How nice that you got a promotion. Mom and my sister are moving in with us for good—now you’ll be supporting everyone, blurted the unemployed husband and drove off to fetch his relatives. And when they arrived, they were stunned by what they saw.
The metallic scrape of a pick in the keyhole sounded like music to Ira. The man in the “Fast Lock” company uniform worked with focused silence, only occasionally casting her sympathetic glances. Ira stood leaning against the doorjamb, nervously worrying the edge of her burgundy cashmere cardigan—“a present” she’d given herself a week earlier for her birthday. Thirty-seven.
Christ’s age plus five, she used to joke to herself. Now was no time for jokes. “Try not to worry,” the locksmith said suddenly, without pausing in his work. “Locks are fixable. It breaks, we replace it. First time, last time—happens.” Ira gave him a faint smile, lacking the strength to explain that the problem wasn’t a broken lock. Sometimes people break worse than mechanisms do.
And fixing them takes more radical measures. “Is this a reliable model?” she asked, to distract herself from thinking about what would have to happen in a few hours. “Finnish, three degrees of protection,” the locksmith turned a shiny cylinder with its key in his hands, as if demonstrating the item. “You can’t take it with a pick, not with bumping either. Without the native key—or an angle grinder—you’re not getting in.”
“He’s unlikely to have an angle grinder,” Ira thought, picturing Andrei in a 100-thousand-ruble suit trying to cut the door with a power tool. The image was so absurd she even snorted softly. “Here are your four keys, just as you ordered,” the locksmith handed her a ring of identical keys with protective stickers gleaming on them. “Care to try?” Ira nodded and took them.
Their cold weight in her palm felt like something final. A point of no return. Five years of marriage, crossed out by four pieces of metal. As she turned the key in the new lock, she felt a tight spring inside her release—a spring that had been winding tighter and tighter for the last two months. The mechanism worked flawlessly, smoothly, without the slightest resistance. Symbolic, Ira thought.
Locks had always had a special place in her life. When the locksmith left, taking the old cylinder with him and leaving the invoice, Ira walked into the living room of her three-room apartment. The spacious room with high ceilings and Soviet-era plasterwork looked unusually empty—she had removed some things, the ones that belonged to Andrei.
She had packed them into suitcases and duffel bags, which now stood by the front door, waiting for their owner. Ira went to the window and looked out at the snow-covered courtyard of the old Stalin-era building. In five years of marriage, this was her first truly independent decision. And she already knew the consequences would be painful for everyone involved in this story.
“I should warn the concierge,” a practical thought flashed by. She picked up the phone and called downstairs. “Hello, Aleksei Petrovich. Here’s the situation.” Ira paused for a second, choosing her words. “If my husband comes back today not alone but with his mother and sister—don’t let them into the apartment. My husband no longer lives here. His things are at the door—he can take them.”
“And please don’t let them into the apartment itself.” “Understood, Irina Viktorovna.” The elderly concierge’s voice held neither surprise nor judgment. “Don’t worry.” “How many stories like this he must have seen,” Ira thought as she hung up. In old buildings in the city center, concierges often worked for decades, becoming silent witnesses to human dramas and comedies.
She slowly sank into an armchair, looking at the spot on the wall where their wedding photo had recently hung. Now there was only a pale rectangle on the wallpaper—the trace of a happy past that, she now felt, had been merely an illusion. Ira glanced at the antique grandfather clock she had inherited with the apartment from her grandmother. Their steady ticking had always calmed her.
They showed just after two. Andrei was due back by six—and not alone. After what he’d said that morning, she’d had only a few hours to make a decision and carry it out. “How nice that you got a promotion! Mom and my sister are moving in with us for good—now you’ll be supporting everyone.” Those words, tossed off carelessly over breakfast, were still ringing in her ears.
No “congratulations,” no “I’m proud of you,” no “you earned it.” Just a statement of fact: now you’ll be supporting not only me but also my mother and my sister. Ira closed her eyes, remembering how it had all begun.
How a girl from a military family, raised on strictness and discipline, ended up married to a man who, at thirty-eight, thought it normal to live off his wife. Irina Viktorovna Sokolova was born to an Air Force lieutenant colonel and an English teacher. From childhood she was used to order, discipline, and responsibility—the qualities her father considered the foundation of character.
