A Former Classmate Bragged, “I’m a Boss Now, and You’re Still Changing Potties at Your Kindergarten.” A Week Later, He Came to Enroll His Son in My Preschool
“Changing potties, then?” Eduard leaned back in his chair and looked around the table.
Twenty-three people. The class of ’92. The Prichal restaurant on the embankment, a long table with a white tablecloth, candles in holders. Thirty-four years had passed, and he still took up more space than he had any right to.
He had put on weight. His neck was thick, and on his wrist was a watch the size of an alarm clock. His voice filled the entire room. When Eduard spoke, the waiters turned around.
“Well,” he raised his glass, “to our reunion. And to those who actually made something of themselves.”
I sat four seats away from him. The Olivier salad had already gone cold, and the tomatoes had a film over them. Valentina, beside me, nudged me with her elbow.
“Don’t pay attention,” she whispered. “He’s been bragging to everyone here. Third toast tonight about his company.”
I nodded. Stayed silent. Took a sip of water from my glass.
I have worked with children for twenty-nine years. I started as a nanny in 1997, when salaries were delayed for three months at a time and we girls pooled our own money to buy porridge for the children. I washed floors, fed toddlers, taught them letters, made paper snowflakes with them. Then came university — five years by correspondence, working during the day and studying from textbooks at night. Then senior teacher. Then methodologist. Then my own preschool.
Twelve years ago, I opened “Ladushki.” A private preschool in Nizhny Novgorod. Three hundred and twenty square meters. A speech therapist, two psychologists, a swimming pool, English lessons. Sixty-five thousand rubles a month for one spot. Eighty-seven families on the waiting list for twelve available places.
But Eduard did not ask about any of that. He was not interested.
“Verka!” He pointed his fork in my direction. “You’re still at the kindergarten, right? Potties, diapers, semolina porridge?”
Four people laughed. Not the whole table, but enough for everything to go quiet. The others lowered their eyes to their plates.
“At a kindergarten,” I said. “Yes.”
“There you go.” Eduard spread his arms so wide he nearly hit the person next to him. “And I built a company. Construction materials, four warehouses across the region, forty employees on staff. A boss, as they say.”
He said that word — “boss” — and looked down at me. Even though he was sitting. He had known how to look like that back in school too, when he copied my math tests.
I said nothing. Spread butter on a piece of bread. Took a bite.
“Don’t be offended, Vera,” he waved his hand. “Someone has to change potties too, right? That work is needed as well. Sort of.”
Sort of. Twenty-nine years of my life — “sort of.”
I chewed my bread and counted. Three loans I had paid off by myself. Fourteen employees whose taxes I pay. Eleven inspections last year — fire department, consumer protection, education department. Not a single violation. A letter of gratitude from the governor. Four hundred and thirty-two children who had passed through my preschool in twelve years. I remember every one of them by name.
Valentina nudged me again. I shook my head. No. Not here. Not with him.
The evening dragged on for another two hours. Eduard talked about his country house with a sauna, his car, his all-inclusive vacation in Turkey. Every second toast was about himself. When it was my turn and they asked me to say what was going on in my life, I said briefly: I work with children. That was all. I raised my glass and drank. Sat down.
I was the first to leave. I put on my coat and buttoned all five buttons. Slowly, one by one.
“Verka, what’s this?” Eduard shouted across the whole room. “Too early! Or do you have a morning shift — washing potties?”
Someone snickered. Two people, maybe three. I turned around by the door.
“Have a good evening,” I said. “Everyone.”
The restaurant door closed behind me. March. A cold wind from the Volga. The air smelled of wet asphalt and the last snow. I stood on the steps and breathed. Slowly. Evenly. Only my fingers had turned white around the handle of my bag.
Twenty-nine years. And to him, I was still Verka, the woman who washed potties.
I got into the car. Turned the ignition. My hands rested on the steering wheel, and I just sat there. One minute. Two. Watching the snow melt on the windshield.
Then I drove home.
The next morning, Valentina created a chat. “Class of ’92. Let’s Keep in Touch!” Twenty-one people. Photos from the previous evening, memories, old stories. Who remembered the physics teacher? The shop teacher? How did Petrov broke a window with a ball?
A normal chat. Warm.
Until Wednesday.
