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Ungrateful! We took you in! — My mother-in-law shouted. I couldn’t help but burst out laughing, since we were actually in MY apartment.

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“Ungrateful! We took you in!” my mother-in-law yelled. I almost choked from laughing. We were standing in MY apartment.
My mother-in-law, Valentina Petrovna, was standing in the middle of the living room, waving her arms like she was conducting some unseen orchestra of complaints. Her face was bright red, and the veins in her neck were bulging. Nearby, my husband Sergey was fussing, trying in vain to calm her down.
“Do you hear what I’m saying?” Valentina Petrovna kept shouting, jabbing her finger in my face. “We took you in when you had nowhere to go! And you’re just an ungrateful creature!”
I watched the whole scene and felt a wave of laughter rising inside me. I had to cover my mouth with my hand so I wouldn’t burst out laughing. Because, after all, we were in MY apartment. The very one I bought with my own hard-earned money after my divorce from my first husband.
“Mom, calm down,” Sergey mumbled, but his voice sounded unsure. He knew the truth, but preferred to keep quiet.
Valentina Petrovna moved in with us three months ago. She had sold her own apartment to help Sergey “start a new business.” In reality, the money disappeared into thin air, and my mother-in-law ended up homeless. Sergey, my second husband, suggested she stay with us “temporarily.” I agreed, thinking, well, I can put up with this for a month or two.
But Valentina Petrovna decided this was her territory forever. She started managing my belongings, criticizing my cooking, meddling in my business. And Sergey just shrugged, saying, “Mom’s getting older, we have to put up with it.”
I wasn’t planning to just put up with it.
“Listen to me carefully,” I said calmly, setting down my cup of tea. “This apartment belongs to me. I bought it five years ago when I was still married to Andrey. After the divorce, he gave up any claim on our property. The paperwork is all in my name.”
Valentina Petrovna froze. Her eyes widened in surprise.
“What are you talking about?” she hissed. “This is family property! Sergey is in charge here!”
“No,” I shook my head. “The one in charge here is the one who pays the mortgage. And that’s me. Sergey only works part-time—his salary is just enough for pocket money.”
Sergey lowered his head. He hated this conversation, but the truth was on my side.
“Are you saying we’re living off you?” Valentina Petrovna’s voice trembled with outrage.
“I’m saying that you are living in my apartment for free,” I clarified. “And if you don’t appreciate my hospitality, you can move out.”
Silence fell. You could hear nothing but the ticking of the clock on the wall.
“You can’t kick us out!” my mother-in-law finally exclaimed. “We’re family!”
“Family?” I repeated. “Family means respecting one another. Not shouting or insulting. And definitely not treating someone else’s property as your own.”
Valentina Petrovna dropped onto the couch as if her legs could no longer hold her up. Sergey stood by, pale and confused.
“So what do you suggest?” he asked quietly.
“I suggest you find another place to live,” I answered. “You have a month. That should be enough time to rent an apartment or buy your own if you can find the money.”

“But we don’t have any money!” Valentina Petrovna cried out. “You know I sold my apartment!”
“Yes, I know,” I nodded. “And I’m sorry you made such a rash decision. But that’s not my problem.”
The next few weeks were tense. Valentina Petrovna tried to play on my sympathy, telling the neighbors what a heartless woman I was. Sergey was gloomy, avoiding conversations. But I stood my ground.
On the twentieth day, the real estate agent I had hired in advance arrived. She showed several rental apartment options. Valentina Petrovna chose the cheapest one-bedroom place on the edge of the city.
“This is awful!” she lamented. “There’s not even a balcony!”
“But at least it has a roof over your head,” I pointed out. “And it’s better than living in someone else’s apartment where you’re not wanted.”
The move happened quickly. Valentina Petrovna packed her things in a hurry, shooting me sideways glances. Sergey helped her silently, avoiding my gaze.
After they left, the apartment was quiet and peaceful. I sat on the couch and let out a sigh of relief. Finally—freedom.
A week later, Sergey called.
“Mom’s sick,” he said. “Her blood pressure’s up. Maybe you could come over?”