“There are no rehearsals in life, Irinka,” he would say whenever she complained about high standards. “Every day is a performance: either you’re ready for it, or you’ve failed.” Their small family crisscrossed military garrisons—beyond Baikal, the Far East, then the Moscow region.
New schools, new friends, new rules—all of it taught her to adapt quickly and not cling too tightly to people or places. At every school she was a top student, but her father always said, “It’s not the place that makes the person, it’s the person who makes the place.” It doesn’t matter where you are; what matters is the mark you leave there. When Ira was sixteen, they finally settled in Moscow.
Her father was promoted and assigned to headquarters, and her mother got a job at a prestigious language gymnasium. For a girl accustomed to military towns, the capital felt like another planet—bright, noisy, unfriendly. No one cared that you were an honor student and a student council chair. The rules were different, and she was desperate to figure them out.
The class she entered had been together for years. The children from well-off families had already divided into groups and cliques, and breaking into that closed society wasn’t easy. But Ira didn’t give up. She remembered her father’s words—Sokolovs don’t shy away from difficulties—and stubbornly looked for her place under the Moscow sun. Schoolwork became her salvation.
She threw herself into her studies, especially English, which she knew better than many thanks to her mother. The homeroom teacher, Vera Semyonovna, noticed and suggested she tutor struggling students.
That’s how she made her first friend at the new school—Margarita Oleinikova, the daughter of a prominent Moscow lawyer: a beauty, the life of the party, and a hopeless C-student in English. “You’re not like other straight-A girls,” Rita said after a few sessions. “Not a bore at all. And you dress well.” “And how are straight-A girls supposed to dress?” Ira smiled.
“You know—glasses, braids, granny sweaters.” They laughed, and from that moment a friendship began that would turn Ira’s life upside down. Rita brought her into her circle, introduced her to the right people, taught her how to dress in Moscow fashion and not be self-conscious about her provincial past.
“You have beautiful eyes,” Rita would say as they shopped together at the mall. “And a figure. You just don’t know how to present yourself. Look.” Rita’s lessons paid off. By graduation Ira had transformed from ugly duckling into swan—a slender brunette with attentive gray eyes. She no longer looked out of place in this city or this school.
Teachers predicted a gold medal and a brilliant future. But fate had prepared the first serious lesson—one that would forever change her view of people and of her own life. A new student transferred in: Kirill Smirnov, a diplomat’s son just back from a long posting in Spain.
Tall, with an olive tan and dark curls, he instantly became the center of attention for all the girls. But his gaze stopped on Ira. “You’re not like the others,” he told her after class one day. “There’s depth in you.” Ira fell in love the way only a seventeen-year-old can—recklessly, without looking back, forgetting everything else.
Kirill wasn’t just handsome; he was interesting—he read serious books, loved philosophy, dreamed of becoming a journalist and traveling the world. Next to him she felt special, chosen. “You two are like two halves of a whole,” Rita teased. “Sickening, honestly.” But there was no envy in her tone, only genuine joy for her friend—or so Ira thought.
When it came time for final exams, she and Kirill made grand plans: to enter the same university, rent a place together, and maybe later go work abroad. For the first time in her life, Ira was thinking not about what her parents expected but about what she wanted. It was a heady feeling of freedom.
She aced the exams, got her gold medal, and was admitted tuition-free to prestigious MGIMO—where Kirill also planned to enroll. The future looked bright and clear. And then something happened that turned her world upside down. The graduation party was in one of Moscow’s trendy clubs.
Ira wore a specially bought electric-blue dress that set off her gray eyes, making them almost blue. Kirill couldn’t take his eyes off her, and that filled her with pride. The evening was magical—congratulations, dancing, champagne, plans for the future. After the formal part, the disco began.
At one point she lost sight of Kirill, but thought nothing of it—he might have gone out for a smoke or to chat. But when he’d been gone for more than an hour, she grew worried. His phone didn’t answer. “Have you seen Kirill?” she asked Rita, who was dancing with an older student. “No,” Rita smiled oddly. “Maybe he stepped outside?” Ira decided to check.
