She slipped an envelope under the door. Inside was a copy of the extract from Rosreestr and a short note on a piece of paper:

Now everything’s fair. Just like you wanted.

Dmitry picked up the envelope, opened it, read. Liliya heard him curse and then speak on the phone. His voice was angry, but no longer confident.

“Mom, I need to stay at your place. Lilya kicked me out.”

Liliya stepped away from the door and went back to the kitchen. She made more tea and took some cookies from the fridge. She sat down and put on some music on her phone. Soft, calm.

The apartment was quiet. No shouting, no doors slamming, no scheming. Liliya was alone, and the feeling was incredibly precious.

The next day Dmitry called.

“Lilya, let’s talk,” his voice was quiet, almost pleading.

“About what?”

“About us. About the apartment. Maybe we can come to some agreement?”

“There’s nothing to discuss. The apartment is mine. You’re out. That’s all.”

“But I’m your husband!”

“For now. I’ll be filing for divorce soon.”

He fell silent, then sighed heavily.

“Fine. If that’s what you want, file. But I’ll demand compensation.”

“What compensation?”

“For living in your apartment, for what I put into renovations, for utilities.”

Liliya snorted.

“Dmitry, you didn’t put anything into renovations. The renovations were done before you appeared. And we split the utilities fifty-fifty. There will be no compensation.”

“Then I’ll see you in court!”

“See you there.”

She hung up. Dmitry tried to call several more times, but Liliya didn’t pick up. She added his number to the blacklist.

A week later a letter arrived from Dmitry’s lawyer. He demanded compensation for living expenses, moral damages, and half the value of the apartment. Liliya took the letter to Aleksei.

“What do you say?” she asked.

He read it and smirked.

“A waste of time. The apartment was purchased before the marriage and registered to you. Dmitry has no right to it. Compensation for living there? He’s your husband—he lived there lawfully. Moral damages? Ridiculous. We’ll swat all of this away easily.”

“And if he insists?”

“Let him. The court is on your side. We have all the documents and everything is done properly. Dmitry is just wasting money on a lawyer.”

Liliya calmed down. Aleksei prepared a response to the claims and sent it to Dmitry’s lawyer. Two weeks later a new letter arrived: Dmitry was dropping his claims and agreeing to the divorce.

Liliya filed an application at the registry office. A month later the marriage was dissolved. Dmitry didn’t come; he sent a representative. Liliya signed the papers and received the divorce certificate.

Walking out of the building, she paused on the steps and looked up at the sky. December was cold but sunny. Snow crunched underfoot, the air was fresh and clean.

She took out her phone and called a friend.

“Sveta, hi. I’m free.”

“Got divorced?”

“Mm-hmm. Just left the registry office.”

“Congratulations! How do you feel?”

“Great. For the first time in a long while—great.”

“Then let’s celebrate! Come over—we’ll toast it!”

Liliya agreed. She took a bus to her friend’s. Sveta met her with champagne and cake.

“To your freedom!” her friend declared, raising a glass.

“To freedom,” Liliya echoed.

They drank, had a bite, and talked about the future. Liliya spoke of her plans: she wanted to take a small loan for renovations, change the furniture, make the apartment truly her own.

“And you don’t want a new relationship?” Sveta asked.

“Not yet. I need time to recover. To understand what I want from life.”

“Right. No need to rush.”

Liliya nodded. Her friend was right. There was no need to hurry. A whole life stretched ahead—free, without lies and deceit.

That evening Liliya went home. She opened the door and stepped inside. It was quiet, clean, peaceful. No one shouting, no one scheming behind her back, no one trying to take her home away.

 

She went to the bedroom, changed, and lay down on the bed. She stared at the ceiling and thought about how much had changed over the past months. She had trusted Dmitry, loved him, believed in him. And he had betrayed her, deceived her, tried to steal her apartment.

But Liliya turned out to be smarter. She managed to re-register the documents and protect her property. Now everything was in order. The apartment belonged only to her; no one could lay claim to it.

She got up and walked to the window. Snow was falling outside, covering the city with a white blanket. Beautiful, calm. Winter ahead, New Year, a new life.

Liliya smiled. For the first time in a long time, the smile was genuine, without a shadow of doubt. Everything would be alright. It surely would.

Dmitry tried a couple more times to get in touch. He sent messages, asked to meet, said he wanted to make things right. But Liliya didn’t respond. She blocked the numbers, deleted the emails. That chapter was closed. Forever.

A month later Liliya learned that Dmitry had left town. He’d moved to another region, to distant relatives. Apparently, he couldn’t accept defeat and decided to start over somewhere else.

Liliya felt neither pity nor triumph. She simply noted the information and went on with her life. She worked, met friends, and renovated the apartment. Life was getting back on track—better with each passing day.

Winter flew by. Spring came warm and sunny. Liliya stood on the balcony, watched the trees leaf out, and thought how good it was that everything had ended just like this. The apartment remained with her, the documents were in order, life went on.

Dmitry had tried to make Liliya homeless. Instead, he lost everything himself—his apartment, his wife, and respect. He was left with nothing.

And Liliya was left with what she had earned herself: the apartment she’d bought with her own money, and a life built without lies or deceit.

And that was the most important thing of all.

Her husband left Vera with a child in her arms and no means to survive, living in a rented apartment. Three years later, when he decided to mock her — he froze in silent astonishment.

0

— Is that you?.. Vera?

— Hi, Kostya. Didn’t expect me?

A woman stood before him — confident, with a straight back and a slight half-smile on her lips. There was no pain or pleading in her eyes like before. He noticed: she had changed. Her clothes were simple but clearly not cheap. Her hairstyle was neat, her hands well cared for. Nearby, holding her mother’s finger, stood a girl about four years old. Big eyes, a bright coat — an exact copy of her mother.