“No,” I replied. “Let her call an ambulance. Or ask the neighbors. I’m not a nursemaid anymore.”
He was silent for a moment, then quietly said:
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” I asked.
“For everything. For letting Mom behave that way. For not standing up for you.”
“It’s too late for apologies, Sergey,” I said. “But thank you for admitting your mistake.”
We hung up. I knew our marriage was coming to an end. Too much had built up: betrayal, disrespect, my husband’s weakness. But now I was ready for it. I had my own apartment, my own job, my own life.
Valentina Petrovna never called again. Sometimes I saw her at the store, but she’d turn away, pretending not to notice me. Maybe she was ashamed—or maybe just angry.
I didn’t care either way.
Six months passed. I sold my apartment and bought another, bigger one with a view of the park. Now it was just me and my cat, Murka. No mothers-in-law, no shouting, no tension.
Sometimes I remembered that day when Valentina Petrovna screamed at me in my own place. And I always smiled. Because that’s when I realized the most important thing: no one has the right to control your life unless you let them.
Life taught me to be strong. After my first marriage, where my husband beat me and controlled my every move, I swore I’d never let anyone humiliate me again. And I kept that promise.
Now I’m free. And happy.
And Valentina Petrovna? They say she still lives in that tiny apartment on the outskirts, complaining to everyone about her “ungrateful daughter-in-law.” But who listens to her now? People have long realized—if you want respect, start with yourself.

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My wife is staying over there. With your husband. I came by yesterday and saw them leaving your building together. “My wife has been staying over with your husband. I saw them leaving your building together yesterday,” the stranger said, standing in the doorway holding shoe covers but not putting them on, even though the nurse had pointed to the sign by the door twice already. Marina adjusted her hospital gown tie. Faint cries from her newborn daughter drifted in from the ward—she’d just fed her less than thirty minutes ago, and her chest already felt heavy at the thought of another feed. Marina wanted this baffling conversation to end as quickly as possible. “Are you talking about Anton?” she asked, recognizing the man from a work party photo of her husband. “Did he do something wrong?” “My name is Sergei. We work on the same crew,” he replied, finally pulling on the shoe cover only to tear it in the process, ending up with a strip of blue plastic in his hand. “My wife is at your place right now.” Marina waited, thinking maybe the woman had brought something for the baby or was helping to tidy up for Marina’s return home. But Anton hadn’t mentioned any such help. Sergei looked up. “She’s staying with your husband. I saw them together yesterday, leaving your building.” A nurse with a metal tray walked past the glass door. Marina’s gaze followed her until the white coat disappeared around the corner. She didn’t want to look at Sergei—it would mean admitting she’d heard every word. “I had a daughter two days ago,” Marina said quietly, as if he might mistake her for someone else. “I know. That’s why…” Sergei trailed off, crumpling the ruined shoe covers. “I don’t even know why I came. I have three kids at home. My oldest keeps asking where his mom is, and I keep lying, saying she’s at Grandma’s.” He worked away from home a lot—the last six months he’d been building a factory and returned just two weeks ago. His wife, Vika, hadn’t seemed happy to see him. She’d announced she was pregnant but dodged questions. Soon, she claimed to be helping a friend. Sergei had found text messages on her phone. He named Marina’s street, her building’s number, and the floor. There was no other explanation left for Marina. “She wrote to him that she missed him,” Sergei went on, still seeking some kind of help from Marina. “And he told her to come stay while you were in the hospital. I almost went there myself. Got all the way to the door. But then I thought, what would I do? I have kids. You have kids…” Marina leaned against the wall, feeling the cool paint under her hand, staring at a dark streak—probably left by the wheels of a stretcher. Oddly enough, it was this black line she focused on as Sergei spoke. Anton had been twenty-two when they married, she’d been eighteen. He’d held her hand so tightly on their wedding day her fingers showed red marks by evening—she’d teased him, saying he must have been afraid she’d run off. They’d moved into her grandmother’s old two-room flat, with battered parquet floors, a glassed-in balcony, and a hand-built kitchen cabinet. Marina still didn’t