Part 1. The Cold Threshold
“While you were in labor, I decided we should get divorced. So don’t even take off your coat—I’ve already packed your things. Get out,” Igor said to his stunned wife.
Izolda went rigid. In one hand she carried a heavy bag from the maternity ward; in the other, a precious bundle wrapped in a puffy pink blanket. Their baby girl slept, unaware that her first trip home would end in catastrophe. The sterile smell of hospital corridors—chlorine and medicine—still clung to Izolda, but here, in the entryway of their rented apartment, the air smelled of Igor: his cologne, the leather of his new jacket, and the rancid aftertaste of betrayal.
Igor stood with one shoulder braced against the living-room doorframe, staring at her not like the woman who had just given him a child, but like an annoying obstacle—an unwanted delivery he’d decided not to accept.
“What did you say?” Izolda asked again. Her voice was quiet, scraped raw by stress and exhaustion.
“What you heard. I’m not ready. I realized it a month ago, but I didn’t want to upset you before the birth. Noble of me, right?” He smirked, though his eyes stayed cold—hard as nails. “I’m not living with you and listening to a baby cry. You and I, Izolda, are different people. Your nesting instinct suffocates me.”
Izolda slowly lowered the bag to the floor. She searched his face for the man she had married two years earlier. He was gone. In his place stood this polished, self-important senior clerk from a building-supplies showroom—sure of his own superiority.
“You’re throwing us out? Right now?” Usually women in that moment beg and sob. But Izolda felt something else: the storm of hormones in her blood condensing into a clean, concentrated anger.
“Stop being dramatic,” Igor said with a wince, fixing his perfectly styled hair. “I’m not an animal. I rented an apartment for you. A one-bedroom near the old factory district. Paid three months in advance. The keys are there on the entry table. The address too. I moved your things and the baby’s stuff yesterday. So you’ve got nothing to do here.”
“Three months…” she repeated, tasting the words. Bitter.
“Yes. Consider it my buyout. I’ll send money for the baby, but don’t expect to live like a queen. I have to live too, and you—being a merchandiser—should know how to balance income and expenses. That’s it, Iza. A taxi’s waiting downstairs. I paid for that as well. See how caring I am?”
Izolda looked at the keys on the little table—one lonely ring with a cheap keychain. She glanced at the closed bedroom door where they had once been happy, then back at Igor. He was waiting for tears. Waiting for hysterics. Ready for a screaming match.
But Izolda didn’t cry.
She straightened as much as her aching back allowed. In her eyes—usually soft and brown—something sharp and ferocious flared.
“Fine,” she said evenly.
Igor’s smile slipped. He blinked.
“What do you mean, ‘fine’?”
“It’s good you did it now,” she said. “It would’ve been worse if I’d wasted even one more day of my life on you.” She picked up the keys and slid them into her coat pocket. “You think you’ve solved your problem, Igor? You think three months’ rent in a slum buys you a clean escape?”
“It’s not a slum—it’s economy-class—” he began.
“Don’t interrupt me,” she cut in, her voice snapping like a slap. “Remember this moment. You’re standing at the peak of your arrogance. The fall is going to hurt.”
She grabbed the bag, not allowing him to pretend to help, turned, and walked out into the stairwell. Igor stayed in the hallway, a strange unease crawling under his skin.
Part 2. Shadows on the Wallpaper
“Bare-bones” was far too kind for the place Igor had exiled his family to. The one-room apartment greeted them with the smell of dust. The furniture looked like it had been collected from every dumpster in the neighborhood: a crushed sofa, a lopsided table, and a wardrobe whose door squealed pitifully every time it moved.
Izolda sat on the sofa, feeding little Alisa and taking stock of her new “possessions.” The floral wallpaper peeled in places, exposing gray concrete. Cold air crept in through the window.
“It’s alright, sweetheart,” she whispered, staring at the tiny face. “This is temporary. This is the bottom we’ll push off from.”
The first week blurred into fog: sleepless nights, colic, endless laundry in an old machine that roared like a jet engine. Izolda didn’t cry. Tears were water, and water was needed for milk. She forbade herself from pity. She kept seeing Igor’s smug grin, and the memory gave her the strength to rise at three in the morning.