Kostya froze. Not because he recognized her. But because of how he saw her now.

Three years ago, Vera was sitting on the cold kitchen floor, holding her sleeping daughter close. The little girl was just beginning to hold her head up, and Vera was already crying, listening to her husband getting ready to leave.

— Where are you going? — she barely whispered.

— I can’t do this anymore! I’m living like a beggar. You’re all about the child, you don’t see anything around you. You’re tired, angry… I’m leaving.

The door slammed. He left for Liza — free, beautiful, without worries about children. And Vera was left with IOUs, an old apartment, and one lonely responsibility — for the little human.

That winter Vera remembered forever. She woke up in the night thinking: is the roof leaking, is the child dressed warmly enough, will the money last till tomorrow. The benefits barely covered the bare necessities. She learned to cook porridge with water, adding a little tart apple to make it somewhat tastier. She walked in an old coat, trying not to envy other mothers who walked hand in hand with their men.

Sometimes, passing by a café, she caught laughter from inside. And she knew — he was there. Happy, with a new life, while she was here — alone, with a child and a broken heart.

One day, looking through old photos on her phone — young, full of strength, with burning eyes — Vera realized: she wanted to bring that Vera back.

At first, she worked as an administrator in a small salon for a symbolic salary. She put her daughter in daycare, learning to juggle both. It was hard: sick leaves, nighttime tears, endless worries. But she didn’t give up.

She finished online courses, became a cosmetologist. Created a social media page. People were drawn to her — for her professionalism, warmth, and sensitivity. Her hands healed skin, and her gaze and words healed souls. Gradually, Vera became herself again. Only now — stronger.

 

 

Three years later, Vera entered the business center where she rented an office. Suddenly, she locked eyes with him.

With Kostya.

Next to him was Liza, less radiant than before, and a child about five, listlessly holding her hand. He noticed Vera. She — in a nice coat, confident stride, with her daughter beside her.

He approached. Didn’t immediately find the words:

— You… look amazing.

— Thanks, — she replied simply.

— How are you?.. Alone?

— No. I’m with my daughter. But really — I’m by myself. That’s exactly what was enough for me to start all over.

Kostya was silent. Liza, not hiding irritation, asked:

— Do you know each other?

But he didn’t answer. Something important inside him collapsed. He realized: he lost a real woman. Not the day he left. But the day he chose convenience over love. When he chose a toy over life.

Later, Vera walked home holding her daughter’s hand. The girl asked:

— Mom, who was that?

— Just a regular person, sweetheart. We’re moving forward. And everything else stays behind.

— Are we happy?

— Very happy.

The little girl smiled, pressed her cheek to her mother’s shoulder. Vera looked up at the sky.

Three years ago, she was crushed. Today — she had grown wings.

That night, Vera couldn’t sleep for a long time. Her daughter peacefully snored, hugging her favorite soft toy. Vera lay wrapped in a blanket, remembering…

The first days after Kostya left. How she sat on the floor, burying her face in her hands. How neighbors knocked on the wall because of the child’s crying. How every minute she lived in fear — would she manage?

How she got up five times a night. How she looked for work, cooked porridge with water because there was no money even for milk. How every day she fought her own doubt: “I won’t make it.”

One day an old friend called:

— Vera… are you holding on?

— Holding on.

— Do you rest when your daughter sleeps?

Vera cried. Not from tiredness, but because someone finally asked: “How are you?”

Her name was meaningful. “Vera” means to believe. Even when it seems the whole world has collapsed.

She learned to rebuild her life. Not to wait for calls. Not to count on help. Just to move. Step by step. She learned to save 50 rubles, repair shoes, write dreams in a notebook so she wouldn’t forget what she wanted.

And one day, in April, when everything was blooming, she and her daughter were walking in the park. Nearby sat an elderly woman who looked at Vera for a long time. Then she approached:

— Excuse me… You are so bright. As if you carry hope inside you.

Vera smiled. For the first time in a long time — truly. This woman saw in her not a single mother, not an abandoned wife — but light.

From that day, Vera made a promise to herself:

“I will no longer allow myself to feel like I belong to anyone else. I am for myself. I am for my daughter. I am for this life.”

Three years later Kostya found Vera on social media. He wrote a cautious “hello” as the first message, then began apologizing.

“You probably hate me…”

She replied calmly:

—I forgave you long ago. But we went different ways. We grew. Just in different directions.

He suggested meeting. Came with a son from Liza — a quiet and withdrawn boy about five years old. He rarely looked into eyes, mostly at the floor or window. Vera understood: this child hadn’t been read bedtime stories or sung lullabies for a long time.

— Is this your daughter? — he asked Mila.

— Yes, — Vera answered. — Do you want to be friends with her?

The boy nodded.

Kostya was silent for a long time, then said:

— You seem like a different person. Stronger.

— I’ve always been like this. You just didn’t see it before.

And at that moment he realized: he didn’t lose her. He never even knew who she really was.

For Mila’s birthday, Vera arranged a modest celebration — no pomp, but with balloons, a homemade cake, and many hugs. The girl hugged her mom and whispered:

— Mommy, I want to be like you.

Tears filled her eyes on their own.

— And I want you to be yourself. Just happy. And if someday someone tries to break you — remember how Mom rose from the very bottom.

Late at night, they lay on the grass looking at the stars.

— Look, how bright it is! — Mila pointed out.

— That’s you, baby. The brightest.

— And who are you?

— I’m the one who will always be near. Even if one day I’m gone.

Time passed. Vera began to be invited to meetings with women, where she shared her experience: how to survive pain, how not to lose yourself, how to be a mother and remain a woman.