truly think of it as hers—as if her grandmother had just stepped away and left her the key for a while. A year later, Yegor was born. Anton worked as a technician—long hours, devoted to supporting the family, or so he always said. When their son cried at night, Anton slept on the kitchen sofa. When the boy had a fever, Anton snapped at Marina for not calling the doctor during the day. She never thought he was a bad father—just not good with babies. Once Yegor was older, surely he and his dad would build models or fish together. As it turned out, Yegor learned to sneak past his sleeping father without a sound. Anton started talking about wanting a daughter when Yegor turned three. “I want a little princess,” he’d said, examining tiny pink sneakers in a shop and smiling in a way Marina would always remember. The second pregnancy was tough; she spent long stretches in the hospital for bed rest, returning home only for laundry, cooking, and caring for Yegor. Anton often complained of being tired and more frequently came home smelling of beer. Marina tried to spare him extra requests—after all, he was the breadwinner. Before the delivery, Marina’s parents took Yegor—Anton’s idea. “I can’t handle it with work and all,” he’d explained, packing the boy’s toys without even noticing how tightly the child hugged his truck. Now, Sergei stood across from Marina, hoping they’d figure something out together. “Show me the messages,” Marina said, pushing off from the wall. Sergei handed her his phone. The screenshot showed their familiar table, the edge of her green tablecloth, and a woman’s hand holding Marina’s grandmother’s cup—the one she’d always forbidden anyone else to use, since its fine porcelain had cracked by the handle long ago. Below the photo, Anton’s message: “Are you playing house already?” Marina handed the phone back. “Send it to me. Right now, I need you to leave—I have to get to my daughter.” Sergei mumbled apologies, but Marina was already heading down the corridor, steadying herself against the wall. In the ward, her roommate was rocking the clear bassinet. “She woke up. I was about to call you,” the woman said anxiously. “Are you okay?” Marina sat on the bed and picked up her daughter, who squirmed and wrinkled her nose, rooting for milk. Just that morning, Marina had been cycling through name choices and worrying Anton wouldn’t like “Sonya.” Now, she looked at the dark wisps of hair on her baby’s forehead and couldn’t even bring herself to undo a button. “Could you please get the nurse? And stay here with me until she comes?” she asked her roommate. All day, Marina kept picking up her phone, finding Anton’s number, then putting it away. She longed to hear him scoff, “Are you crazy?” She wanted him to be angry, to rush over, to prove it all some bizarre mistake. She’d even imagined how it could happen—Sergei had the wrong woman, the texts were faked, the photo was old… To be continued in the first comment below “Please, don’t be alarmed. I’m not here to cause trouble,” said the unfamiliar man, holding a pair of shoe covers in his hands but oddly not putting them on, even though the nurse had pointed to the sign by the door twice already. Marina adjusted the belt of her hospital gown. A soft cry came from the room: her daughter had woken up and she had fed her less than half an hour ago. Her breasts immediately felt heavy, and Marina just wanted to wrap up this bewildering conversation as soon as possible. “Are you here about Anton?” She recognized the man from a photo taken at her husband’s office party. “Did he do something wrong?” “My name is Sergey. We work on the same site,” the man replied, finally pulling the shoe cover on, tearing it in the process, and stood there holding a scrap of blue in his hand. “My wife is at your place right now.” Marina waited for him to go on. Maybe his wife had brought something for the baby. Maybe she was helping get the apartment ready for discharge. Even though Anton hadn’t mentioned any help. Sergey looked up. “She’s spending the night there. With your husband. I came by yesterday and saw them leaving your building together.” A nurse walked past the glass doors carrying a metal tray. Marina watched her until the white coat disappeared around the corner. It felt like if she looked at Sergey now, she’d be forced to admit that she’d heard it all. “My daughter was born day before yesterday,” Marina said softly, as if the man might mistake her for someone else. “I know. That’s why I…” He hesitated, crumpling the shoe covers in his hand. “I don’t even know why I came. I have three kids at home. My oldest keeps asking where their mom is, and I lie, saying she’s at Grandma’s.” He worked on rotation, spending the last six months building a factory. He returned two weeks ago. His wife Vika