On Wednesday evening, at 10:13 p.m., Eduard sent a photo. Him, standing in front of his warehouse, wearing a hard hat, arms crossed over his chest. Caption: “A boss’s workday. What about everyone else’s? Verka, are the potties clean yet? 😂”
Three laughing emojis in response. Two “haha” reactions. Lena Fomina wrote: “Edik, enough already.” The rest was silence.
I read it. Put the phone down. Screen down on the nightstand.
I had a difficult morning. A child in the older group had an allergic reaction to breakfast. Ambulance, parents, written explanation, a call to consumer protection. I sat in my office until eight in the evening, writing a report, checking suppliers, changing next week’s menu.
And he wrote, “Are the potties clean?”
The next day, another message appeared in the chat. Eduard, ten in the morning: “By the way, folks. Who earns how much? I’m not shy — four hundred thousand a month net. Not bad for a guy from School 204, huh? Our Verka probably makes twenty-five thousand? They don’t pay more for potties, he-he.”
Eleven people read it. Four left emojis. Nobody objected. Not one person.
Twenty-five thousand. My accountant earns seventy. The cook earns fifty-five. I myself — no, that wasn’t important. Something else was. Eleven people read it and stayed silent. As if he were right. As if it were normal to judge someone else’s life in rubles in front of everyone.
Valentina wrote to me privately: “Vera, did you see that? Maybe you should answer? Tell him about the preschool, the business. Let him shut up.”
I typed a message. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too.
Then Valentina did something I had not asked her to do. She dropped a link to the Ladushki website into the group chat. Photos: bright classrooms, a pool with a mosaic floor, a winter garden, the speech therapist’s office. And the caption: “By the way, this is Vera’s preschool. She opened it from scratch. Best private preschool in the city, in case anyone didn’t know. A waiting list a year long.”
Silence. Twelve seconds — I saw Eduard typing. The three dots flashed. Then disappeared. Then it appeared again.
“Well, the website is pretty. Good job, Verka. But a pretty website still isn’t a business. I do real work, not mess around with little kids. No offense.”
No offense. Twelve years of work. Three loans. Two sleepless weeks when the roof leaked and I stood there with buckets myself until the repairmen arrived. Three hundred and twenty square meters — I chose every centimeter personally. Wallpaper, tiles, furniture, lighting. The development program I spent six months writing at night. Fourteen employees whom I found, trained, and kept.
Not a business. Messing around with little kids.
I closed the chat. Went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Stood there watching the water boil. Tiny bubbles rose from the bottom. Then bigger ones. Then the kettle clicked off.
I poured tea. My hands were not shaking. But I held the cup with both hands.
In the morning, before work, I opened the chat and wrote one message. Not to him — to everyone.
“I have been in preschool education for twenty-nine years. I started as a nanny when we were not paid for three months. I opened a preschool from scratch with my own money. Fourteen employees. Eighty-seven families on the waiting list. Eleven inspections last year — zero violations. You can call it potties. Or you can look at how many children I have helped graduate over the years. Four hundred and thirty-two. I remember every one of them by name. If anyone is interested, Valya already shared the website.”
I sent it. Put my phone in my bag. Went to work.
By the end of the day, there were nineteen reactions. Hearts, fire emojis, exclamation marks. Lena Fomina wrote: “Verochka, I’m proud of you.” Seryoga Nechayev: “Now that is scale. Respect.” Tanya Bolshakova: “Can I sign up my grandson?”
Eduard left one reaction. A thumbs-up. Not a single word.
He went silent in the chat for three days. Then wrote something about the weather. Not one word about potties.
I thought that was the end of it. Topic closed. Everyone moved on.
Four days later, Valentina called. Nine in the evening. I was already in my pajamas, tea cooling on the kitchen table.
“Vera, sit down.”
“I’m lying down.”
“Then lie down more firmly. Eduard is looking for a preschool for his son.”
I sat up. The pillow slipped to the floor. I did not pick it up.
“What son?”
“His youngest. Lyoshka, four years old. From his second wife, Alina. She’s thirty-two. They’ve already visited three preschools. No places at Rosinka, the program didn’t suit them at Umka, and he didn’t want a municipal one. His wife went online and read the reviews. Best private preschool in the city — Ladushki.”
Silence. I heard a car pass outside. Its headlights slid across the ceiling.
“Vera, do you hear me? He’s coming. To you. To your preschool. To enroll his child. The same Eduard who spent two weeks joking about potties.”
“Thank you for warning me,” I said.
“And what are you going to do? Refuse?”
I thought for three seconds. Maybe five. No, three.
