“You’re Going to Your Mommy When I Need Medicine?! Then Stay With Her! I’ll Change the Locks!”
Lena began feeling it sometime after lunch—a strange heaviness in her temples and an ache in her joints, as though someone invisible were methodically twisting her arms and legs. She tried to ignore it, finished her cold coffee, and returned to her computer. The project deadline was tomorrow, and the client had already requested revisions for the third time that week.
By three o’clock, the letters on the screen had begun to blur. Lena rubbed her eyes, leaned back in her chair, and only then realized that she was shivering. She pressed her palm to her forehead. It was hot—definitely hot. The thermometer showed 38.7 degrees Celsius.
“Wonderful,” she muttered, wrapping herself in the blanket that usually lay on the sofa. “Just wonderful.”
Outside, a light February rain was turning the city into a gray watercolor painting. The apartment seemed too empty and too quiet. Lena looked at the clock. It was half past three. Andrey would not be home before seven. Perhaps even later.
She tried to remember whether there were any fever-reducing tablets in the medicine cabinet, but her memory helpfully reminded her that they had run out the previous winter when Andrey had been ill. Back then, he had spent three days in bed with a fever while she ran to the pharmacy, cooked chicken broth, and changed the cold compresses on his forehead.
Now it was her turn.
Lena picked up her phone. Her fingers were trembling, either from weakness or from the chills. She dialed her husband’s number and listened to the long rings.
One, two, three…
“Hello, Lena?” Andrey’s voice sounded distracted. She could hear his colleagues talking and keyboards clicking in the background.
“Hi. Listen, I feel terrible. My temperature is almost thirty-nine. Could you stop at the pharmacy on your way home? I need something to bring down the fever.”
There was a pause.
A pause that lasted far too long.
“Lena, I have plans today… I promised my mother I would visit her. She called this morning and said her blood pressure was acting up. I need to bring her some groceries, and she’s running out of medication.”
Lena closed her eyes.
Her blood pressure. That cursed blood pressure again.
Nadezhda Viktorovna had been complaining about it for six months. Every week brought a new symptom and a new reason to summon her son. Sometimes her heart was bothering her. Sometimes she felt dizzy. Sometimes her legs were weak. The doctors could never find anything wrong, and the pills never seemed to help, but the complaints worked perfectly on her son.
“Andrey, I really feel awful,” Lena said, trying to remain calm even though there was a lump in her throat. “I can’t go out by myself. My temperature is nearly forty.”
“I understand, sweetheart. Of course I’ll buy you something. I’ll just stop by my mother’s place first. It will only take half an hour, and then I’ll come straight home. All right? Just hang on for a little while.”
“Hang on?” Lena’s voice broke. “Andrey, do you even understand what you’re saying? I need medicine now, not in three hours! Your mother is inventing another illness for the tenth time this month, while I’m actually sick!”
“Lena, please don’t start. She’s my mother. She feels unwell.”
“She always feels unwell whenever I need you!” Lena felt tears burning her eyes—from the fever, the hurt, and her helplessness. “Every single time, Andrey. Every damn time. Remember my birthday? She ‘fell ill’ that very evening. Remember when we planned to go to the countryside? At the last minute, she suddenly ‘couldn’t get out of bed.’ And when I had to defend my thesis and it was important to me that you were there, she suddenly…”
“That’s enough, Lena!” Andrey’s voice became hard. “You’re bringing this up again. My mother is ill. She’s sixty-two years old, and she lives alone. Who is going to take care of her if I don’t?”
“And who is going to take care of me?” Lena whispered, but he did not seem to hear her.
“I understand everything. This isn’t easy for me either. But she is my mother. I can’t abandon her. I’ll go there quickly, bring her medicine, make sure everything is all right, and then come straight home. You’re an adult. You can survive a couple of hours.”
Even Lena could not fully understand what happened inside her at that moment.
Perhaps it was the final drop that made the cup overflow. Perhaps the fever had burned away the last of her patience. Or perhaps she was simply tired—tired of being second, third, or tenth on her own husband’s list of priorities.