greeted him without joy, quickly announced she was pregnant, and avoided talking about the timing. Then she left, supposedly to help a friend. Sergey found messages on her phone. He listed the street, building number, and floor. Marina stopped searching for any other explanation. “She wrote to him that she missed him,” Sergey continued, still hoping Marina might be able to help somehow. “And he told her to come over while the apartment was free. At first, I thought about going there. I even made it to the door. But then I wondered—what could I do? I’ve got kids, you have kids…” Marina leaned against the wall. The cool paint met her palm, and near the floor she noticed a black line from the wheels of a gurney. For some reason, her eyes followed that smudge while Sergey kept talking. Anton was twenty-two when they got married. She was eighteen. At their wedding, he held her hand so tightly that, by the evening, her fingers were marked with red lines. Marina laughed then—he was probably afraid she’d run away. They moved into her grandmother’s apartment. A small two-bedroom place, old parquet floors, a glazed-in balcony, a built-in kitchen cabinet that her grandfather had made himself. Marina still hadn’t gotten used to thinking of it as hers. It always seemed like her grandma had just gone away for a while and simply left the keys. A year later, Yegor was born. Anton worked as a technician on the production line, often staying late and always offering the same explanation: he was providing for the family. When their son cried at night, her husband would move to sleep on the kitchen couch. When the boy ran a fever, he irritably asked why Marina hadn’t called the doctor during the day. She didn’t think he was a bad father. Marina thought maybe he just didn’t know how to handle a little one. She believed that when Yegor grew up, they would assemble building sets and go fishing together. But when their son grew older, he learned to sneak around his sleeping father so he wouldn’t disturb him. Anton expressed a desire for a daughter when Yegor turned three. “I want to have a little princess,” he said as he gazed at tiny pink sneakers in the store, smiling in a way that made Marina remember every detail of that evening. The second pregnancy was difficult for her. She spent long stretches on bed rest, and as soon as she returned home, she would jump right into laundry, cooking, and caring for her son. Her husband complained constantly about being tired, and more often came home smelling of beer. Marina tried not to ask him for too much—after all, he was the sole breadwinner. Before giving birth, Marina’s parents took Yegor in. It was Anton’s idea. “I just can’t handle having him here right now. Work is a mess,” her husband said as he packed up Yegor’s toy cars, not even glancing at the boy clutching his favorite truck. Now Sergey stood in front of her, expecting them to make a decision together. “Show me the messages,” Marina said as she pulled her hand away from the wall. He handed her the phone. On the screen was a familiar table, the edge of her green tablecloth, and a woman’s hand holding a cup—a cup from her grandmother’s set, the one Marina never let anyone use because the delicate porcelain was cracked near the handle. Under the photo, Anton had written: “Already making yourself at home?” Marina handed the phone back. “Send that to me. And please leave now. I need to go see my daughter.” Sergey started to apologize, but Marina was already walking down the hall, steadying herself with a hand on the wall. In the room, her neighbor was gently rocking a transparent crib. “Your little one is awake. I was about to call you,” the woman said, looking at Marina with concern. “Are you feeling okay?” Marina sat on the bed and took her daughter in her arms. The baby wrinkled her nose in protest and reached toward her mother’s chest with her mouth open. Just this morning, Marina had been going over baby names, worrying Anton wouldn’t like “Sonya.” Now, as she looked at the dark hair above her daughter’s forehead, she couldn’t bring herself to unbutton her blouse. “Could you please call a nurse?” she asked her neighbor. “And stay with me until she comes.” All evening Marina kept picking up her phone, opening her husband’s number, and then putting it down again. She wanted to hear him scold her, “Are you out of your mind?” She wanted Anton to get angry, to show up and give her some simple proof that this was just an absurd misunderstanding. She even came up with possible scenarios: Sergey had confused her with another woman, the messages were faked, the photo was old. But then, once again, she’d see that unfamiliar hand next to her grandmother’s cup on the screen. Marina barely slept that night. After feeding Sonya, when her daughter