One rainy Tuesday, the doorbell rang. Izolda startled—she wasn’t expecting anyone. Igor had made it clear there would be no visits. He’d transferred a pathetic sum with the note “For diapers,” and then vanished.
On the doorstep stood Galina Petrovna, Igor’s mother. She looked shaken. In her hands she held a large cake and a bag of gifts.
“Izolda?” her mother-in-law said, scanning the battered corridor, the dim bulb on the ceiling, the narrow space where the stroller stood. “I… I called Igor. He said you moved, but I thought… I thought it would be somewhere else. Where is Igor?”
Izolda gave a crooked half-smile and let her in.
“Come in, Galina Petrovna. Don’t take your shoes off—the floor’s freezing and there’s no rug. And Igor isn’t here. And he won’t be.”
“What do you mean he won’t? Is he at work?”
Izolda laid the sleeping Alisa in the crib—the only new item in the apartment—and turned back.
“Igor kicked us out. The moment I came home from the hospital. Said he wanted a divorce. He rented us these ‘chambers’ for three months and told us to keep our heads down.”
Galina Petrovna went white. She lowered herself onto the edge of the crushed sofa, still holding the cake as if it were a shield.
“Is this some kind of joke? He told me you chose to live separately because they started renovations at the old apartment… He said he rented you a luxury place…”
“Look around,” Izolda said, spreading her arms. “Does this look like luxury? He got rid of us. Said a baby crying ruins his life.”
Her mother-in-law set the cake on the table. She looked at her granddaughter, then at her daughter-in-law. Horror filled her eyes. She knew her son was selfish—she’d raised him that way, indulging him—but this… this crossed every line.
“My God,” she whispered. “How could he… Wait, I have money…”
She fumbled in her bag, pulled out her wallet, and took out every bill. Five-thousand-ruble notes fanned across the worn oilcloth.
“Take it. Please. I… I’ll talk to him. This is insanity.”
“Don’t talk to him,” Izolda said, her voice like steel. “I’ll take the money. Alisa needs massages, and proper formula if my milk dries up. But don’t think that changes what he did.”
“I understand,” Galina Petrovna sniffed. “I’ll come again. May I?”
“Come for your granddaughter,” Izolda said sharply.
When her mother-in-law left, Izolda carefully gathered the cash. She didn’t feel humiliated. It was a resource—fuel for her plan.
She took out her laptop and opened the file she’d been working on at night while Alisa slept. Izolda hadn’t been one of the best merchandisers in the city for nothing before maternity leave. She knew how to see systems, flows, and weak spots. And now she was drafting the business plan for her new life—one where Igor had a very particular place.
A place in the corner.
Part 3. The Smell of Sawdust
The “Monolit” building-supplies showroom gleamed with spotless displays and the scent of fresh-cut wood. Igor strode through the sales floor like he owned the place. He was only a senior administrator, yet he carried himself as if the entire chain belonged to him.
“Sergey!” he barked at a young trainee. “Why are the laminate price tags hanging crooked? Fix it. Immediately!”
He loved the power. Loved that people feared him.
Life was settling nicely. A month and a half had passed since he’d “dumped the ballast.” The apartment was quiet and clean, and nobody demanded his attention. He had more money—what he tossed Izolda was a joke. The real spending went on himself: cafés, new clothes, billiards with friends.
That evening he stopped by his mother’s. Galina Petrovna greeted him dryly, without the usual hugs and fussing over whether her “boy” was hungry.
“Hi, Mom,” Igor dropped into a chair, stretching out his legs. “Anything to eat? I’m dead tired. Customers are getting stupider by the day—unbelievable.”
Without a word, she placed a bowl of soup in front of him. She didn’t sit beside him like she usually did to watch him eat. She stood by the window, staring out at the street.
“You went to see them?” Igor asked with his mouth full, not even saying names.
“I did,” she answered shortly.
“And? How is it? Bet she turned the place into a mess. Izolda never knew how to keep things proper the way you do.”
“It’s clean, Igor. Poor, but clean. Alisa’s grown. She smiles.”
Igor grimaced.
“Don’t start. I sent money this week. She should be grateful I help at all. Another man would’ve told her to get lost. I’m thinking of you, by the way—so you can see your granddaughter and not drag everyone through court.”