One day, a young mother holding a child approached her:

— You have no idea how much your words helped me. Thank you for being here.

Vera smiled warmly:

—I was once looking for people like you too. Now I am here — for you.

She was driving home with her daughter in the back seat, looking out the window. Suddenly she said aloud:

— Thank you, life. For not breaking me then. But only teaching me to fly.

More time passed. Spring came into their lives again. Trees bloomed, flowers blossomed on windowsills, and especially — in the heart. Mila started first grade. She was bright like morning light, a kind and sensitive child. Sometimes serious, sometimes cheerful like a sunbeam.

One day Vera came home late. Mila was already asleep, curled up hugging her favorite pillow. Vera kissed her daughter and noticed the edge of a sheet of paper peeking out from under the pillow. She smoothed it out. The handwriting was childlike, uncertain, but sincere.

**“Mommy.
If I become a mom, I want to be like you.
You are magical.
You don’t yell when you’re tired.
You find my socks, even if they hide.
You are the most beautiful.
You smell like warmth.
I love how you hug.
When you laugh — flowers bloom in my heart.

I know it was hard when Dad left.
I don’t remember everything, but I remember you rocking me and crying quietly so I wouldn’t hear.
But I heard, Mom.

You raised me like a rose among stones.
You are a hero.
I love you very much.
Mila.”**

 

Vera read it and cried. First silently, then sobbing, then weeping, clutching the letter as if it were a piece of her own soul.

She knelt beside the bed, put her head on the blanket, pressing close to the little hand.

— Thank you, Lord, for not letting me give up. For keeping me for her…

That night Vera didn’t sleep. She sat watching her daughter — her miracle born in solitude, suffered through and still enduring.

In the morning, when Mila woke up, Vera held an answer in her hands:

“You are my reason not to give up.
You are my victory.
You are the meaning of everything.
I love you very much.
Mom.”

They hugged. And in that embrace was everything: pain, struggle, love, hope, faith.

Sometimes life breaks us like glass.
But it is through the cracks in us that light begins to shine.

If you have ever been left alone with a child in your arms, without money, without a husband, without hope —

don’t forget: you can become spring for your child.

You are not a victim.

You are a mom.
And that means you are a true hero.

— Your sister got married. She and her husband are living in our apartment now, and I’m moving in with you.

0

The rain drummed against the windows of the St. Petersburg apartment when the doorbell rang. Anna lifted her eyes from her laptop and glanced at the clock in surprise—half past eleven at night, on a Wednesday. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

Through the peephole she saw a blurred figure with a suitcase. Her heart tightened unpleasantly—something about that silhouette seemed familiar.

“Who is it?” Anna asked without opening the door.

“Anya, it’s me. Open up.”

Her mother’s voice. Anna froze, listening to her own feelings. Anxiety, irritation, surprise—all tangled into a tight knot somewhere in her chest. She slowly slid off the chain and opened the door.

Her mother stood on the threshold with a battered blue suitcase Anna remembered from childhood. Her face was gaunt, dark circles under her eyes, her hair disheveled by the rain. She wore the old coat she’d been wearing for the last five years.

“May I come in?” her mother asked, not waiting for an answer and already stepping over the threshold.

Anna silently moved aside. Her mother dragged the suitcase into the hallway, shook the droplets from her coat, and only then looked at her daughter.

“What are you staring at like that? At least make some tea.”

Anna went to the kitchen and turned on the kettle. Her hands moved automatically—she took out two cups, tea leaves, sugar. Her mother settled at the table with a heavy sigh.

“Your apartment’s not bad,” she said, looking around. “Small, of course, but just right for one.”

“Thanks,” Anna replied dryly. “What happened?”

Her mother was silent for a moment, then waved a hand.

“Oh… I came to visit my eldest daughter. Is that not allowed?”

“It’s allowed. At eleven at night, on a Wednesday, with a suitcase.” Anna set a cup of tea in front of her. “Say what happened.”

Her mother took a sip and winced.

“Hot.”

“Mom.”

“Your sister got married. She and her husband are living in our apartment now, and I’m moving in with you.”

Silence fell like a heavy curtain. Anna sat down opposite her, studying her mother’s face. She avoided Anna’s gaze, stirring sugar in her cup with great concentration.

“Just like that?” Anna finally asked. “You just up and moved?”

 

“What’s so complicated? You’re my daughter. You have a spare room.”

“I have a bedroom and a living room,” Anna corrected her. “I work there. I work from home a lot.”

“So what? I won’t bother you. You’ll pull out the sofa bed, and it’ll be fine.”

Anna stood up and paced the kitchen. In her head, a picture was slowly taking shape—one her mother clearly had no intention of painting voluntarily.

“Katya’s been married for four months,” Anna said. “I know. You called me then and told me how beautiful the wedding was, how happy you were. And now it’s September. What changed?”

Her mother pressed her lips together.

“She had a baby. A month ago. A boy.”

“Congratulations. I’m an aunt now.”

“And I,” her mother lifted her eyes, and something like despair flickered in them, “am now a grandmother without an apartment.”

“Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

Her mother sighed and leaned back in her chair.

“Katya got pregnant. It just happened. That… Sasha, that’s his name. He works as a manager in some store, earns pennies. No place of his own, lives with his parents in a studio. Or lived. When Katya found out she was pregnant, they decided to get married. I was happy—I thought at least she’d have some stability.”

“And he moved in with you.”

“Where else would he go? There’s no room at his parents’, and we have a two-room place. I thought, well, we’ll manage. They’re young, just starting out, they need help. Katya’s always been dreamy—I thought she’d settle down with Sasha.”

