It all started suddenly — my little daughter Lizochka got sick. She was only nine months old, and then suddenly her temperature shot up sharply, and she started vomiting and having diarrhea. I was in panic — I’m 23 years old, a young mom with almost no experience in such situations. And Sasha, my husband, as usual, was sitting at home by the computer, sipping beer and playing his favorite “tank” games.
“Sash, Liz is feeling bad, look at her!” I called him, trying to soothe the crying baby.
“Come on, maybe she’s teething?” he shrugged, not even taking his eyes off the screen. “Give her something, it’ll pass.”
I sighed. Arguing with him was useless anyway. At some point, I realized: if I don’t take action, it will only get worse. When it became clear that the fever wasn’t going down, and Liz was becoming lethargic and stopped responding, I called an ambulance myself.
The doctors arrived quickly, examined the baby, and said briefly:
“Rotavirus. Immediate hospitalization.”
“Sash, get ready, we’re going!” I shouted while the medics prepared our daughter for transport.
“I… I have work tomorrow,” he mumbled, not getting up from his chair. “You’ll manage, right?”
I looked at him — at his beer can, the flickering screen, his relaxed posture — and said nothing. I just turned and followed the ambulance. At that moment, only Liz mattered to me. His indifference could wait.
At the hospital, they sent us to the infectious diseases ward. Liz cried nonstop; I rushed between doctors, IV drips, tests, trying to be near her, to calm her. The night passed like a fog: I barely slept, holding my daughter until she, exhausted, finally fell asleep near dawn. And then — morning. My birthday.
At exactly eight, the phone rang. It was Sasha. For a second, I felt a little relieved — maybe he would at least congratulate me properly, ask how Liz was?
But instead I heard:
“Happy birthday, old lady!” he laughed. “So, how’s it going? Still lying there?”
I froze. “Old lady”? I’m only 23. I’m sitting in a hospital room, my daughter has rotavirus, I haven’t slept all night, and he’s joking?
“Sash, are you serious?” my voice betrayed me and trembled. “Liz is on an IV, I haven’t slept all night. Maybe you could at least ask how she is?”
“Oh, come on, don’t start,” he waved me off. “You’re in the hospital, the doctors will take care of it. I’m just calling to say congrats. Can’t I joke anymore?”
“No, you can’t,” I replied sharply. “It’s not funny. Are you even planning to come? Or bring any groceries? We have nothing here, not even water.”
“I’ll think about it,” he grumbled. “Okay, gotta go, stuff to do.”
And he hung up. Not a word of love, no simple “hang in there,” not even a “happy birthday.” I sat with the phone in my hand feeling something inside me crack. But then I didn’t know it was only the beginning.
A couple of hours later, my mother-in-law called — Tamara Ivanovna. I always tried to treat her with respect, although her constant advice and interference in our lives often drove me crazy. I thought maybe now she would at least support me, say something encouraging.
“Anya, happy birthday, dear!” she started cheerfully. “How are you all? Is Lizochka alive and well?”
“Tamara Ivanovna, Liz is on an IV,” I answered tiredly. “Rotavirus, severe dehydration. I’m here alone, Sasha hasn’t even come.”
“Oh, here you go again,” she snorted. “Sasha is a man, it’s hard for him. He works, he’s tired. You know men — they need to rest.”
I was speechless. Rest? He’s sitting at home playing games while I’m here alone!
“Tamara Ivanovna, he’s not working, he’s playing tanks,” I couldn’t hold back. “And he hasn’t even asked how Liz is. Is that normal?”
“Anya, don’t make it worse,” she waved it off again. “All men are like that. Mine used to roam in his youth too, and we lived. And Sasha… well, he’s no good, but you’ll get used to it. By the way, we’ll find someone for you later. Don’t worry!”
I almost dropped the phone. What?! Now they officially suggest I accept cheating?!
“Tamara Ivanovna, are you serious?” I squeezed out. “You’re suggesting I…”
“Anya, don’t pretend to be a saint,” she laughed. “Everyone lives like this. Men cheat, wives endure. And then when the kids grow up, you find someone yourself. That’s life, girl.”
I silently hung up. My heart was pounding, my head spinning. What’s happening? Is it normal now to turn a blind eye to cheating and treat it as part of family life?
The days in the hospital dragged on, but Liz got better. They moved us to a regular ward, and I relaxed a little. But the more I watched Sasha, the less I understood who he was to me now. He almost stopped calling. Sometimes once a day, with obvious irritation:
“So, how are you? Getting discharged soon?”
No warmth, no involvement. Once my friend Katya messaged me. We had been friends since school, trusted each other like sisters. She often came to our house, played with Liz, helped when needed. She was always there.
Her message was short: “Anya, we need to talk. It’s about Sasha.”
My heart clenched immediately. I understood something had happened. I called back.
“Katya, what happened?” I asked, trying to keep calm.
“Anya, I don’t know how to say it…” she hesitated. “While you’re in the hospital, Sasha… he’s seeing Nastya.”
“Which Nastya?” I foolishly asked, though I already knew.