finally drifted off, she called her mother. “Mom, can you come alone tomorrow?” Marina whispered so she wouldn’t wake her roommates. “I need to talk to you about something. Just please don’t tell Dad right away.” Mom arrived in the morning. She listened quietly, sitting next to me on the narrow bed, then put the apples she brought back into her bag, as if they suddenly felt out of place. “You’ll come stay with us for now,” she offered, glancing at her granddaughter. But Marina shook her head. “I just want to go back to my own place. I can’t live at your place and keep thinking everything is still there.” Her mom didn’t argue. She only asked Marina not to be alone with Anton if their conversation turned sour. On discharge day, her husband arrived with white roses. He was wearing the shirt Marina had ironed before going into the hospital. Her mother-in-law hovered nearby, Marina’s father held a bag with a baby blanket. Yegor jumped up and down by the bench, trying to peek into the bundle. “Come on, let’s see the little beauty!” Anton leaned in toward his daughter and smiled for the photographer. “She looks just like me, doesn’t she?” Marina looked at his cheek, so close to hers. He smelled of the familiar cologne. Just a week ago, she would have scooted closer. Now she had to be careful not to pull away too obviously. At home, her mother-in-law started setting out pies on the table. Her father tightened a loose handle on the baby’s crib. Yegor showed his sister a drawing of a house: Mom in one window, Dad in the other, himself between them, and above the roof, a girl with long yellow hair. Marina found the strength to praise the picture and asked her mom to help change Sonya’s clothes. Anton went out on the balcony to make a phone call. Everything in the bathroom was spotless. Towels hung neatly, and the washing machine was free of the usual pile of men’s socks. This careful tidiness felt more unsettling than any mess. Marina opened the drawer under the sink. Among the spare sponges was a black hair tie with a metal clasp. She didn’t have anything like it; she always used soft fabric ones—other kinds gave her headaches. Behind the bucket under the bathtub, she found a small bottle of perfume. She put it back where it was, stood for a moment listening to the voices outside the door, then walked to the bedroom. Anton had already changed the bedsheets. The clean set had been put on carelessly: on her side, the sheet didn’t quite reach the edge of the mattress. Marina dropped to her knees to fix it and noticed some gray fabric by the wall. A thin women’s slip had its strap caught on the bed frame. Marina pulled it out with two fingers. There was lace along the edge, and a paper size tag still hung from the label. It was clear the item had been bought recently. The door creaked open behind her. “What are you looking for?” Anton stood in the doorway, slipping his phone into his pocket. Marina managed to put the slip on the chair and cover it with a blanket. “A diaper fell. Did you see any small, white ones?” She straightened up, feeling a tightness in her stomach. “Ask my mom. She just rearranged everything in here.” He was already turning to leave. “I’ll be out for a bit tonight. Just need to finish something at work.” Marina glanced at the clock. They’d only been home for forty minutes. After their guests left, her mom stayed to help bathe Sonya. Anton hurried her, insisting they could handle it themselves. Marina noticed his impatience and suddenly realized: he was just waiting for the apartment to be empty again. “Mom, can you take Yegor today?” she asked, buttoning up her daughter’s clean onesie. “I’ll come get him tomorrow.” Her son was upset. He wanted to stay with his sister. Marina crouched in front of him, though it was hard for her, and smoothed the messy hair on the back of his head. “I need a little rest after the hospital. And in the morning, you can show Grandpa how your truck’s bed opens.” Yegor agreed, but insisted that his drawing be hung over the crib. Marina taped it to the wall. When her mother closed the door behind her, Anton started looking for the car keys. “Wait. We need to talk.” Marina pulled a gray item from under the cover and set it on the table. Her husband looked at her, and then at the item on the table. “And where’s that from?” His voice sounded irritated, as if she’d left dirty dishes in the middle of the room. “It was under our bed. Sergey came to see me at the hospital. I saw the messages.” Anton stopped flicking through the keys. Marina expected him to at least look away. But instead, he walked to the table and pushed the item aside with obvious distaste. “That’s who you choose to listen to? He drove his own wife away and now he’s running around complaining.” Marina stood near the crib. Sonya