Anna smirked but said nothing. Dreamy. A nice word to describe Katya’s endless stream of hobbies and plans, none of which she ever saw through.

“Then the baby was born,” her mother went on. “And it started. The baby cries constantly, day and night. Katya doesn’t get any sleep, she’s on edge. Sasha comes home tired from work, and there’s the baby screaming, Katya demanding help. They started fighting. Every day. About money, the housework, who’s more exhausted.”

“And you?”

“I help as much as I can. I watch the baby, cook, clean. But Katya says I do everything wrong. That I give too much advice. And Sasha looks at me like I’m a burden—I don’t work, my pension is small. They hint that I’m just another mouth to feed.” Her mother’s voice trembled. “And recently they told me outright: maybe you could move out somewhere? At least for a while. They say there isn’t enough space.”

Anna listened and felt something cold and vicious slowly flare up inside. She stood and walked to the window. The rain had intensified, drops running down the glass in crooked tracks.

“So Katya threw you out of your own apartment,” she said without turning around.

“She didn’t throw me out—she asked…”

“Threw you out.” Anna turned back. “Whose apartment is it? Yours? Or already signed over to Katya?”

Her mother looked away.

“To Katya. I transferred it last year. I thought it would be the right thing. To help my daughter. With her own place, she’s a more eligible bride. You don’t need anything—you’re doing fine.”

“I see.” Anna nodded. “And now you’ve come here. To me. The one who ‘doesn’t need anything.’”

“Anya, you’re my daughter. My own. Are you really not going to let your mother in?”

“‘My own,’” Anna repeated. “Interesting word. Let’s remember, Mom, how that used to work.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I remember my childhood perfectly well. How you doted on Katya. How you bought her the best of everything, and I got what was left. How you took her to dance, to music lessons, to English, and told me, ‘We don’t have money for both; you’ll have to manage somehow.’ How you explained that Katya is beautiful, she needs to look good, and me, well, I wasn’t blessed with looks anyway, so why spend the money?”

“Anya, don’t…”

“No, I will.” Anna’s voice was even, almost calm, but inside she was boiling. “You always made a choice. And you always chose Katya. Because she was pretty, because you hoped she’d marry well and pull both of you out of poverty. And I was the backup plan. A gray mouse who was supposed to help, keep her head down, and be grateful just to be tolerated.”

“That’s not true! I loved you both…”

“Don’t lie.” Anna sat back down across from her and looked her straight in the eyes. “You didn’t love me. You tolerated me. There’s a huge difference. I saw the way you looked at Katya—with pride, with hope. And at me—as a failure. As a mistake of nature who didn’t live up to expectations.”

Her mother stayed silent, lips pressed tight. Her face showed she was searching for arguments and finding none.

“I remember when I was in ninth grade and got a certificate for a math competition,” Anna continued. “I brought it home, proud. You looked at it and said, ‘So what? That won’t help in life. If only you were pretty like Katya.’ I remember crying into my pillow at night so you wouldn’t hear.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you…”

“But you did. Constantly. With every word, every look. You invested all your strength and money in Katya as if she were a project. And I was supposed to stay afloat on my own. And you know what? I did. Without your help. In spite of your expectations.”

Anna stood and paced the kitchen.

“I moved to Petersburg. Got into university on a scholarship because I studied hard. Worked nights as a waitress to rent a room in a dorm and not ask you for money. Studied without coming up for air. Then I got an internship at a company. They took me because I was the best. I worked more than anyone, learned everything I needed, moved up. And I made it.”

“I know, you did great…”

“No, you don’t know.” Anna stopped and braced her hands on the countertop. “You have no idea what I went through. How many sleepless nights, how much effort. How every day I had to prove to everyone and to myself that I was worth something. How terrified I was of messing up, because I had no backup runway. No one to catch me, understand? No one to rely on. Only myself.”

Her mother stared into her cup in silence.

“And when I bought this apartment,” Anna’s voice softened, “it was my victory. A small two-room place in a bedroom community, but mine. I earned it. Myself. And for the first time in my life I felt at home. That it was my place, where no one judged me or compared me to Katya.”

“I’m happy for you, honestly…”

“I’m not.” Anna straightened. “I’m not happy you’re here. Because I know why you came. Not to visit your beloved daughter. But because the money ran out, Katya kicked you out, and I’m the last option.”

“That’s not true!”

“It’s exactly true.” Anna sat back down and looked her mother in the eyes. “Tell me honestly: in all these years, did you ever call me just because? To ask how I’m doing? Not on my birthday, not on holidays—just because?”

Her mother opened her mouth, then closed it.

“No,” she said quietly.

“You see. To you, I was a gray mouse who simply existed somewhere out there. And now you’ve come to me not because you missed me or worried about me. But because you have nowhere to go.”

Suddenly her mother began to cry. Soundlessly, tears just streamed down her cheeks.

“Anya, I’m your mother. Are you really going to throw me out?”

“Did you love me?” Anna asked. “Can you remember even once when you felt love for me?”

Her mother was silent. For a long time. Then said quietly:

“I tried…”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It was hard for me. We were poor, your father wasn’t there. I raised you both alone. I thought Katya was our chance. She was so pretty, I thought she would marry a good man and life would get easier for all of us. And you… you were smart, capable, but not pretty. I thought you’d have to fight your own way through everything. And that my love wouldn’t help with that.”

“But it would have,” Anna said softly. “Do you know how? I wouldn’t have grown up feeling I wasn’t good enough. That I didn’t deserve to be loved as I am. That love had to be earned. It took me years to realize there was nothing wrong with me. That I’m not ugly, not a failure. That I have a right to happiness simply because I exist.”

Her mother sniffled.

“I’m sorry.”