“Work,” I replied. “As usual.”
I hung up. Leaned back on the pillow. The ceiling was white, with a small crack in the corner. I have known that crack for fourteen years. Since I moved in.
Potties, then. Well, well. On Thursday, he came. Without calling, without an appointment. Just pushed open the front door. Olya, the secretary, looked out from behind the reception desk.
“Who are you here to see?”
“The director. We’re classmates.”
Olya called me. I told her to let them wait five minutes. And for those five minutes, I sat at my desk and looked at the wall. Eleven certificates in frames. Two diplomas. A letter of thanks from the department. A photo of the first graduating class — twelve children, two teachers, and me in the middle. 2014. Back then, I still dyed my hair.
Then I said to let them in.
The door opened. Eduard. Behind him, a woman. Young, about thirty, blond hair tied back in a ponytail, anxious eyes. In her arms, a boy in a blue jacket. Round cheeks, curly hair. He looked around.
Eduard saw the sign on the door. “Director. V. A. Koltsova.” Gold letters on dark wood. He read it. Then looked at me. Then back at the sign.
The watch on his wrist — the same large one from the restaurant — flashed. He covered it with his sleeve. Automatically.
“Vera?” he said. His voice was quieter than at the restaurant. Three times quieter.
“Good afternoon,” I replied. “Come in. Sit down. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, we just stopped by — well, to have a look.” He coughed. “I didn’t know you were the director here. I thought you were a teacher.”
I said nothing. Pointed to the chairs. His wife sat down immediately. The boy slid off her lap, saw the aquarium in the corner of the office, and went over to it. Pressed his nose to the glass.
Eduard sat last. Slowly, as if the chair might not hold him.
“My son,” he said. “Lyoshka. Four years old. We’d like September.”
I opened my laptop. Spreadsheet, waiting list, dates. All on the screen.
“There are no places for September,” I said. “There are eighty-seven applications for twelve spots. The nearest available place is January.”
“January?” Eduard straightened. “Wait ten months?”
“Nine,” I corrected. “Everyone goes through the same procedure. Application, interview with the psychologist, medical checkup, adaptation period — two weeks. That is standard.”
“Vera,” he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We’re our own people. Classmates. We’ve known each other for thirty-four years. Can’t you make it quicker somehow? I’ll pay. Double rate, no problem.”
I looked at him. Steadily. Calmly. Back straight, hands on the table.
“Eduard, I have eighty-seven families on the waiting list. Every one of them is waiting. Everyone filled out an application, brought documents, and passed the first interview. I cannot put you first because we once sat at the same desk.”
“But you can. You’re the owner. Your preschool, your rules.”
“That is exactly why,” I said. “My rules. And I follow them.”
Alina tugged at his sleeve. Quietly, almost unnoticeably.
“Edik,” she said. “Stop. We’ll wait.”
He shook off her hand. His face darkened. His cheekbones tightened.
“Vera, listen. I understand you were offended by that evening. By the potties. I joked, it happens. We’re adults. But what does the child have to do with it?”
I closed the laptop. Slowly. The lid clicked shut. The sound was loud in the silence of the office.
“The child has nothing to do with it,” I said. “And my decision is not about you. And not about potties. It is about order. About eighty-seven families are waiting. About rules that I wrote myself and follow myself. Every day. For twelve years.”
“What rules?” he raised his voice. “I’m offering you money! Double rate! Do you know how much that is?”
“One hundred and thirty thousand a month,” I said. “I know. But this is not about money.”
The boy by the aquarium laughed. A goldfish bumped its nose against the glass, and he clapped his hands.
“Mom, look! Fish!”
Alina turned to him. Smiled. Then immediately looked back at me. Her eyes glistened.
“We’ll sign up,” she said. “For the waiting list. Like everyone else.”
Eduard opened his mouth. I closed it. Stood up. The chair scraped across the floor.
“I see,” he said. “I see everything.”
“I will put you on the waiting list,” I said. “The nearest place is January. Before enrollment: an interview with the psychologist, a full medical exam, two weeks of adaptation. Everything like everyone else. No exceptions.”
Eduard was already standing at the door. He turned around. The watch flashed.
“You were quiet twenty years ago, Verka. When did you become like this?”
“Twenty-nine,” I corrected him. “Twenty-nine years.”
He left. The door closed. Quietly. He did not even slam it — just pulled the handle and went out.