was sleeping, her head turned to the window, and her lips moved now and then as she dreamed. Anton, on the other hand, couldn’t keep still. He went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, closed it, then came back and paused in the doorway. “How long has this been going on?” Marina tried to keep her voice calm. “What exactly?” He tried to smirk, but she didn’t play along with his usual trick. “You brought her here. While I was in the hospital, terrified of losing our daughter.” Anton rubbed the bridge of his nose. He always did that when he was tired of the conversation. “I didn’t want you to find out like this. It’s complicated.” Marina looked at her husband, the man she’d spent almost five years with. She noticed the familiar dimple on his chin, the pale strip of skin beneath his watch. She knew how he looked when he was sick, how he frowned before payday, how he laughed when he was truly happy. The person standing before her was still that same man, and that made it all the more frightening. “Is she pregnant by you?” Marina asked, clinging to the question she’d had since Sergey’s visit. “We’re going to be together.” Anton said it quickly, like a rehearsed line. “I love her.” The steady hum of the fridge came from the kitchen. Upstairs, a neighbor was dragging a heavy chair across the floor. Marina thought she would cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. “What about me?” She finally voiced the humiliating question. “Did you ever love me?” Anton looked out the window. “You made everything revolve around the kids. There’s nothing to talk about with you. It’s always daycare, or medicine, or not enough money. I’m twenty-six and I already feel like I’m living like an old man.” Marina instinctively adjusted her daughter’s blanket. “Yegor is four. Sonya is five days old. What exactly am I supposed to talk to you about right now?” “See? There you go again!” He threw up his hand and then quickly lowered it, glancing at the crib. “I’m talking about us, and you’re still talking about them. You had all these kids, and now I’m supposed to pay for it all my life.” She slowly turned to face him. Anton saw her face and looked away, but he didn’t stop. — I never even wanted a second child. This was all your idea. Our normal life is gone. Marina remembered the pink sneakers. How he held them in his hand and showed them to the saleswoman. How, at home, he would put his ear to her belly and promise to buy their daughter a giant stuffed bear. She could have reminded him of all this. Given the dates, repeated his words. But then she realized there was nothing to prove: he remembered just as well as she did. — Pack your things. — Marina walked over to the closet and pulled his sports bag down from the top shelf. Anton was caught off guard. — Right now? You just got home from the hospital. Who’s going to help you? Marina placed the bag on the couch. — My mom is coming today. I’ll call her. He started talking about how she was overreacting, that adults don’t act like this, that they needed to calmly decide what to do next. Meanwhile, he was taking shirts out of the closet and folding them into the bag. He didn’t go over to his daughter once. He hesitated at the door. — What will Egor think? — Now there was almost a hint of reproach in his voice. Marina reached out her hand for the keys. — I don’t know how to explain it to him. But you’re not staying here anymore. He left the keys on the nightstand. Took his charger, came back for his work jacket, checked his pockets. Everything felt painfully routine. When the door closed, Marina called her mother, and could only say one thing: — Please come over. Her mother found her on the floor by the couch. Sonya was lying in Marina’s arms while Marina gently stroked the edge of the baby blanket, the same motion over and over. In the weeks that followed, she learned to live in small increments. Feed her daughter. Wash up. Take Egor to kindergarten. Eat soup before her mom left. Not watch at night to see if her husband was online. Her mother-in-law called almost every day. — Men do silly things sometimes, but it’s a woman’s job to keep the family together. — She spoke softly, as if coaxing Marina to put on a hat. — You shouldn’t rush into a divorce. One day, Marina couldn’t take it anymore. — When he was planning to go to another woman, did you tell him not to rush either? — She stood over the sink with an unwashed baby bottle, listening to her mother-in-law breathing heavily on the phone. After that, the calls became less frequent. A friend of her mother helped Marina with the divorce. Anton didn’t object: by then, he was living with Vika. Sergey had tried to keep his marriage, but eventually split up with his wife. Marina heard these updates in fragments, and every time, it