“Too late.” Anna stood. “Much too late. You made your choice thirty years ago. You put everything into Katya, and that was your right. But don’t come to me now asking for what you never gave.”

“You’re throwing me out?”

“I’m telling the truth.” Anna opened the fridge, took out a bottle of water, and took a sip. “You want me to save you? Feed you, shelter you, comfort you? But you haven’t earned that. You weren’t a mother to me in the way I needed. You were the project manager for a venture called ‘Katya.’ And I was the background, a faceless extra.”

“So you’ll abandon me? Like Katya?”

“No.” Anna shook her head. “I’m not Katya. I’ll help you. Because I’m kinder than you were to me. I’ll give you money for a rental for a couple of months. I’ll help you find a job, if you want. But you won’t live here.”

“Why?”

“Because this is my place. My refuge. I built this life without you, and I like it. And I don’t want you to wreck it. I don’t want to become that gray mouse again, the one who has to please everyone and expects nothing.”

 

Her mother looked at her with wide eyes.

“You’ve changed.”

“No. I’ve become myself. The person I couldn’t be around you.”

“You’re cruel.”

“I’m honest.” Anna sat down opposite her. “Listen. You can stay for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll help you find housing. I’ll give you money. But after that you’ll leave. And if you want there to be any kind of relationship between us, you’ll have to build it from scratch. From zero. Not as a mother to a daughter who owes you something. But as one person to another.”

“What about Katya?”

“Katya is your project. Your investment. Deal with her yourself. You signed the apartment over to her, you raised her like a princess whom everyone owes. Now reap what you sowed.”

Her mother covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook. Anna watched her and felt a strange mix of pity and relief. Pity for a woman who had been wrong all her life. Relief that she had finally said everything that had been building for years.

“I thought you’d understand me,” her mother said through tears.

“I do understand you. That’s exactly why I’m refusing. You gambled your whole life, put everything on Katya. You lost. That’s your choice, your responsibility. Not mine.”

“But I’m your mother!”

“No.” Anna shook her head. “You’re the woman who gave birth to me. That’s not the same thing. A mother is someone who loves, supports, believes. You simply lived nearby and waited for me to become useful.”

A heavy silence fell. Her mother cried, her face buried in her hands. Anna sat opposite, breathing evenly, calming her pounding heart. She had done it. She had said everything she had wanted to say for so many years.

At last her mother raised her head.

“You’ll never forgive me?”

“I don’t know.” Anna shrugged. “Maybe someday. But right now I need to forgive myself first. For waiting so long for your love. For believing I could earn it. For not leaving earlier.”

“So I’m leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes. I’ll help with the housing and the money. Once. After that, you’re on your own.”

“And Katya?”

“Katya is your daughter. My sister. But I’m not obligated to clean up the consequences of your mistakes. You wanted her to grow up a princess? That’s what you got. You wanted her to make a good marriage? It didn’t happen. That’s not my fault and not my responsibility.”

Her mother stood slowly.

“Where do I sleep?”

“In the living room. The sofa folds out. The linens are in the wardrobe.” Anna pointed the way.

Her mother silently took the suitcase and shuffled into the room. Anna stayed in the kitchen. She sat down and laid her head on her arms. Her whole body shook with the emotions that had spilled out. She cried softly, almost soundlessly. She cried for the childhood she never had. For the love she never received. For the mother she had lost, though in truth, she had never really had one.

But through the tears something else broke through. Relief. Freedom. She had done it. She had said “no.” And the world hadn’t collapsed. She didn’t die.

The next morning Anna got up early. She brewed coffee and sat at her computer. She found several rental options—cheap but decent. Then she opened her banking app and transferred money to her mother’s card, enough to pay for three months of housing.

Her mother came out of the room pale, with red eyes.

“Good morning,” Anna said. “I found you a few apartments. Look and choose. I transferred the money. It’ll cover three months. After that you’ll need to look for a job or sort things out with Katya.”

Her mother nodded silently and looked at her phone screen.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Anna took a sip of coffee. “This is the last time I’m helping like this. If you want there to be a relationship between us, you’ll have to make an effort.”

“I understand.” Her mother paused. “Anya, I really didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… didn’t know any other way.”

“I know. But that’s not an excuse. Just an explanation.”

“Are you happy?” her mother suddenly asked.

Anna thought for a moment.

“Yes. I’m happy. I have a good job that I love. My own apartment. An interesting life. I’m pleased with myself. That’s more than many have.”

“And your personal life?”

“That’s none of your business.” Anna smiled, without malice. “But if you’re curious—I have a boyfriend. We’ve been seeing each other for six months. Maybe it’ll work out, maybe not. But I feel good with him.”

“I’m glad.”

“Thank you.”

They spent another hour in silence. Her mother packed her things; Anna worked at the computer. Then Anna ordered a taxi and helped carry the suitcase.

At the door her mother turned.

“Can I call you sometimes?”

Anna hesitated.

“You can. But only if you really want to talk. Not to ask for help.”

“All right.”

“And Mom.” Anna looked her in the eyes. “If you ever want to talk honestly—about the past, about what happened—I’m ready. But only honestly. No excuses, no manipulation.”

Her mother nodded and wiped away her tears.

 

“I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

The taxi drove off. Anna closed the door and leaned her back against it. She exhaled. Long and slow. Then she went into the living room and opened the window. Fresh air rushed in, carrying away the stale smell of the past.

She went back to the kitchen, poured herself more coffee. She sat by the window and looked at the gray Petersburg sky. The rain had stopped; rays of sun broke through the clouds.

Her phone vibrated. A message from a colleague about tomorrow’s meeting. Then one from a friend inviting her to an exhibition over the weekend. Life went on. Her life, the one she had built herself.

