“Damn you!” Igor shrieked, and a white blur shot across the room—the vase with artificial daisies smashed into the wall. Glass scattered over the floor, catching the lamplight. A glittering shard skimmed Anna’s leg.
She didn’t even flinch.
“Have you lost your mind?!” Her voice snapped into a scream. “Kirill is sleeping!”
“And what the hell are you doing?!” He lunged for the table, grabbed his phone, and hammered the screen like he was trying to punch a hole through it. “My card doesn’t work! I’m standing in the store like a complete idiot! Mom’s waiting and I don’t have a cent!”
“Because I cut your access,” Anna replied—quietly, but firm as steel.
“What?”
“The account. I closed it.”
He froze as if someone had struck him.
“What do you mean… why?”
“Think. I can do math too. This month you pulled almost a hundred thousand—and it was all ‘Mom needs boots,’ ‘Mom needs medicine.’ What is she doing, plating her feet in gold?”
Igor’s face flushed dark red.
“That’s my mother, you hear me?! She raised me! I owe her!”
“And you don’t owe me?” Anna pressed her palms to the wall, as if it was the only thing holding her up. “We’ve got a loan, utilities, a child… and you’re funding her wardrobe!”
“Shut up.” He stepped closer, the veins in his neck swelling. “Restore it.”
“No.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart… it’s okay…”
But inside, everything in her was the opposite of okay. Not calm—knotted.
Heavy. Sticky. Bitter.
She understood: this time it wasn’t just a quarrel. This was the point of no return.
Twelve years together—and it had all come to this. How many times had she forgiven those “transfers to Mom,” looked away at “lent it to a friend,” “bought a tool,” “helping a relative”? And last night she finally couldn’t take it anymore—she opened the banking app, scrolled down… and saw it. In six months—nearly four hundred thousand.
Her knees had gone weak.
“Go to Dad,” she told Kirill softly when he stopped sobbing. “Mom’s going to step out for a minute, okay?”
She pulled on her jacket and grabbed her bag.
“Where are you going?” Igor stood in the doorway, fists clenched, eyes wild.
“To breathe.”
“You’re not going anywhere until you turn it back on.”
“Move.”
“No.”
The phone on the couch buzzed.
“See?!” He shoved the screen in her face. “Mom’s calling! She’s standing in the store, waiting! Because of you!”
Anna slipped past him and walked out, slamming the door.
The stairwell smelled of dampness and dust. The air was heavy—autumn had crept in without warning, October tightening its grip.
Outside, the wind cut to the bone. The evening city looked gray as an old sheet: puddles, wet leaves, a traffic light blinking lazily. Anna headed for the stop without thinking where she was going. She just wanted to get away. Far from his voice. From the accusations, the shrieking, the endless excuses.
The bus came almost immediately. She sat by the window and rested her forehead against the glass.
Her son was at home, and her heart tightened—but she knew Igor wouldn’t hurt him. He’d never raised a hand. Not to the child. Not even to her—at least not physically. With words, with pressure, yes. But not with fists. Not yet.
When the bus brought her downtown, Anna got off. The mall glittered with lights; it smelled of coffee and vanilla. People passed carrying shopping bags, someone laughed. Everyone had their own life. Hers had cracks.
She wandered past store windows until she found a café on the third floor. Ordered a cappuccino. Sat there holding the cup in both hands just to warm up.
Her phone kept twitching on the table, lighting up: “Igor.” “Igor.” “Igor.” Then “Igor’s Mom.” Then him again.
Anna tapped “Mute.”
She hadn’t even had time to cool down when a message arrived from an unknown number:
“I need to talk to you. It’s about Igor. Very important. Café ‘Amaretto,’ in one hour. Address: 18 Kotova Street.”
She read it three times.
A scam? Maybe. But something else pricked inside her—instinct.
She decided to go.
The café was small and worn, with a peeling sign and the smell of cinnamon. At a table in the back sat a woman—young, about thirty, exhausted, wearing a cheap jacket. Anna was about to turn around when the woman stood and awkwardly adjusted her belly.
Pregnant.
“Are you Anna?” she asked quietly, like she was afraid of her own voice. “I’m Valeria. Can I have a minute?”