“You’re going to your dear mommy when I need medicine?!” she shouted into the phone, her voice sounding strange and hysterical even to herself. “Then stay with her! I’ll change the locks!”
She threw the phone onto the sofa and burst into tears. Hot, salty streams ran down her face, mixing with the sweat on her burning skin. Her entire body ached and her head felt as though it were splitting apart, but the physical pain was nothing compared with the emptiness that had opened inside her.
Four years of marriage.
For four years, she had believed that they were a team. She had believed that when life became difficult, they would support each other. But reality had turned out differently.
Nadezhda Viktorovna had firmly established herself between them—an invisible but constantly present third person in their relationship.
Lena remembered how it had begun.
During the first year after their wedding, Andrey visited his mother once a week on Sundays. He helped around the house, repaired things, and brought her groceries. It seemed normal and right. Lena had even found it touching.
What a caring son, she had thought.
But then Sundays became Saturdays and Sundays. Then Wednesdays were added. During the past six months, hardly three days had passed without Nadezhda Viktorovna calling with another “emergency.”
“Andryusha, my heart is beating so hard. I’m afraid I’m having a heart attack.”
“Son, my blood pressure is one hundred and eighty. I’m all alone here. What if something happens to me?”
“Andrey, I’m frightened. Please come.”
And he went.
Every single time.
He dropped everything and went to her. He canceled plans, postponed his responsibilities, and ignored Lena’s requests.
His mother came before everything else.
Lena tried to stand, but the room began spinning. She grabbed the armrest of the sofa as her legs threatened to give way beneath her. She needed to reach the kitchen and drink at least some water. Her temperature was clearly rising.
With great difficulty, she made it to the sink, filled a glass with cold water, and drank greedily. The water burned her inflamed throat but gave her a few seconds of relief.
Lena looked at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Red patches covered her cheeks, her eyes were shining with fever, and her hair was tangled. She looked exactly as she felt—sick and miserable.
Her phone vibrated on the sofa.
Andrey.
Lena did not answer.
A second call came. Then a third.
Finally, a message appeared:
“Lena, stop behaving like a child. I’ll be home soon.”
A child.
She was the child.
She was the one who worked from home so that she could manage both her career and the household. She cooked dinners, washed his shirts, and ironed his suits. She endured the endless visits to her mother-in-law and the Sunday lunches during which Nadezhda Viktorovna subtly but persistently suggested that Lena cooked incorrectly, dressed incorrectly, and behaved incorrectly.
“Andryusha has always liked borscht with meat, but you’re constantly cooking something light.”
“A woman should look like a woman instead of walking around in those trousers of yours.”
“When are you going to have children? I’m already sixty. I want to spend time with my grandchildren.”
And Andrey remained silent.
He always remained silent.
He never defended Lena, never stopped his mother, and never said that Lena was a wonderful wife, that her borscht was delicious, or that they would have children when they themselves were ready.
He simply nodded, agreed, and asked Lena not to pay attention because “Mom is only worried about us.”
Lena returned to the sofa and measured her temperature again.
39.3 degrees.
Her head hurt so badly that she wanted to scream. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe slowly and deeply, just as her mother had once taught her.
Her mother.
Lena remembered how, when she was a child and became ill, her mother would sit beside her throughout the night. She changed compresses, read stories, and stroked Lena’s hair.
Her mother never said, “Hang on,” “I’m busy,” or “Wait.”
Her mother was simply there.
But her mother had been gone for five years.
A car accident had taken the closest person in Lena’s life in a single terrible moment. Lena had been left completely alone—without a mother, without brothers or sisters, and with a father who had withdrawn into himself after his wife’s death and rarely contacted her.
At that time, Andrey had been her support. He held her hand at the funeral, embraced her at night when she could not sleep, and told her that they were her family now.
He promised that he would always be there.
But where was he now?
He was going to his mother, who had once again decided to stage another performance.
The clock showed half past five. Lena realized that she was falling asleep. The fever and weakness were taking over. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and slipped into a feverish sleep filled with images of Andrey, his mother, white medical coats, and endless hospital corridors.
