“Don’t you dare!” Valentina Petrovna spun around so sharply that her rhinestone earrings swayed, throwing glints of light onto the wall. “I don’t want to see you while the Nesterovs are here! Sit in your kennel and keep quiet!”
Dina froze by the half-open kitchen door, clutching a towel in her hands. Through the crack she could see her mother-in-law adjusting a vase of artificial roses on the coffee table, smoothing the napkins, checking whether the crystal shot glasses on the tray were perfectly straight.
“Mom, calm down…” Artem started, but Valentina Petrovna waved her son off as if he were an annoying fly.
“I’m not going to be humiliated in front of people! The Nesterovs will come, they’ll see this…” She faltered, searching for a word, “…they’ll see her, and what will they think? That my son married just anyone?”
Dina quietly closed the door. Her hands were shaking, but she forced herself to breathe evenly. Three years. Three years she’d been living in this apartment on Pokrovka, right in the center of Moscow, and every time guests came over, she was hidden away like some shameful secret. Like damaged goods too awkward to put on display.
The doorbell rang ten minutes later. Dina heard her mother-in-law twittering greetings, voices chiming, Artem laughing—that special, polished social laugh he never used with Dina. She stood by the window of her room—“the kennel,” as Valentina Petrovna called it—and looked out at the evening city.
October dusk thickened quickly. Windows in the buildings opposite lit up one by one, and Dina suddenly thought: how many women were there behind those windows, just like her—hiding from other people’s eyes? Becoming invisible in their own homes?
She’d grown up in Ryazan, in an ordinary family. Her father worked at a factory, her mother at a library. After vocational school Dina moved to Moscow, rented a room in Medvedkovo, and worked as an administrator at a dental clinic. That’s where she met Artem. He came in for a tooth treatment, smiled, joked, invited her to a café. Back then he was different. Or maybe she just wanted to believe it.
“Din, bring us some more ice,” Artem’s voice carried from the living room, and in it was that careless tone people use with service staff.
She took a container of ice from the freezer and went out. The living room smelled of expensive perfume and cognac. The Nesterovs—a well-dressed elderly couple—sat at the table, while Valentina Petrovna beamed beside them like a New Year’s tree.
“Ah, here’s our helper,” her mother-in-law said without even looking at Dina. “Put it on the table and go.”
Mrs. Nesterova—a woman around sixty with a cold gaze—swept Dina with an appraising look.
“And who is this? A new housekeeper?”
The air in the room seemed to freeze. Dina set the container on the table and lifted her eyes. Artem was buried in his phone. Valentina Petrovna wore a strained smile.
“Oh no, Lyudmila Semyonovna! This is… this is a distant relative. She helps around the house sometimes.”
A relative. The wife of her son—a distant relative.
Something clicked inside Dina. Quietly, almost inaudibly. But she felt that click ripple through her whole body. She slowly wiped her hands on her apron and took it off. Folded it neatly and set it on the back of a chair.
“I’m his wife,” she said softly, but clearly. “Artem’s wife. For three years now.”
Valentina Petrovna jumped up so abruptly that a cup of coffee tipped over onto the tablecloth.
“You… how dare you?! Out! Get out of the living room right now!”
“No.” Dina shook her head. “I’m not leaving. I’m tired of hiding in my own home.”
Artem finally looked up from his phone. Confusion, irritation, and something else—fear of his mother—flickered across his face.
“Dina, don’t make a scene. Go to the room—we’ll talk later.”
“Later?” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “We’ve spent three years living in ‘later.’ When Mom won’t hear, when there won’t be guests, when she falls asleep… I’m not waiting for ‘later’ anymore.”
The Nesterovs sat stiff-faced, clearly not expecting this turn. Valentina Petrovna flushed dark red.
“You… you insolent girl! I took you into my home out of pity! Fed you, clothed you, and you…”
“Out of pity?” Dina’s voice turned firm. “You took me in because your son married me. And from day one you’ve done everything to make me feel like a servant, not a part of the family.”