Anna sat. She felt as if the air inside her was slowly draining away.
“I’m sorry—I know this is… unexpected,” Valeria rushed on, words tumbling out. “I’m not your enemy. I just have to tell you the truth. I’ve been with Igor for two years. And… the baby is his. I’m five months along.”
The words landed like a slap. Two years. Five months.
Anna stared without blinking. Then forced out:
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because he’s lying to both of us.” Valeria twisted a napkin, worrying her fingers. “He said you and he had split. That he lived alone, just ‘never filed the divorce.’ And today I saw his messages—he wrote you: ‘I’ll be late, meeting.’ That’s when I realized he’d been living with you this whole time.”
Anna stayed silent for a long moment, looking at Valeria, at the curve of her belly under the jacket. A new life moving there—and it felt especially cruel.
“And the money,” Anna said softly. “The money he ‘sends to his mother’…”
“To me,” Valeria nodded. “For rent. I’m not working—my pregnancy is complicated. He helps. Says ‘we don’t have much time, we’ll live together soon.’”
There it was. Every piece clicked into place.
Anna let out a short laugh—sharp, joyless.
“Well then. Congratulations to both of us. Two women—one paycheck.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. If I’d known…”
“Oh, stop.” Anna waved it off. “He’s good. He’ll paint his mother as a saint and himself as a martyr—he can wrap anyone around his finger.”
They sat in silence. Outside, autumn rain drew thin tracks down the glass.
“So what will you do now?” Valeria asked.
“I don’t know. Not yet.” Anna swallowed. “And you?”
“I’m having the baby. And then… we’ll see.”
Anna nodded and took out her phone.
Fifteen missed calls. Three messages from her mother-in-law. The last one sliced like a blade:
“If you don’t return the money, you’ll regret it.”
Anna showed the screen to Valeria.
“See? A noble soul, that one.”
Valeria gave a sad, crooked smile. “He talked about her too. Said she was sick. Said I ‘shouldn’t get involved.’ And when I offered to help, he nearly yelled at me.”
Anna finished her now-cold coffee and stood.
“It’s time. I need to put an end to this.”
When Anna came home, Igor was by the window—hands in his pockets, face tight like a cornered wolf.
“Where were you?” he hissed. “The kid was alone!”
“I know. You were with him. Is everything okay?”
“No, it’s not okay! Have you completely lost it?” He stepped forward. “Where did you go?”
Anna met his eyes head-on.
“To your Valeria.”
He went still. Just for a second, but it was enough.
“What?”
“She’s pregnant. With your child. And you’re supporting her.”
He didn’t answer. Then he looked away.
“It’s not like that.”
“Of course it’s not.” Anna’s voice turned cold. “With you, it’s never like that. Except she’s carrying your baby. And you’re buying him a future—with my money.”
She moved closer.
“Igor, I’m filing for divorce.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Too late.”
He gave a bitter smirk.
“You think you’ll win? The apartment is joint property.”
“No. It’s mine. I bought it before we got married.”
He spun around, eyes bloodshot.
“I’ll never forgive you.”
“You don’t have to.” Anna didn’t blink. “I’m not waiting for it.”
He muttered something, cursed, and slammed the door on his way out.
Anna was left alone.
The apartment was quiet. Water murmured in the pipes.
She went to her son. He was asleep, face buried in the pillow—cheeks damp, lashes stuck together.
Anna sat down beside him and laid her hand on his hair.
“It’ll be okay, baby,” she whispered. “We’ll get through it.”
The next few days dragged by like wet cotton.
Igor slept at home, but spoke only through clenched teeth. The TV blared as if it could replace their conversations.
On the third day, her mother-in-law showed up without calling—barreling in with a key she’d once bullied him into giving her.
“You destroyed my family!” she screamed from the doorway. “Because of you my son will end up homeless!”
Anna raised an eyebrow.
“Your son destroyed it himself.”
“He’s a man! All men cheat! You clearly couldn’t keep him!”
Kirill, pressed against his mother, began to cry.
“There,” Anna said evenly, “even a child can’t handle your voice.”
Raisa Petrovna threw up her hands, spat a few more curses, and stormed out.
The door slammed, leaving behind expensive perfume and cheap malice.