“Your friend Nastya. I saw them. At your home.”
I felt the world collapsing beneath my feet. Nastya — my longtime acquaintance, not the closest but still a friend I trusted. I considered her decent, honest. She often came to our home, brought Liz toys, treats, joked, laughed, chatted with Sasha… And now this.
“Katya, are you sure?” my voice betrayed me and trembled. “Maybe you misunderstood something?”
“Anya, I’m so sorry,” she replied softly. “I saw them kissing. At your home. You know, it was hardest for me to say this. But you must know the truth.”
I thanked Katya, hung up, and was left alone with this terrible knowledge. Inside, everything was turning upside down. I felt nausea, pain, destruction. As if not only my husband and “friend” had betrayed me, but the whole world.
Without thinking, I called Sasha.
“Can you explain what’s going on between you and Nastya?” I asked immediately, no preamble.
Silence. Thick, dense, like a wall between us.
“Anya, what are you stirring up now?” he finally grunted. “I’m a father, I don’t have time for myself. I need to rest. It means nothing.”
“Means nothing?!” my voice broke into a scream. I tried to hold back but couldn’t. “You’re sleeping with my friend while I’m in the hospital with our daughter! And that means nothing?!”
“Don’t yell,” he snapped irritably. “Everyone lives like that. Men are like that. And anyway, it’s your fault — all with the kid, all with the kid… We haven’t had anything for a long time, I need it too!”
I couldn’t listen to his voice anymore. I hung up. Tears poured from my eyes, but I knew I couldn’t let myself break. Liz was sleeping nearby — small, fragile, not yet realizing what her mother had been through. Her life was more important than this nightmare.
The remaining days in the hospital passed like through cotton. Liz started to recover, and I tried to piece myself together. My thoughts raced: how did I get here? Why did I tolerate Sasha’s laziness? Why did I stay silent when he didn’t help, when he didn’t want to be involved in his daughter’s life? Why did I let my mother-in-law plant the idea that this behavior of men is normal? And most importantly — how could I not notice that Nastya would turn out to be such a hypocrite? The one who played with my daughter, kissed her cheeks, called her “baby,” and then — just used the moment to be close to my husband.
I called my mother. She had always been my support, even when we argued or disagreed. I told her everything. Without embellishment, without pauses.
After listening, she was silent for a long time. Then she firmly said:
“Anya, listen to me carefully. You’re young, beautiful, you have a healthy, beloved girl. Why do you need a person who doesn’t value you? And this mother-in-law with her ‘everyone lives like this’? You deserve respect, care, love. Don’t stay put — leave. Right now.”
“But how?” I sobbed. “Liz, money, apartment…”
“I’ll help,” she said firmly. “I’ll come, take Liz to stay with me for a couple of days, and you start building your new life. File for divorce, find a job, rent a place. You’ll manage. You’re stronger than you think.”
And for the first time in a long time, I felt I could. That somewhere beyond the pain, there is a way out. That I’m not alone. That I have my mother, I have Liz, and I have a goal — to start over. And though it’s scary, though it’s unclear, this fear was no longer empty — it became part of something bigger.
When Liz and I were discharged, I decided to meet Nastya. Not for a scandal, not for revenge — just to understand who she was to me now. To hear from her how she could justify her betrayal.
We met at a cafe. She sat tensely, her eyes full of mixed emotions — guilt, shame, but also some strange confidence.
“Anya, I’m really sorry,” she began. “It was stupid, unexpected. He said you were almost divorced, that you didn’t love him, that he was lonely…”
“Nastya,” I interrupted coldly, “I was in the hospital with the baby. And you took advantage of that to sleep with my husband. This isn’t an accident. It’s a choice.”
She lowered her eyes. She had nothing to say.
“You came to our home, played with Liz, kissed her, laughed with us. And then — this. It’s not just ‘it happened.’ It’s your act. And you chose betrayal.”
She was silent. I stood up, put down my unfinished coffee, and left. That meeting became the final point in our relationship. After it, I understood: I don’t need excuses. I don’t need explanations. There are people you can trust. And there are those who taught me never to be naive again.
Now, months later, I can say: that birthday became a turning point in my life. I filed for divorce. Sasha tried to ask for forgiveness, insisted it was a “moment of weakness.” But I knew: if a person takes two steps away from family — they have long gone.
My mother helped me with Liz, I started working remotely, then got a job in an office. We rented a small but cozy apartment. It smells of children’s laughter, home comfort, hope. For the first time in a long time, I felt freedom — the kind I never even thought was possible.
My mother-in-law called a couple of times, trying to “reconcile” us. I stopped answering. Nastya sent messages, begged for forgiveness. I blocked her. Not because I wanted revenge. I just realized: people who don’t respect you and your child have no right to be near you.
Now I look at Liz, who is already running, laughing, calling me “mom” — and I understand: everything that happened was the beginning of something new. Yes, that birthday was the strangest, the most painful. But it taught me the main thing: I have the right to happiness. And I deserve it — for myself and for my daughter.