She woke to the sound of a key turning in the lock.
Lena opened her eyes and struggled to focus on the front door. Andrey entered carrying several bags, and the first thing she noticed was his frightened, transformed expression.
“My God, Lena!”
He dropped the bags and rushed toward her.
“You’re burning! Why didn’t you answer my calls? I was worried!”
She wanted to respond with something sharp and accusing, but her tongue would not obey her. Andrey pressed his hand to her forehead and turned pale.
“You have a terrible fever. What’s your temperature?”
“I don’t know,” Lena whispered. “I haven’t checked it in a while.”
He grabbed the thermometer.
The minute they spent waiting seemed endless.
39.8 degrees.
“I’m calling an ambulance.”
Andrey reached for his phone, his hands trembling.
“No,” Lena objected weakly. “Just give me the medicine.”
“What medicine? You need a doctor with a temperature this high!”
He was already dialing.
“Hello? Yes, good evening. I need an ambulance. My wife’s temperature is nearly forty. She’s extremely weak and barely conscious…”
Everything that followed passed in a fog.
The ambulance arrived. A doctor examined Lena, gave her an injection, and left instructions. It was influenza with an acute and severe course. She needed bed rest and close monitoring.
Andrey rushed around the apartment. He prepared the bed, brought water, and took medicine out of the bags he had carried home.
“Lena, forgive me,” he said as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Forgive me. I’m an idiot. I didn’t realize you were feeling this bad. I thought… I don’t even know what I was thinking. Please forgive me.”
Lena looked at him through the haze of fever and did not know what she felt.
Anger? Resentment? Relief because he was finally there?
Everything had merged into one heavy mass of exhaustion.
“Mom called while I was on the way,” Andrey continued. “She asked why I was taking so long. I told her you were sick and that I needed to go home. She…”
He stopped.
“What did she say?” Lena asked.
“She said I was weak. She said a real man should take care of his mother first. She said wives come and go, but a mother is forever.”
Lena closed her eyes.
There it was.
The essence of their entire problem expressed in a single sentence.
“And what did you say?” Her voice was quiet but firm.
Andrey remained silent for a long time.
“I… I told her I would come tomorrow. Then I hung up.”
Lena opened her eyes and looked at her husband. His expression revealed confusion. He was clearly waiting for approval or gratitude for this tiny act of disobedience.
“Andrey,” she said slowly, “I need to sleep. Please leave.”
“But I want to stay with you. What if you need something?”
“Leave.”
He walked out and quietly closed the door behind him.
Lena lay in the darkness and understood with frightening clarity that something inside her had finally broken.
It was not only because of that evening. It was not merely because he had chosen to visit his mother instead of helping his sick wife.
It was the combined weight of every decision he had made during their four years together. It was the accumulated exhaustion of always coming second. It was the realization that she would never be the most important person in his life as long as Nadezhda Viktorovna stood between them with her manipulation and her endless “illnesses.”
During the following days, Andrey barely left Lena’s side. He went to the pharmacy, cooked broth, changed the bed linen, and measured her temperature. He was attentive, caring, and consumed by guilt.
Whenever his mother called, he answered briefly, said that he was busy, and ended the call. Nadezhda Viktorovna became offended and sent long messages accusing him of being ungrateful and heartless, but Andrey did not respond.
“You see?” he told Lena. “I can do it. I can put you first. Just give me a chance to fix everything.”
Lena nodded but said nothing.
Her recovery was slow. The flu turned out to be severe and caused complications. The doctor prescribed powerful medication and ordered another week of bed rest.
Throughout that time, Andrey behaved like the perfect husband. He even took several days off work so that he could remain at home.
But Lena knew that it was temporary.
It was only a manifestation of guilt and fear.
As soon as she recovered, everything would return to normal. Nadezhda Viktorovna would begin calling again. She would invent more illnesses and demand attention. And Andrey would go because “she is my mother,” because “she has nobody else to ask,” and because he did not know how to say no to the most important person in his life.
And that person was not Lena.
On the tenth day of her illness, when her temperature had finally returned to normal and her strength was slowly coming back, Lena sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea and looked out the window.
