Mom, are you home?” — Andrey’s voice sounded oddly muffled over the phone.
“Yes, sweetheart. Has something happened?” — Elena sensed trouble at once.
“May I come over?”
“Of course, you don’t even have to ask. You’re scaring me.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
Pavel poked his head into the bedroom, where Elena stood motionless before the mirror, absently running a comb through her graying hair.
“Lena, we’re going to be late. What’s wrong?” — he asked, straightening his tie while watching her reflection.
“Andrey called. It was… odd.”
“Odd that our son phoned?” — Pavel frowned. “Did I miss something?”
“No, no.” Elena turned toward him. “He said he’s coming over right now. His voice sounded… lost.”
“So? Let him come.”
The doorbell rang — three short buzzes, just like when he was a boy. Elena flinched.
Pavel opened the door. Voices drifted in from the hallway.
Elena hurried out to meet her son.
Andrey stood in the entryway, eyes terribly sad.
His briefcase hung limply from one shoulder.
“Mom, Uncle Pasha… sorry if this is bad timing. Were you heading out?”
“Nonsense,” Pavel waved it off, though the theater tickets he’d struggled to get still burned a hole in his pocket.
“Son, what’s happened?” — Elena stepped closer.
“If it’s not a bother… could I spend the night here?”
The parents exchanged glances.
Pavel had raised Andrey since marrying Elena when the boy was five. In twenty years he’d become a real father, and now his heart tightened at the helpless look on his stepson’s face.
“Pasha, maybe I should stay?” — Elena asked hesitantly.
“Mom, no! If it’s because of me, I’ll just go…”
“Enough,” Pavel said firmly. “Andrey, this is your home. It always has been, always will be. Make yourself comfortable. Your mom and I are still going to the theater.”
In the taxi, Elena quickly texted her daughter‑in‑law: “Kristina, Andrey’s with us. What happened?”
Two blue check marks appeared immediately, but there was no reply.
At the play Elena barely paid attention; her thoughts were a jumble.
She’d always had a warm relationship with Kristina — headstrong, yet caring toward Andrey.
But three years of maternity leave with little Dima had left Kristina fatigued, irritable.
Elena helped when she could, often taking her grandson for weekends. Kristina’s parents, living in another city, seldom visited.
The night was restless. Pavel rose several times, listening for sounds in the flat. Elena heard the balcony door creak: Andrey had gone out to smoke. Strange — he’d quit five years ago…
In the morning she acted as usual — made breakfast, sent both men off to work. The moment the door closed, she grabbed the phone.
“Hello, Kristina, good morning.”
“Hello, Elena Viktorovna,” Kristina’s voice was formal, cold.
“What’s going on, dear?”
“What’s going on? Nothing. Your son is a complete egoist, that’s all.”
“So you won’t explain why your husband didn’t sleep at home?”
“I threw him out. Pointed to the door. What else do you want to hear?”
“Nothing, sweetheart. Don’t be angry; I’m sure you’ll sort this out…”
“No, we won’t!” Kristina’s voice shook. “I won’t live with someone who ignores my opinion. I’m filing for divorce.”
And she hung up.
All day Elena was beside herself. That evening, after dinner, Andrey picked at his now‑cold food in silence, then asked,
“Mom, did you call Kristina?”
Elena nodded.
“And what did she say?”
“Andryusha… she says she’s filing for divorce.”
“Let her.” His head dropped; his knuckles whitened around the fork.
“Son,” Pavel cleared his throat, “maybe you should talk? A compromise? Flowers, dinner out, a trip—”
“No, Dad. Won’t help,” Andrey called him that for the first time in years. “She’s decided: her way or nothing.”
And he told the story that caused the quarrel.
“Remember Igor and Sofia?” he began. “They’ve divorced.”
“Divorced? But we just celebrated Gleb’s birthday together…” Elena was bewildered.
“Exactly.” Andrey gave a bitter grin. “Kristina mentioned it off‑hand, like talking about the weather: ‘Igor’s a jerk,’ she said, and that was it.”
Igor and Sofia had been their close friends since college—three kids: Alina and Oleg, five and six, and one‑year‑old Gleb. Sofia wanted a fourth. Igor didn’t. Gleb had arrived unexpectedly; they’d tightened their belts, delayed mortgage plans.
“In summer,” Andrey continued, “Sofia laughed about tricking her husband — poking holes in condoms, boasting about how trusting he was.”
Elena gasped.
“Sofia got pregnant again. Igor snapped, slept in the kitchen or with the kids. She kept whining she wanted a friend for Gleb: ‘See how Alina and Oleg have each other.’ But what about Igor—just a puppet?”
Sofia complained to everyone, even her own mother. Online she posted ‘happy family’ photos—drawn hearts on her belly, kids kissing it while Oleg cried.
Igor finally left, taking the older two to his mother’s. He sees Gleb on weekends. Sofia gave birth to a girl; Igor picked her up from the hospital, introduced the older kids, then drove away. Now people condemn him for abandoning a wife with small children.
“And yesterday,” Andrey rubbed his temples, “Kristina took Sofia’s side: ‘He’s a man, he must go back! How she got pregnant doesn’t matter—those are his kids!’
“We argued. I said Sofia could pop out ten kids that way. Kristina screamed I was treating children like objects, then kicked me out.”
The next day Elena took time off work and visited Kristina.
Kristina opened the door only after a while—eyes swollen from crying, cold tea in her hand. The talk was long. When Elena returned, she waited for Andrey, fed him, then called him into the kitchen.
“I don’t want to hear it,” he cut her off. “Let her file.”
“Kristina is pregnant,” Elena said quietly.
Andrey froze.
“She planned to go back to work, had it all figured out. Then… the Sofia‑Igor story scared her. She thought you’d assume she did it on purpose. That conversation about planning children together…”
“My silly girl.” Andrey clutched his head. “Mom, can I go?”
“Go, of course.”
“How important it is to talk and really listen,” Pavel mused.
“We were young too, fought over trifles.”
“So, Mama, time to prepare a dowry? Who’s on the way?”
“Kristina hopes for a girl.”
“Perfect. We’ve got a grandson; now we need a granddaughter.”
Six months later little Masha was born.
Igor and Sofia never reconciled. She still posts ‘happy family’ photos; he silently collects the kids on weekends.
Sometimes family happiness crashes against pride and an inability to hear one another.
And sometimes it’s saved by a simple conversation and the wisdom of those nearby.