“Thinking of me?” Galina Petrovna turned. Tears stood in her eyes, but Igor didn’t notice; he was busy with his cutlet. “If you were thinking, you wouldn’t have done something that vile.”
“It’s not vile, it’s rational!” Igor snapped. “Mom, don’t be a hypocrite. I don’t love her. Why suffer? I freed her for a new life.”
“You freed her from a home and a way to live,” his mother said quietly. “Fine. Eat. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Igor finished, a vague irritation simmering. His mother had always been on his side—always. Now this silent reproach. Whatever, he thought. She’ll grumble and calm down. The important thing was his comfort. By summer he planned to buy a car—his own, a good one, not some credit-bought wreck.
“By the way, Mom,” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “I’ve been thinking. Rent is eating my money. Maybe I move in with you in a month or so? Dad’s room is empty anyway. I’ll save cash, help you with repairs.”
“We’ll see, Igor,” she said. “We’ll see.”
He didn’t hear the refusal hidden in her tone and took it for agreement. He left whistling. Everything was going according to plan.
Part 4. Two Fortresses
Three months passed. Sunlight flooded a spacious kitchen in a two-bedroom apartment in a newer district. The place smelled of baked goods and baby cream.
Two women sat at the table. Izolda—thinner now, but with a clear, hawk-like gaze—worked on her laptop. Across from her, stirring tea, sat Marina—Igor’s sister.
Marina had left her husband six months earlier, with her five-year-old son Grisha in her arms. At first she tried living with her mother, Galina Petrovna, but their relationship had always been strained. Her mother worshipped Igor and treated Marina as “the failure who ruined her family.” The constant jabs made the parental home unbearable.
“You’re sure this report is finished?” Marina asked, leaning toward the screen.
“Completely,” Izolda said, closing the laptop. “I checked the numbers three times. It’s dynamite, Marin.”
The doorbell rang. The women exchanged a look.
“It’s Mom,” Marina sighed. “I gave her the address. I couldn’t keep hiding it—she was losing it because she wasn’t seeing the grandkids.”
Galina Petrovna entered cautiously. She expected another “den,” another corner life had shoved her women into—at least, that’s how Igor described them. Instead she saw a bright hallway, modern furniture (not expensive, but decent), and she heard children laughing from the other room—Grisha building a tower while Alisa watched from her playpen.
“You… you’re living together?” she asked, astonished, setting grocery bags on the floor.
“Yes,” Izolda said, stepping forward—calm, self-possessed. “We decided it’s cheaper and easier. Marina helps me with Alisa. I help her with rent and with Grisha.”
Galina Petrovna walked into the kitchen and sat down. She looked from daughter to daughter-in-law. They didn’t look like victims. They looked like a unit.
“And Igor… does he know?” she asked.
“No,” Marina answered sharply. “And he won’t, until it’s time. Mom, you have to understand—he’s sick with greed. You made him that way, sorry for being blunt. But we’re not sinking with him.”
Suddenly Galina Petrovna started to cry—quietly, covering her face with her hands. She realized she was alone: alone in her three-room apartment filled with old furniture and memories. Her daughter and grandson were here. Her daughter-in-law and granddaughter were here. They had built a warm, safe world of their own. And she? She’d only been buying her way out with money, afraid to say one word against her beloved son.
“I… I’m just like him, aren’t I?” she sobbed.
“No,” Izolda said, placing a hand on her shoulder. The touch was cool, but not cruel. “Just don’t get in our way.”
Galina Petrovna lifted her tearful eyes.
“He’s planning to move in with me. Says he’s done paying rent. Says he wants to save.”
Izolda and Marina glanced at each other. The corners of Izolda’s mouth twitched into a faint, knowing smile.
“Perfect,” she said. “Then the trap will snap shut even sooner than I planned.”
Part 5. A Glass Dead End
Igor was in an excellent mood. He dragged two enormous suitcases up the stairwell of his mother’s building. The elevator was broken, but even that couldn’t spoil his victory. He was proud of himself: he’d stopped wasting money on a rental and would now live under his mother’s roof with full service. Food, laundry, cleaning—free. And the money… he’d put it to work. Or buy that car.
He unlocked the door with his own key.
“Mom! Welcome the prodigal son!” he shouted from the entryway, hauling the suitcases inside.