March had arrived with slush and a gray sky.
Andrey was in the shower, and his phone lay on the table. The screen lit up with a message from his mother:
“Andryusha, I feel unwell again. Come when you can. Kisses, Mom.”
Lena looked at the phone and then at the bathroom door, behind which she could hear running water.
She made a decision.
That evening, Andrey was relaxed and cheerful as he described his plans for the weekend. They would go to the countryside, just the two of them. His mother would not be involved.
Lena interrupted him.
“I want a divorce.”
He froze with his cup of coffee halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
“I want a divorce, Andrey. I’m going to file the papers next week.”
“Lena, but… why? I fixed everything. I stayed with you. I took care of you. I even told my mother I wouldn’t come!”
“For ten days,” she replied quietly. “You didn’t visit her for ten days. But what happens next? She is already writing that she feels unwell. And you will go. Perhaps not tomorrow. Perhaps not the day after tomorrow. But you will go eventually. Within a month or two, everything will return to the way it was. I’ll be waiting for you in the evenings again, listening to you explain that your mother is more important than I am, and feeling like an obstacle in your relationship with her.”
“Are you jealous of my mother?” Disbelief entered Andrey’s voice. “Lena, that’s ridiculous!”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m not jealous. I’m simply tired. I’m tired of being second. I’m tired of waiting for you to finally choose me. I’ve realized that it will never happen because you don’t even see the problem. You think it’s normal to abandon your sick wife for your mother, who is pretending to be ill for the hundredth time.”
She paused before continuing.
“And do you know what the worst part is? I don’t blame you. This is simply who you are. But I can’t live this way anymore.”
Andrey remained silent.
A series of emotions crossed his face—shock, confusion, anger, and despair.
“So that’s it?” he finally asked. “Just like that, after four years? Because of one situation?”
“It isn’t because of one situation. It’s because of hundreds of situations like this. It’s because of every evening I waited for you with dinner while you sat at your mother’s house. It’s because of every plan we canceled when she ‘suddenly felt unwell.’ It’s because there have always been three people in our marriage.”
“Lena, please.”
He reached toward her.
“Let’s try again. I’ll make an effort. I’ll talk to my mother and explain everything to her…”
“Andrey, you don’t understand.”
Lena stood, feeling the weakness in her legs, which had not yet fully recovered.
“The problem isn’t your mother. The problem is you. You can’t establish your priorities. You’re incapable of telling her no. I don’t want to change you, and I don’t want to fight your mother for your attention. I’m thirty years old, Andrey. I want a family in which I feel loved and important. I don’t feel that way with you.”
She walked out of the kitchen, leaving him sitting at the table with his cold coffee.
In the bedroom, Lena lay down and closed her eyes.
Inside, she felt something strange. It was not relief or happiness, but a kind of quiet peace—like the feeling after a long illness when you finally realize that you are beginning to recover.
Their divorce was finalized two months later.
Until the very end, Nadezhda Viktorovna tried to appeal to Lena’s conscience. She wrote letters accusing her of being selfish and of breaking her son’s heart.
Lena never replied.
Andrey tried to win her back. He called, visited, and begged for one more chance.
But Lena remained firm.
Sometimes, in the evenings, Lena sat by the window with a cup of tea and thought about the night when she had lain there with a fever and screamed into the phone:
“You’re going to your dear mommy when I need medicine?! Then stay with her!”
At the time, they had been words shouted in despair and helplessness.
But they had proved prophetic.
Andrey truly had remained with his mother. Emotionally, mentally, and through all his deepest attachments, he had always been there with Nadezhda Viktorovna and her endless “problems.”
Lena, however, had set herself free.
Although the path to that freedom had been painful, and although loneliness sometimes overwhelmed her at night, she had no regrets.
For the first time in a very long time, she felt whole, independent, and alive again.
Spring slowly came into its own. Trees blossomed outside her window, birds returned, and the city thawed after the long winter.
Lena thawed with it—carefully and gradually opening herself to a new life in which she had the right to come first in her own world.