ruined her evening. It was much harder answering Egor’s questions. — Is Dad just going to be a visitor now? — Egor asked this after Anton brought him a set of toy cars for the first time in a while, and then started getting ready to leave after half an hour. Marina sat down on the carpet next to him. — Dad will live separately now. But you can still see him. Egor spun the little fire truck in his hands for a long time. — And what if I ask him to stay? Would he stay? — The boy looked at the door where his father had just disappeared. Marina pulled her son close. She desperately wanted to promise him something good, but she couldn’t make any more promises for Anton. A year after the divorce, life was slowly getting back on track. Marina was taking on freelance accounting work from the company where she’d worked before her maternity leave, and her mother was watching Sonya for a few hours a week. Egor had finally stopped jumping at every knock on the door. That’s when Marina got a call from an unfamiliar woman. “My name is Olesya. I know this may sound strange…” The woman spoke slowly, clearly gathering her courage. “I have a daughter by Anton. She’s eight years old. I’d like to meet you.” Marina didn’t say yes right away. All evening, it felt like Anton had walked back into her apartment, bringing with him an unfamiliar life she would now have to somehow piece together. Eight years old. She counted several times. The girl was born even before their wedding. So when Anton was standing next to her by the kid’s sneakers in the store, he already had a daughter. She and Olesya agreed to meet during the day while Sonya slept under her grandmother’s watchful eye. They picked a café near the park. Marina arrived early and took a seat facing the entrance. Olesya turned out to be a petite woman with short-cropped hair. She took her time unwrapping her scarf, then pulled out her phone. “This is Dasha.” She angled the screen toward Marina. The photo showed a girl in a school pinafore, holding a striped cat. “I’m not here for money. And I’m not asking you to influence him.” Marina studied the girl’s face—a familiar shape to the eyes, a dimple in the chin. “Did he know?” Marina looked up at Olesya. “He knew from the very beginning. We didn’t date long. When I got pregnant, he decided the child couldn’t be his. He wouldn’t even listen.” Olesya put her phone away, then laid it back on the table almost instantly. “I was younger, afraid of courts, of gossip. My parents helped. Eventually, I established paternity. He transfers money, but he’s never once seen Dasha.” Marina remembered how, before the wedding, Anton was upset about some deductions from his salary. He’d explained that he was paying off some old debt from a car accident. She’d even suggested they postpone buying the washing machine at the time. “Why did you reach out to me now?” By now, Marina wasn’t angry with the stranger, but a deep fatigue settled in as though they’d been talking for hours. Olesya ran her finger along the edge of the paper napkin. “Dasha started asking about her dad. She found his social media page, saw photos of Egor. Then I happened to meet an acquaintance of yours—she gave me your number. I just thought… our kids share the same father. Maybe someday they’ll want to know each other. But I won’t do anything without your permission.” Marina glanced out the window. A man was walking along the path with a girl perched on his shoulders. She held on to his forehead and swung her legs. “I don’t know what’s right,” Marina admitted. “Egor still hopes his dad will come back. I’m afraid to give him even more questions to carry.” Olesya cast her gaze down. “I understand. For now, let’s just keep in touch. There’s no rush for the kids.” They didn’t become friends after just one meeting. Marina didn’t feel relief or some instant connection. But that evening, she saved Olesya’s number, and kept Dasha’s photo open for a long time. A few weeks later, Sergey called. Since their conversation at the maternity hospital, they’d only spoken a couple of times—and always for practical reasons. “You’ve probably already heard about Anton?” Sergei spoke without his usual confusion. “He and Vika have split up. He took a test. The child isn’t his.” Marina sat down on the edge of the chair. “And yours?” she asked gently, realizing she was once again touching on someone else’s pain. “Not mine either. We checked separately.” Sergei paused. “I’m not calling to gloat. Anton was asking me how you’re doing. Just thought you should know.” After the call, Marina sat in the kitchen for a long time. She felt like she should feel something—triumph, satisfaction, maybe even anger. Instead, her thoughts were with Vika’s little child, the one causing all the adults to figure out who owes what to