Alina stayed. She sat in the chair with Lyoshka on her lap and looked at me.
“Forgive him,” she said. “My husband. He isn’t a bad person. He just doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know how to talk when he’s refused. He thinks money solves everything. And when it doesn’t, he gets lost.”
I took an application form from the drawer. Put it on the desk. Slid a pen toward her.
“Fill it out,” I said. “I’ll explain everything.”
She filled it out for twenty minutes. Her handwriting was neat, the letters small and even. Her hands trembled. I prompted her: date of birth here, medical details here if there are any, contact information for both parents here.
Lyoshka sat on the floor by the aquarium with his legs crossed and talked to the fish.
“How are you?” he asked the fish. “Do you like it here?”
“Her name is Busya,” I said.
“Busya!” He laughed so loudly that Alina flinched. “Busya, hello! I’m Lyoshka!”
Alina finished the application. I stood up. Handed me the form.
“Thank you,” she said. “Really. Thank you.”
“It’s my job,” I replied.
They left. The door closed. I remained alone in the office. I placed my palms on the desk. Warm, steady. Not shaking.
Twenty-nine years. And there he was. The one who had said “potties.” Standing in my office, asking for a place for his son.
I did not refuse. A child is not to blame for the fact that his father considers other people’s work insignificant. Lyoshka is four. He loves fish and laughs loudly. He needs a good preschool.
But I did not bend. Not by a ruble. Not by a day.
Eduard waited four months. Like everyone else. He called Olya the secretary — not me. Asked when there would be a place. Olya gave the same answer every time: in order of the waiting list.
Twice he wrote to me privately. The first message, in October: “Vera, maybe you can speed things up? I’ll pay double, triple — name the amount.” I replied: “The waiting list is the same for everyone. Wait.” He read it and did not answer.
The second was in December, a month before enrollment. Briefly: “Well, how’s it going?” I replied: “In January, as I said. Everything is on schedule.”
In the classmates’ group chat, he never joked about potties again. Not once. He wrote about football, snow, traffic on the bridge. Not a word about teachers.
In January, Lyosha was enrolled. Interview with the psychologist — passed. Medical exam — papers in order. Two weeks of adaptation — the first week, he cried in the mornings; the second week, he was already running to the group by himself.
Alina brought him every morning. Quiet, polite, always at the same time — ten minutes to eight. She greeted the teachers, thanked them. Once she brought homemade cookies for the group — in a bag labeled in her neat handwriting.
Eduard brought his son once. On the very first day. He stood in the coatroom, helping him pull off his jacket. Lyosha squirmed, twisted around, grabbed his father’s buttons.
I was walking down the corridor. I stopped.
“Hi,” Eduard said. Quietly. No “Verka,” no smirk.
“Good morning,” I replied.
Pause. He straightened. Arms at his sides. The same watch, but this time he did not cover it with his sleeve.
“Thank you,” he said. “For Lyosha.”
I nodded.
“It’s my job.”
He opened his mouth. I waited. Two seconds. Three. He closed his mouth. Nodded. And left.
There was no apology. Not then, not the next day, not a week later. He never said the word “potties” again. But he never said “sorry” either.
It has been four months since Lyosha joined us. Alina says hello every morning. Smiles. Once a week, she asks how things are in the group, what Lyosha ate, whom he played with. Once she placed a small cup of coffee on my desk. No words. Just placed it there and left.
Eduard brings his son on Fridays. He nods to me in the corridor. Briefly, dryly. He does not linger. In the classmates’ chat, he writes rarely — about the weather, about the dacha. Not about potties.
They say he tells acquaintances that his son goes to the best preschool in the city. He says it with pride. But he does not mention who opened that preschool.
And every morning, I unlock the door of Ladushki. Fourteen employees. Sixty children. Eighty-seven families on the waiting list for next year. Twenty-nine years — and not one day have I regretted it.
Lyosha runs into the group shouting, “Busya, I’m here!” and rushes to the aquarium. The teacher smiles. I stand in the corridor and watch.
But sometimes, when Eduard walks past and looks away, I think: maybe I should have refused. Let him look for another preschool. Let him understand what it feels like when someone tells you no. Maybe then he would have apologized sooner.
Or maybe I did the right thing. Lyosha is here. He is happy. He is not guilty of anything.
But I am still waiting for an apology.
And it still has not come.
Tell me — would you have accepted the child in her place? Or should the father have learned how to apologize first?