The apartment was quiet. It smelled of heart drops and something stale. Galina Petrovna sat at the kitchen table. She didn’t come out to greet him.
“What, are you deaf?” Igor marched into the kitchen. “I’m saying I’m here! Where’s dinner?”
She raised her eyes. There was no joy in them—only a strange kind of pity.
“There’s no dinner, Igor. Sit down.”
“What do you mean, no dinner?” he frowned. “Fine, I’ll order pizza. Why are you so gloomy? Thinking about Izolda again? Forget her—she probably found herself some dockworker by now.”
“Sit,” his mother said more firmly, nodding toward the table.
A thick envelope and a folder of documents lay there.
Igor snorted, pulled out a chair, and sat.
“What’s this? Decided to rewrite your will? Too early, Mom—you’ll outlive us all.”
Carelessly, he dragged the papers toward himself. On top was a sheet with an official seal: a divorce filing. Signature: Izolda Viktorovna…
“Well, divorce. I said so. She filed herself? Good—saved me time,” Igor smirked. “I’ll sign.”
“Read further,” Galina Petrovna said quietly.
Igor flipped the page. The next document wasn’t from the court. It was an official order from the “Stroy-Holding” group—the owner of the Monolit showroom chain where Igor worked.
“On appointment to position…”
“Appoint Izolda Viktorovna to the position of Regional Development Director for the network, effective [date]…”
Igor’s eyes widened.
“What kind of nonsense is this?” he muttered. “She’s a merchandiser… She’s on maternity leave…”
“Keep reading,” his mother repeated.
The next sheet was a notice about staffing changes.
“Due to reorganization and identified professional incompetence expressed in systematic violations of product-display rules and staff-management procedures, as well as based on an internal audit conducted by new leadership…”
Below was a list of employees to be dismissed. Igor’s surname was first.
“She… she couldn’t,” he whispered. “How?”
“She didn’t sit around doing nothing in that ‘kennel’ you dumped her in,” his mother said, her voice shaking but steady. “She wrote an optimization proposal for the owner—directly. She got to the CEO. She proved you and your buddies were stealing company time and resources. She showed them how it should be done. They hired her, Igor. Straight into a top position. She’s smart. Much smarter than you.”
Igor grabbed his phone, trying to call his manager, but his hands were trembling.
“And this,” his mother said, sliding the last page toward him.
It was a child-support agreement. The amount was fixed—and crushing. It wasn’t based on his tiny “official” salary, but on his real income—income Izolda, knowing the internal workings, could document and, if necessary, confirm through tax authorities if he refused to pay voluntarily. A handwritten note was added at the bottom:
“Either you pay this, or I forward the folder of evidence about your invoice fraud from last year. Your choice.”
Igor shoved the papers away.
“Witch!” he roared, jumping up. “I’ll destroy her! I’m going to her—where is she?!”
“Don’t yell at me,” Galina Petrovna suddenly slammed her palm on the table. The sound was small, but Igor froze. “She won’t tell you her address. And neither will I.”
“Y-you knew?” He stared at his mother in horror. “You knew and said nothing?”
“I knew,” she said. “This morning she sent a courier with these papers. Igor, you’re fired. You’re broke. You owe massive child support. And you’re living in my apartment—not yours.”
Igor sank back into the chair. His rage drained into a raw, animal fear. All his swagger, all his “nobility,” all his certainty collapsed into dust. He’d thought Izolda was soft clay—something to shape and toss aside. But she was concrete. Reinforced concrete that had set—and crushed him.
He remembered her eyes in the entryway three months earlier: You’re standing at the peak of your arrogance. The fall will hurt.
He stared at his hands. Senior administrator? No. An unemployed debtor, living with his mother.
“Mom,” his voice broke into a shrill whine, “Mom—what do I do? Call her! Tell her I’ll forgive everything! Tell her we can start over!”
Galina Petrovna shook her head and stood, walking toward her room.
“Too late, son. She won’t forgive you anymore. Don’t unpack your things. Tomorrow you’ll go look for work. They say movers are needed everywhere. And start looking for an apartment—you won’t be living here.”
Her bedroom door closed. Igor remained alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the smell of medicine and the papers that had turned into his sentence. He stared out the dark window. Somewhere out there, in the lights of the city, two women and two children were drinking tea and laughing—cutting him off from their warmth forever.