whom. Anton came over on Saturday, when Marina’s mother had taken the kids out for a walk. Marina let him in. He looked around, his gaze lingering on the new dresser and the little children’s sandals by the wall. “It’s cozy here,” Anton said, setting a bag on the table and unzipping his jacket. “You’re here for Egor? He’s out walking with Grandma, he’ll be back in about forty minutes.” Marina remained standing, which made Anton hesitate to take off his coat. “I’m here for you too. We need to talk.” She already knew what he was going to ask, but still felt the familiar tension. She had imagined this conversation so many times, feeding Sonya at night. Sometimes she’d scream in her mind, sometimes stay silent, and sometimes he’d ask for forgiveness so sincerely, she actually wanted to believe him. Now Anton was standing beside her, fidgeting with a plastic bag handle. “I made a huge mistake. With Vika, everything turned out…” He paused, searching for words. “She lied to me so much. I raised a child, only to find out he wasn’t mine.” Marina looked at him silently. “Now I finally understand what I lost. We had a family. Kids. We could try again. I want to be a father.” Footsteps echoed from the stairs. Anton glanced at the door, probably expecting Egor. “Do you remember Sonya’s birthday?” Marina asked, her voice calm, almost gentle. “Of course I remember. In April.” Anton frowned. “Marina, why are you quizzing me now? I came here with good intentions.” Suddenly she felt drained—by his resentment, by the expectation that she would make the conversation easier for him, or supply the right words. “You have a daughter, Dasha. She’s eight. I’ve met Olesya.” Anton took his hand off the bag. “Why did she come to you?” His voice flared with old anger. “All these years and she still can’t let it go.” Marina felt something release inside her, something that had been clenching ever since Sergei’s call. She’d still been afraid—what if Anton had truly changed and she couldn’t let go of the pain, ending up depriving the children of their father? Right now, she was facing a man who was once again blaming a woman with a child for getting in his way. “She’s raising your daughter,” Marina said quietly. “And she never asked me for anything.” Anton ran his hand through his hair. “Let’s leave the past where it is. We’ve got enough problems of our own. You loved me.” Marina looked at his face. She had loved him so much that she excused every absence, tiptoed around his sleep, rejoiced when he bought toy cars for their son—even though Egor always wanted something else. But now, she didn’t want to touch her husband. She didn’t even want to keep him there another minute. — You won’t be coming back, Anton. You can see the kids, come visit them, just make sure to arrange it in advance. He looked at her as if she hadn’t understood what he was suggesting. — Just think about it. For Yegor and Sonya’s sake. Marina opened the door. — I am thinking about them. And about myself, too. Anton lingered in the doorway, then left. The fruit was left behind on the nightstand. Half an hour later the kids returned. Sonya had lost a mitten, Yegor brought in a branch with three dry leaves, insisting it was a tree for his school craft project. Their grandmother was complaining about the broken elevator while unzipping her granddaughter’s snowsuit. Marina helped them take off their coats, put the kettle on, and took apples out of the bag. — Did dad come by? — Yegor noticed the familiar car out the window as they were coming home. — He did. He wanted to talk with me. — Marina washed an apple and handed it to her son. — You can call him in the evening if you want, to arrange a time to go for a walk. Yegor thought for a moment, then set his branch further from the edge of the table so Sonya couldn’t reach it. While their grandmother poured the tea, Marina took an old drawing off the fridge—it was coming unstuck at one corner. The paper had yellowed, and the girl’s yellow hair had faded in the sun. She smoothed out the sheet and pinned it back up with a new magnet. Later that evening, after the kids had fallen asleep, a message popped up from Olesya. In the photo, Dasha was holding the same striped cat, but now it was wearing a little doll’s hat. Marina smiled and typed: “We’re planning to go to the park on Sunday. If you want, come join us. Let’s just take a walk.” She then put down her phone and went to tuck Yegor in. He had kicked off his blanket again, and next to his pillow was a little fire truck. Marina placed it on the nightstand so her son could sleep more comfortably, and lingered by his bed for a moment. From the next room, her daughter’s sleepy voice called out. Marina gently closed the door and went to her.

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