She grabbed the bag hanging in the entryway and slipped on her coat. Her hands were trembling again, but now from adrenaline—anger—release.
“Where are you going?!” Artem finally stood. “Have you lost your mind?”
Dina turned on the threshold. Looked at her husband—at the man who once gave her flowers and read her poetry. Who promised to protect and love her. Who first called her “the helper” two weeks after their wedding, because his mother asked him to.
“I’m not your servant anymore. And not your secret. Live however you want.”
The door shut behind her with a soft click. The stairwell smelled of cats and fresh paint. Dina leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Her heart hammered so hard it felt like it might burst out of her chest.
She pulled out her phone and dialed Katya—the one friend she hadn’t lost in those three years.
“Kat… can I come to you? Just for a little while… yeah… yeah, something happened…”
Kurskaya metro station was packed. Dina pushed through the crowd, feeling strangers’ shoulders brush her, someone stepping on her foot, the smell of wet clothes and cheap vending-machine coffee. She drew in a deep breath of that scent—the scent of ordinary life, where people hurry along on their own errands, where nobody hides or pretends.
It was stifling in the carriage. Dina stood by the door, holding the rail, and stared at her reflection in the dark glass. Thirty-one years old. Hair pulled into a ponytail, face pale, bruised shadows under her eyes. When had she last looked in the mirror for anything other than checking whether she looked “inconspicuous” enough?
Her phone buzzed. Artem. Five missed calls. She declined and turned the sound off.
Katya lived in Tekstilshchiki, in a nine-story panel building. She opened the door in sweatpants and a stretched-out T-shirt, hugged Dina hard, and didn’t ask anything.
“Tea? Or cognac right away?”
“Tea,” Dina shrugged off her coat and sank onto the worn sofa. “I’m not ready to get drunk.”
Katya brought two mugs of steaming tea and sat down beside her, tucking her legs up.
“Talk.”
And Dina talked. Not all at once—first about that evening, about the Nesterovs and her mother-in-law’s words. Then the words poured out on their own, like a burst dam: how Valentina Petrovna disliked her from the first day—“not our circle,” “no connections,” “from the provinces.” How Artem defended her at first, then started agreeing with his mother more and more. How Dina gradually became a servant—cooking, cleaning, washing—while never being invited to sit with guests. How one day Valentina Petrovna said, “Don’t disgrace us, stay in your room,” and Artem said nothing.
“My God, Din,” Katya grabbed her hand. “Why did you keep quiet? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I was ashamed.” Dina took a sip of tea and burned her tongue. “Everyone kept saying how lucky I was—what a husband I’d found, an apartment in the center, an ‘intelligent’ mother-in-law… And what was I supposed to say? That I was like a pet there? That my husband defended his mom, not his wife?”
Katya stayed silent, stroking her hand. Outside, evening Moscow hummed—somewhere a dog barked, children shouted in the yard, a building entrance door slammed.
“Stay with me,” Katya said at last. “As long as you need. We’ll figure it out.”
That night Dina didn’t sleep. She lay on a folding bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about how three years earlier she’d believed love could overcome anything. That Artem would change. That his mother would get used to her. But people don’t change if they don’t want to. And Artem didn’t want to.
Morning began with twenty calls from her husband. Then Valentina Petrovna texted: “Stop your hysterics and come back. Don’t disgrace the family.”
Dina turned her phone off.
Katya left for work at eight, leaving her keys and a note: “The fridge is yours. Rest.” Dina got up, took a shower, unhurried for the first time in a long while. Brewed coffee, sat by the window. Down in the yard, grandmothers walked dogs, mothers wheeled kids to daycare. Ordinary life—no pretense, no fear.
She opened her laptop and checked her email. Her résumé—untouched for three years. Valentina Petrovna had forbidden her to work: “Why do you need money? We’ll provide for you.” Only that “provision” had been worse than prison.
By lunchtime Dina had sent her résumé to six clinics. By evening two replies came back—inviting her for interviews.