Anna smiled. She finished her coffee. She opened her laptop and dove into work. Into her life. Into her world, where she was not a gray mouse, not a backup option, but herself. Simply herself. And that was enough.

In the evening Katya called. Anna stared at the name on the screen for a long time. Then she declined the call. She typed a short message: “Don’t call. Sort it out yourselves.”

The reply came almost immediately: “You’re selfish! How could you throw out your own mother?!”

Anna smiled sadly. She blocked the number. She turned off her phone. She’d deal with it tomorrow. Tonight she just wanted to be alone. In her apartment. In her life. In her world, where she was, finally, at home

Mother-in-law burst into my home to wreck our plans to buy an apartment and seize our savings—but she didn’t expect this response

0

When I opened the door and saw Valentina Petrovna on the threshold with two enormous bags, my heart sank. My mother-in-law stood there in her unchanging beige trench coat, hair pulled into a tight bun, lips pressed into a thin line. Her gaze slid over me with that all-too-familiar expression—a mix of disapproval and righteous indignation.

“Hello, Lena,” she said, stepping in without waiting to be invited. “I’ll only be here a short while.”

“Short while,” in her case, could mean anything—from a week to a month. I stepped aside, letting her into our tiny studio on Planernaya, where every square meter counted.

“Good evening, Valentina Petrovna,” I managed, feeling the tension clamp down on my shoulders. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“Do you really have to warn your own son before you come?” She dropped the bags right by the door and began unbuttoning her coat. “Where’s Sasha?”

“At work. He’ll be back in an hour.”

Valentina Petrovna surveyed our studio—twenty-eight square meters that somehow fit a bed, a narrow sofa, a table by the window, and a tiny kitchen nook separated by a breakfast bar. Her face took on that familiar look of condescending pity.

“Still living cramped like this,” she sighed, settling onto the sofa. “When will you finally buy a proper place? You’re young, you both work, and still you’re in this little cubbyhole.”

I bit my tongue. Yesterday, those words would have cut me to the quick, stirring up the usual wave of hurt and helplessness. But today—today was different.

 

“Let me make you some tea, Valentina Petrovna,” I offered neutrally. “You must be tired from the trip.”

While the kettle boiled, I texted Sasha: “Your mom’s here. No warning. With bags.” His reply was instant: “What?! I’m on my way.”

Over tea, my mother-in-law launched into a full monologue about how hard life was in their town, how everything kept getting more expensive, how difficult it was for Sasha’s sister Tamara to manage her son Dima. I half-listened, nodding in the right places, waiting for her to get to the real reason for her visit. Valentina Petrovna never did anything for nothing.

Sasha burst into the apartment forty minutes later, out of breath and hair tousled. He hugged his mother, kissed her cheek, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the wary look in his eyes.

“Hi, Mom. Did something happen?”

Valentina Petrovna took a sip of tea, squared her shoulders, and looked at both of us with that special look that never boded well.

“Something did happen, Sashenka. Dima didn’t make it into a tuition-free spot. He didn’t score enough points. And a paid program—well, you know how much that costs. Where is Tamara supposed to get that kind of money? She’s on her own with him; his father, as you know, doesn’t help at all.”

Sasha slowly sank onto a chair.

“Mom, I’m very sorry, but—”

“Wait, I’m not finished,” she cut him off. “Plus he’ll need to rent a place. Dima wants Moscow—the communications institute. He’s a bright boy, capable, he just got unlucky with the exams. And at home he has no prospects at all. He’ll just stagnate there.”

I felt a coldness spread through my veins. No. Not this.

“Tamara asked me to talk to you,” my mother-in-law went on, now looking straight at me. “You’ve saved up for an apartment—you want a bigger place, closer to work, I know. Sasha told me at New Year’s.”

“Mom…”

“Listen to me!” Her voice sharpened. “You already have an apartment. Small, yes, but you have one. You manage to get to work somehow—and you always have. Nothing terrible. But Dima would get a chance at a normal life, an education! You two are young; you’ll earn more. But the boy needs help now, before it’s too late!”

Silence filled the room. I could hear only my own heartbeat and the traffic outside the window.

Sasha found his voice first.

“Mom, you can’t be seriously asking this.”

“I’m not demanding, I’m asking!” She threw up her hands. “Tamara is your own sister, Dima is your nephew! In a family we help each other! You and Lena have probably picked out a two-room place closer to the center to be more comfortable. But that’s indulgence, excess! And here a child needs an education, a future!”

All these years I’d held back, smiled, nodded when Valentina Petrovna told us how to live. I’d tolerated her comments that I cooked wrong, cleaned not thoroughly enough, dressed too brightly. I’d stayed silent when she said Sasha needed a more modest, more domestic wife. But this—this was too much.

“Valentina Petrovna,” I was surprised at how calm my voice sounded. “Let me clarify a few things.”

My mother-in-law turned to me, raising her eyebrows. There was surprise in her eyes—I usually chose to keep quiet.

“First, you came without an invitation and without warning. This is our home, small as it is. Second, you’re not asking—you’re demanding. There’s a difference, do you feel it? Third, you’re deciding for us how we should manage the money we earned ourselves.”

“Lena!” Valentina Petrovna began, but I raised a hand.

“I’m not finished. Sasha and I came to Moscow seven years ago. Each from our own hometown. We had no connections, no money, no residency permit. Nothing. I lived in a dorm, then in a room in a communal apartment at Rechnoy Vokzal, where the window looked out on factory smokestacks.”

I stood, paced the room, feeling the words push to get out.

“Sasha got into university on a tuition-free spot because he prepared hard and studied. I worked nights as a waitress just to get by. Neither of us asked anyone for help. We didn’t demand that someone else solve our problems.”