Anna exhaled.
She wasn’t scared anymore. Just cold. Cold and empty.
She went to the window. An October evening spread a gray haze across the sky, distant lights blinking.
Her phone lit up with a new message:
“Anya, it’s not your fault. Thank you for telling me. Take care of yourself.”
From Valeria.
Anna looked at the screen, then at her reflection in the glass.
“Take care of yourself,” she repeated softly. “And who took care of me?”
She turned off the light and lay down beside her son.
A week passed.
It didn’t seem like much time, but Anna felt as if she’d grown tired enough to haul a freight car of bricks.
Home felt чужой—foreign. Silence felt hostile. The air felt heavy, like a storm about to break.
Igor was still there, sleeping on the couch. He had no intention of moving out. He stalked around gloomy and quiet, but the anger sat in his eyes.
Anna could feel the storm getting close.
On Friday evening, when she came back from work, his voice rang through the apartment:
“We need to talk.”
She wearily took off her jacket.
“Again?”
“Yes.”
He stood by the window, phone in his hand.
“I saw a lawyer,” he said. “The apartment gets split fifty-fifty.”
“Are you stupid?” Anna didn’t even try to hold back. “I bought it before we married!”
“Prove it.”
“I have the documents.”
“You think the court will believe you?”
She looked at him for a long time, icy calm.
“Igor, I’m done. Move out. Today.”
“Not happening,” he sneered. “I’m not leaving. This is my home too.”
Anna didn’t argue. She simply walked past him and locked herself in the bedroom.
He stayed outside the door for a moment. Then he threw something against the wall—there was a crash, like a mug shattering.
Kirill woke up and started crying.
“Mom… is he angry again?” the little boy whispered.
“Hush.” Anna stroked his hair. “Sleep, sweetheart. Soon it’ll be quiet.”
The next morning, the front door flew open without a knock.
Raisa Petrovna burst in like a hurricane—bag, voice, accusations.
“What did you do?!” she screamed. “My son says you want to kick him out?!”
Anna turned from the sink, where she’d been washing dishes.
“He’s right. I do.”
“You’ve got some nerve, girl! Who do you think you are?! This is his home—he’s the man of the house!”
“The man of the house?” Anna dried her hands and looked straight at her. “Then let him pay the utilities, the loan, and the internet. Since he’s the ‘man of the house.’”
“You ungrateful witch!” her mother-in-law shrieked. “My Igoryosha bent over backwards so you’d have everything!”
“Oh yeah?” Anna’s voice stayed calm. “I thought he bent over backwards for his Valeria.”
Raisa Petrovna choked mid-yell.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.” Anna picked up a towel and headed toward the nursery. “Everything’s ‘fine’ in your world, right? Go deal with your new daughter-in-law.”
The older woman stomped, then hissed:
“I’ll never forgive you. You ruined my son.”
“He ruined himself.”
Igor stormed out of the room.
“Mom, enough—leave!” he shouted.
“I’m not leaving until she tells me to my face she’ll stop tormenting you!”
Anna turned around.
“To my face? Fine. I won’t torment him. I’ll just throw you both out.”
Raisa Petrovna flared, started screaming, Kirill began to cry.
Anna scooped him up, stepped out of the apartment—
—and the door slammed behind her like a gunshot.
Outside, an icy wind blew. October was almost spent—November was ahead: short days, gray skies, wet mittens, frozen asphalt.
Anna walked Kirill to daycare, then went to work.
In the subway—tired faces, the smell of coffee from thermoses, sleepy quiet.
She caught her reflection in the glass: her eyes dull, but alive. Not broken. That was something.
At work, her manager called her in.
“Anna Sergeyevna,” she began carefully, “I understand things are difficult right now. But there’s an option that might help.”
“What option?”
“Our Kaliningrad branch. They need specialists. Housing is provided. The salary is higher. A six-month assignment—then you can stay if you want.”
Anna went still.
“Kaliningrad…?”
“Yes. Think about it.”
Anna nodded, leaving the office with the feeling that someone had switched a light on inside her.
A new life. The sea. Far away from all this filth.
That evening at home—they were there again.
Igor and Raisa Petrovna. Sitting at the kitchen table, discussing their “plan.”