She turned her phone on only the next day. Thirty-eight missed calls from Artem, twelve from her mother-in-law. One message from Valentina Petrovna: “Artem’s heart is acting up. Are you happy now?”
Dina snorted. The classic move—manipulation through illness. She’d seen Valentina Petrovna use it constantly: a headache, blood pressure, “her heart.” And every time Artem ran to her, canceling all plans.
But now it wasn’t Dina’s problem.
She typed back: “Call an ambulance. I’m not coming back.”
The first interview was at a clinic on Prospekt Mira. Dina wore her one decent dress, put on makeup, straightened her shoulders. The head doctor—a woman around fifty with intelligent eyes—skimmed her résumé and asked a few questions about past experience.
“Why didn’t you work for three years?”
Dina hesitated. What could she say? That her husband and his mother forbade it? That she sat at home like a princess locked in a tower?
“Family circumstances. But I’m ready to work full-time now.”
The doctor nodded.
“We need a receptionist administrator. The schedule shifts. The salary is modest at first, but with room to grow. Can you start in a week?”
“I can,” Dina smiled, and the smile came out real for the first time in a long time.
That evening she sat with Katya in the kitchen, drinking cheap boxed wine and laughing—loudly, sincerely.
“I got the job! Kat, I’m going to work again!”
“Atta girl,” Katya clinked her mug against hers. “And Artem still calling?”
“He’s calling. Texting. But I’m not answering.”
“Good. Let him learn what it’s like to lose someone.”
But Artem didn’t learn. Three days later he found her. In the evening, when Dina was coming back with groceries, he was waiting by the entrance. Older-looking, drawn, in a wrinkled shirt.
“Dina. Let’s talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she tried to pass him, but he grabbed her arm.
“Mom is sick. Seriously sick. Her blood pressure is all over the place, she’s swallowing pills by the handful. The doctors say it’s stress. Because of you.”
Dina pulled her arm free.
“Because of me? Artem, your mother tormented me for three years. Humiliated me, hid me away, treated me like a servant. And you kept quiet. You always chose her over me.”
“You know what she’s like… You should’ve endured it, adapted…”
“Adapted?” Dina’s voice broke into a shout. “I adapted for three years! I washed, cooked, cleaned! I stayed silent when she called me a servant! And what changed? Nothing!”
“Din, come back. I’ll talk to Mom. She’ll understand…”
“No,” Dina shook her head. “I’m not coming back. I want to live, Artem. Live—not exist in fear. I found a job. I’m starting a new life. Without you.”
She turned and walked toward the entrance. Artem called after her, but she didn’t look back.
Katya’s apartment was warm and smelled of borscht. Dina took off her jacket, went into the kitchen, and sat down.
“He came?”
“Yeah.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That I’m not coming back.”
Katya poured her a bowl of borscht and slid bread toward her.
“Good. Hold on. The hardest part is behind you.”
But Dina knew—everything hard was only beginning.
Work at the clinic saved her. Dina arrived at eight every morning, smiled at patients, booked appointments, dealt with documents. The head doctor, Zhanna Sergeyevna, was strict but fair. She didn’t pry into personal matters, didn’t ask unnecessary questions—she just let Dina work.
A month later Dina rented a room in Perovo—tiny, with nineties furniture, but hers. She bought new bedsheets, hung curtains, set a potted violet on the windowsill. It was her space, where no one could tell her how to breathe.
Artem called less often. Valentina Petrovna sent one last message: “You’ll regret this. God sees everything. He’ll punish you for destroying the family.”
Dina deleted the number and blocked the contact.
Six months passed.
Spring came late to Moscow but decisively—the snow melted in a week, the trees turned green, people shed their heavy jackets. Dina was walking home from work through a park when she saw Artem.
He sat alone on a bench, hunched, looking ten years older. Crutches stood beside him.
She wanted to walk past, but he lifted his head and met her gaze.
“Dina…”
His voice was hoarse, exhausted. She stopped a few steps away.