Valentina Petrovna opened her mouth, but I didn’t let her get a word in.

“Sasha finished his degree and got a trainee job for twenty thousand. After graduating, I landed a junior specialist position. We rented an apartment that swallowed half our combined salaries. We ate buckwheat and sausages. We wore second-hand clothes. We saved every ruble.”

I stopped in front of my mother-in-law and looked her straight in the eyes.

“Do you know how many years we saved for this apartment? Five. For five years we denied ourselves everything. No vacations. No cafés. Sasha’s sneakers fell apart—he glued the soles back on more than once because we were saving. For the apartment. For a normal life. For the children we want.”

“But Dima…”

“Dima is eighteen,” I said firmly. “He’s an adult. If he wants to study in Moscow—fine. Let him get a tuition-free place, like we did. Let him work and pay for school himself. Let him take out a loan. There are options. But it’s his life, his choice, his responsibility.”

“You’re heartless!” Valentina Petrovna flared. “His mother is alone, his father’s a drunk! How is he supposed to cope by himself?”

“The way we coped!” I felt my voice tremble, not from weakness but from righteous anger. “Valentina Petrovna, Sasha is your own son, but when he left for Moscow seven years ago, you gave him ten thousand rubles and said you couldn’t help more. Remember? He didn’t resent it. He understood you didn’t have the money. He carved out his own path. So did I.”

I sat opposite her, trying to rein in my emotions.

“We’re not turning our backs on family. But we are not obliged to sacrifice our life, our plans, our future for a nephew who didn’t even bother to prepare properly for the exams. You say he’s capable? Great. Let him prove it. Let him get in on a tuition-free spot next year. Let him find a job and pay for his education himself. That’s not cruelty. That’s life.”

Valentina Petrovna looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. Mixed emotions flickered in her eyes—shock, hurt, anger.

“Sasha,” she turned to her son. “Are you going to let her talk to me like that?”

I froze. This was the moment of truth. Everything depended on it now—not just the fate of our savings, but the future of our marriage.

Sasha was silent for a few seconds that felt like an eternity. Then he stood, came over, and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Mom, Lena is right. About everything.”

“What?”

“She’s right,” he repeated, more firmly. “We’re not to blame for Dima’s problems. We’re not obligated to solve them at the cost of our lives. You came here without even asking if it was convenient for us. You didn’t ask about our plans. You immediately started making demands and giving orders.”

“I’m your mother!”

“And I love you,” Sasha’s voice held a note of fatigue. “But Lena and I—we’re a family. We make decisions together. And our money really is our money. We earned it. We have the right to spend it as we see fit.”

He crouched beside his mother and took her hand.

“Mom, we’ve lived in this box for five years. Every morning I commute an hour and a half to work. Lena—an hour twenty. We come home late, exhausted, and we don’t even have a separate room to sit in quiet. We want kids, but how are we supposed to have them here?”

Valentina Petrovna turned away, wiping her eyes.

“People had kids in communal flats before and it was fine. No one complained.”

“Before, there wasn’t a choice,” Sasha said gently. “We have one. We can live better. We’ve earned that right. And you know what, Mom? I want my child to grow up in a normal apartment. To have their own room. I want Lena and me not to spend two hours commuting each way, but to be able to spend that time with our family.”

He stood, rubbing his face wearily.

“I’ll help Dima if he truly wants to study. I’ll find information on grants, scholarships, support programs. I can help with a résumé, suggest where to look for a job. But the apartment money—that’s sacred for Lena and me. I’m sorry.”

Valentina Petrovna sat in silence for a minute, two, three. Then she stood abruptly.

“Fine. I understand. Everyone looks out for their own.”

“Mom…”

“Don’t, Sasha. I can see I’m not welcome here. I’ll go to a hotel.”

“Valentina Petrovna,” I stood too. “We’re not throwing you out. Stay the night. Just please understand our position.”

She looked at me for a long moment.

“So you do have a backbone, Lena. You played the quiet one, but inside—you’re steel. Maybe you chose well, Sasha, I don’t know.”

She started gathering her things. Sasha tried to stop her, but she brushed him off.

“I’ll take the morning train. I’ll spend the night at my friend Vera Nikolaevna’s. She lives near Shchyolkovskaya.”

We didn’t try to hold her back. When the door closed behind her, I collapsed onto the sofa, my hands shaking.

“Did I go too far?” I whispered.

Sasha hugged me, pulling me close.

“No. You were right. About everything. And thank you for not being afraid to say it.”

“What if she never speaks to us again?”

“She will,” he said with a tired smile. “My mom gets offended easily, but she lets things go. It’s just the first time in her life someone told her ‘no’ that firmly.”

That night I couldn’t sleep, replaying the conversation in my head. Did I do the right thing? Was I too harsh? But every time doubt began to creep in, I remembered our five years in this box. I remembered Sasha gluing his sneakers back together. I remembered stretching buckwheat for a week. I remembered us sitting with a calculator, counting how much more we needed to save. I remembered how we dreamed of a spacious kitchen where we could cook together, of a balcony where I could grow flowers, of a separate bedroom with a big bed.

 

No. I was right. We earned this. We deserve this.

In the morning, Valentina Petrovna called. Her voice was cold, formal.

“I’m leaving. I’ll think about what you said. Maybe you’re right about some things. But it hurt to hear.”

“It hurt to say it, too,” I admitted. “But sometimes the truth cuts.”

“I’ll pass along the scholarships and grants to Dima,” she added more softly. “Let him try on his own. Maybe it’ll work out.”

When we hung up, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. Not all of it, of course—but a significant part.