Anna walked in, set her bag down without a word.
“Oh, you’re back,” Igor smirked. “We’ve been thinking.”
“I’m terrified already.”
“You owe me compensation for emotional distress.”
Anna burst out laughing.
“What?”
“I’m suing,” he went on. “I’ve got a witness.” He nodded at his mother. “She saw how you abused me.”
Anna pulled out her phone and turned on the voice recorder.
“Say that again,” she said calmly. “For the record.”
Raisa Petrovna went rigid.
“What?”
“Everything you just said. Including the ‘abuse.’”
“You were recording?!” Igor bellowed.
“Yes,” Anna replied simply. “For the last four days. Every one of your visits. Every threat. I’ve got a whole archive. Want to listen?”
She hit play.
From the speaker came Igor’s voice:
“I’ll take everything from you! The apartment, the kid—everything! You’ll dance for me!”
Then Raisa Petrovna’s voice:
“You snake! Women like you should be thrown into the street!”
Anna turned it off.
“Sounds like decent evidence to me.”
Raisa Petrovna went pale.
“My blood pressure…”
“Then take your pills,” Anna said coldly. “And get out. Both of you.”
Igor stepped close, hissing:
“You’ll pay for this.”
“No, Igor,” Anna said. “Not anymore. It’s too late.”
Half an hour later the door slammed—they were gone.
Anna leaned against the wall and exhaled.
For the first time, the apartment was truly quiet.
No voices. No screaming.
Only the hum of the fridge, and the tick of the clock.
The next day she called her manager.
“I’ll do it,” she said shortly. “Kaliningrad. When do I leave?”
“Two weeks. Will you manage?”
“I will.”
The divorce went through quickly.
At first Igor swaggered and made noise, then he went quiet. He must have realized he’d lost.
When Anna hinted the recordings didn’t have to stay private, he stopped acting tough.
Child support was set—pennies. She didn’t care. Freedom was what mattered.
Kaliningrad met them with wind—salty, sharp, smelling of the sea.
Kirill was happy from day one: racing along the beach, picking up stones, shouting at seagulls.
Anna stood on the shore, watching waves slam against concrete slabs, and for the first time in a long while she felt she could breathe.
They rented a cozy apartment in the old part of town, with a view of rooftops. Work suited her. People were calm.
Some evenings she’d take out her phone and reread the old messages:
“Restore the account.”
“You’ll regret it.”
“Nobody needs you.”
And she deleted them one by one.
Now she knew: she was needed. By herself. By her son. That was enough.
One day a message arrived.
Unknown number.
“Anna, thank you for telling me everything. I had a boy. Named him Alyosha. Igor vanished the moment he realized I wasn’t going to chase him for money. But I’m happy. My son is the best thing I have.”
Anna replied:
“Mine too.”
December.
The sea near shore had skinned over with thin ice. The sky hung low and heavy.
A letter from the court arrived unexpectedly:
Igor had tried to take the apartment.
He lost.
The judge listened to the recordings, reviewed the paperwork, and ruled: the home belonged entirely to Anna. What’s more, Igor was ordered to pay compensation.
Fifty thousand.
Not much—but satisfying.
Anna smiled. Not from joy—จาก a sense of justice.
She hadn’t broken. She hadn’t bowed. She hadn’t drowned.
She’d climbed out.
That evening she and Kirill went for a walk to the sea.
Snow had just started to fall—light, rare flakes.
Kirill dragged his sled even though there was nothing to slide on.
“Mom, look! A ship!” he shouted, pointing into the distance.
Through the gray haze, an enormous tanker really was moving, its lights blinking like stars.
Anna sat on a bench beside her son.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. When are we going to sail on a ship?”
“In the summer,” she smiled. “We will. I promise.”
He wrapped his arms around her neck and pressed close.
She breathed in the scent of his hair—warm, homey, hers.
A new life was ahead. Without hysterics, without lies, without fear.
Only the sea, the wind, and Anna—finally free, a woman who pulled herself out of the swamp, didn’t wait for a miracle, and made one with her own hands.
And if anyone asked her if she was happy, Anna would answer simply:
“Yes. Now—yes.”
The End.