“What happened?”
“A stroke,” he gave a crooked smile. “Two months ago. The left side still doesn’t work well. Doctors say stress, overwork. But I know it’s payback.”
Dina said nothing. Inside there was no pity, no gloating—just emptiness.
“Mom…” Artem swallowed. “Mom got sick too. Stomach cancer. Stage four. They say she has about three months, maybe less.”
“I’m sorry,” Dina said. And it was true—she was sorry, just not the way she used to be. Not the kind of pity that made her endure and stay silent.
“She asked me to tell you…” Artem’s throat tightened. “She asked for forgiveness. Said she was wrong. That she poisoned my life, ruined our marriage.”
“It’s too late for apologies.”
“I know. I understood too late as well. When you left, I thought—it’s fine, she’ll come back. And then Mom started getting sick. First her stomach, then bad tests, then the diagnosis. And I… I was left alone with her. I take care of her, feed her, give her pills. And I finally understood what it was like for you for three years.”
Dina sat down on the edge of the bench.
“What do you want from me, Artem?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “I just wanted you to know. We got what we deserved. Mom is dying in agony, and I… I’m disabled at thirty-four. Lost my business, my friends turned away. Alone in an empty apartment with a sick mother who now begs forgiveness from everyone she hurt. Only it’s too late. Everything is too late.”
He got up, leaning on his crutches, and slowly walked away. Dina watched him go, thinking how strangely life is arranged. For three years she endured humiliation, hoping everything would change. For three years she was a servant they could hide and be ashamed of. And now both of them were sick—broken—punished.
But she felt no triumph. Only relief: she’d left in time. She’d saved herself in time.
That evening Dina met Zhanna Sergeyevna in a café. The head doctor offered her a new position—senior administrator, with a salary one and a half times higher.
“You work well,” Zhanna Sergeyevna said. “Responsible, punctual. I can see you’ve changed these past months. It’s like you came back to life.”
“I have,” Dina smiled. “I really have.”
A week later a message came from an unknown number: “Valentina Petrovna died yesterday. The funeral is the day after tomorrow. Artem.”
Dina read it, exhaled, and deleted it. She wasn’t going to the funeral. Not out of anger or revenge—just because that chapter of her life was over. Her mother-in-law was dead, having never truly repented, because words on a deathbed change nothing. Artem had been left disabled and alone because all his life he chose his mother over his wife, convenience over fairness.
And Dina… Dina simply kept living.
She rented a one-room apartment in a new building in Novokosino. She did the renovations herself—painted the walls a light beige, hung wallpaper, mounted shelves. She met her neighbor Taisiya, a woman around sixty who treated her to pies and told stories from her youth.
The clinic offered training—medical management courses. Dina agreed without hesitation.
One Saturday morning she stood on her balcony with a cup of coffee. Below, the courtyard buzzed—kids played ball, teenagers rode scooters, grandmothers sat on benches. The sun shone brightly; white clouds drifted across the sky.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Katya: “How are you, friend? Haven’t seen you in ages. Movie today?”
Dina smiled and typed back: “Let’s do it. You pick the film.”
She finished her coffee, set the cup down on the little table, and stretched. The air smelled of spring, freedom, and new possibilities.
Artem and his mother got what they deserved—not because Dina wished it on them, but because life put everything in its place. Those who hurt others sooner or later end up alone with that hurt. Valentina Petrovna died in fear and loneliness, never learning how to love. Artem was left disabled without a family, without a business, without a future.
And Dina started over. Not out of revenge, not to prove anything. Simply because she had the right to.
She went back inside, changed into jeans and a light blouse, took her bag. In the mirror she saw a woman with clear eyes and a calm face. Not the beaten, frightened Dina who hid for three years in “the kennel.” A new Dina—free, confident, alive.
She left the apartment, walked down the stairs, and stepped outside into the spring day. Behind her was the old life of humiliation and fear. Ahead was the future—unknown, but hers.
And that was enough.