Three months later we signed the contract for a two-room apartment closer to the center. Fifty-eight square meters, two windows facing south, a twelve-meter kitchen, a balcony. Now Sasha’s commute is forty minutes, mine—thirty-five.

Valentina Petrovna came to the housewarming. She brought embroidered doilies and, shyly, asked for forgiveness.

“I was wrong,” she admitted at the table. “It wasn’t my place to decide for you. And Dima, by the way, found a job. He’s going to try for a tuition-free spot next year. Says he can handle it himself. Turns out he can do things when he wants to.”

I hugged her, feeling the last ice between us melt.

“And we,” Sasha raised his glass, “are going to be parents soon.”

Valentina Petrovna burst into tears—this time from happiness.

Now, looking at our spacious apartment where a crib already stands in the nursery for the daughter who will be born in three months, I understand that on that difficult evening I did the most important thing. I protected our family. Our dreams. Our right to happiness—the one we earned through our own work.

And you know what matters most? Valentina Petrovna now asks when she can visit. And we’re happy to invite her. Because respect has finally become mutual.

Sometimes love requires firmness. Sometimes protecting your family starts with a simple, yet very hard word—“no.” And sometimes the greatest gift we can give our loved ones is teaching them to respect our interests and our choices.

We did it. Together.

She got pregnant early, at sixteen. It came to light by accident: during a routine school medical exam, the girl flatly refused to go into the gynecologist’s office, and the teacher informed her parents.

0

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ariana left the kitchen with her head bowed.

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

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

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

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

 

Lilya left the kitchen without a word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, but your present will go to my sister—she needs to drive the baby,” my husband decided to give away my car—but not so fast.

0

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

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

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

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

— Thinking about a car again?

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

— What kind of surprise?

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

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

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

— What kind of errand on a Saturday morning?

— You’ll see.

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

— Igor, are you serious?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— And what does she want?

— Nothing specific yet. Just… support.

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

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

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

— Lar, I need to tell you something.

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

— I’m listening.

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

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

— And?

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

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

— Say that again, — she said quietly.

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

— Repeat what you just said.

Igor sighed and repeated it, less confidently this time:

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

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

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

 

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

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

— You can’t be serious…

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

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

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

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

She grabbed her bag and headed for the door.

— Where are you going?

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

The door closed with a soft click.

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

Around three in the afternoon Vika called.

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

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

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

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

— I’m pregnant! It’s hard for me!

— I see. Maybe it’s time to grow up?

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

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

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

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

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

— It’s not like that…

— How is it then?

Igor was silent, then sighed heavily:

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

— And?

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

— I can imagine. What did she say?

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

Larisa snorted:

— Funny. So a wife isn’t family?

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

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

— All right. We’ll go.

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

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

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

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

— What happened? — Larisa asked.

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

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

— So she deliberately deceived you to get my present?

 

— Looks like it.

— And what did you tell her?

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

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

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

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

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

— That’s not an excuse.

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

Larisa took his hand:

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

— Deal.

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

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

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

You’re nothing without me—a penniless housewife!” the husband declared during the divorce. But he didn’t know my “hobby” was a company with seven-figure turnover.

0

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kirill froze, then laughed—loud and unpleasant.

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

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

“What can you do without me at all?”

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

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

day without my money.”

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

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

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

“No, Kirill. I won’t take the dacha.”

His face fell.

“What do you mean, ‘won’t take it’?”

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

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

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

He turned to my lawyer for support.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not now.

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

I stood up.

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

His face twisted.

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

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

At the threshold I turned back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Enough. That’s all.

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

I dialed.

“Dima, hi. Emergency.”

“What happened, Anya?”

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

Silence for a beat.

“I’ll be there. Same address?”

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

“What is it?” Dima asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Kirill choked on his coffee.

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

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

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

Before he even processed it, the phone rang again.

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

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

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

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

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

He stormed up to their table, chair screeching.

“Was this you?”

I looked up at him. Calm, not surprised.

“What exactly, Kirill? Be specific.”

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

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

He stared at me, uncomprehending.

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

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

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

His face slowly blanched.

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

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

Dima closed the laptop.

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

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

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

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

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

I stood up. Dima stood too.

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

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

Outside, Dima took my hand.

“Are you okay?”

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

Epilogue. A year later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If I owe you for groceries, then you should also pay for living in my apartment,” the wife replied to her enterprising husband.

0

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

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

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

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

“Sales manager at a construction company.”

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

“Do you know anything about construction at all?”

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

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

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

“I’m trying,” she said quietly.

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

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

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

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

 

Her heart skipped a beat.

“Yes, I did.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Andryusha, wake up. I have news.”

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

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

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

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

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

But six months later, they had That Conversation.

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

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

“Hey. How’s work?”

“Fine. Just tired.”

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

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

“About money. About our budget.”

Lena frowned.
“What about it?”

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

“So?”

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

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

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

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

“I understand. But fair is fair.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where were you?” he asked.

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

“What documents?”

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

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

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

“Are you out of your mind?”

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

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

“Lena, this is our apartment…”

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

“But we’re husband and wife!”

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

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

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

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

“Is this revenge?” he asked at last.

“No, it’s justice. By your logic.”

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

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

“What kind?” Andrey asked warily.

 

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

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

“Lena…”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not what I meant…”

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

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

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

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

The word “exploit” cut sharply.

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

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

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

“Probably not,” he answered honestly.

“Then what’s the difference?”

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

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

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

“We can. But on one condition.”

“What condition?”

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

Andrey nodded.
“Deal.”

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

 

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

I don’t need your kids here even for free, son! I came to your place to rest, not to look after your brood! I won’t even stay in the same room with them!

0

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

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

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

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

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

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

— What is it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Galina Borisovna tried to wrench free, her body tensing.

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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