She combed through the club, glanced outside, but Kirill was nowhere. With growing anxiety she went up to the top floor, where the VIP rooms were. One door was ajar, and strange sounds came from inside. What she saw when she looked in changed her forever.
Kirill and Rita—her best friend and her boyfriend—were kissing feverishly on the couch, oblivious to the world. His hand was under her dress, and Rita was softly moaning. “I’ve wanted you since the first day I transferred,” Kirill mumbled between kisses. “Ira was just a cover.” She didn’t listen further.
She closed the door quietly, went downstairs, grabbed her purse, and called a taxi. She came home with dry eyes; the tears would come later. At that moment there was only the deafening shock of betrayal and the humiliating realization of her own naivety. Her father found her on the balcony at four in the morning, knees hugged to her chest, watching the sunrise over a sleeping Moscow.
“What happened, sweetheart?” he asked, settling beside her. And Ira told him everything—not crying, not complaining—just stating facts, like a report on a failed operation. He listened without interrupting. When she finished, he laid his big hand over hers. “In aviation there’s this thing called a ‘turbulence zone,’” he said thoughtfully.
“The plane shakes; it feels like it’s about to fall apart. But if the pilot knows his stuff and doesn’t panic, he always brings the aircraft back into calm air. You’re in such a zone now. You’ve been betrayed, and it hurts. But you’re stronger than the pain, Irinka. You’ll get through it and be tougher for it.” “I’ll never trust anyone again, Dad,” she whispered. “Don’t be silly,” he smiled gently.
“You have to trust people—just not everyone and not in everything. Trust but verify: it’s an old rule, and it works. And remember: only those you trust can betray you. If you don’t trust, they can’t betray you.” Those words sank deep and became the basis of her life philosophy. She didn’t call Kirill or Rita. Deleted their numbers and blocked them on social media.
She started with a clean slate. She enrolled in MGIMO—but not in international journalism, where Kirill was headed. She chose international tourism. On the first day, she was relieved to note that neither he nor Rita was among the freshmen.
Later she learned Kirill had failed his entrance and gone to another university, and Rita had gone off to study in London—her father paid for a prestigious college. Studies consumed Ira. She soaked up knowledge, went to conferences, won student paper competitions.
In her third year she was offered an internship at a major travel company; she did so well they offered her a permanent position after graduation. Her personal life took a back seat. There were dates and brief romances, but she let no one close to her heart.
She focused on her career, self-development, on becoming independent and self-sufficient. By twenty-six she was heading a division at the same travel company where she started as an intern.
She had her own small studio in a bedroom district—bought with a mortgage—and a stable income, enough to support herself and help her now-retired parents. Then something else happened that changed everything: her grandmother died—her father’s mother—and left Ira an apartment in the center of Moscow.
Alexandra Pavlovna Sokolova was a family legend—a cardiologist who had worked her entire life at the Kremlin Hospital, treated high-ranking officials, and for her service had been awarded a spacious three-room flat in a Stalin-era building near Patriarch’s Ponds. Ira hadn’t been especially close to her; the woman was known as strict and unsentimental.
But the Sokolovs had sent their daughter to her when her father was posted to Moscow. Ira spent her first year in the capital under her grandmother’s wing, until her parents got settled. Alexandra Pavlovna was no fairy-tale granny—she didn’t bake pies or knit socks—but she taught her granddaughter the crucial things: self-reliance and the ability to make decisions.
“A woman must always have her own place on earth,” she would say, showing Ira old photos of the building. “And her own thing to do in life. Then she’ll never depend on someone else’s mercy.” Alexandra had been widowed young—Ira’s grandfather died in a car crash when her father was twelve. But she didn’t break. She raised her son, built her career, and earned the respect of colleagues and patients. When she died of a stroke, Ira was at a travel expo in Milan. She flew home for the funeral in shock and numbness. Death had always seemed distant and abstract; now it barged in—sudden and merciless.
After the funeral her father invited her into his study and handed her an envelope. “This is from Mom,” he said quietly. In the family, they always called the grandmother simply “Mom.” She had left a will. Inside was a short letter in a neat, almost medical hand: “Dear Irina, if you’re reading this, it means I’m gone.
“Don’t grieve too long; I lived a long and, I dare hope, worthy life. I always followed your successes and was proud of you. You are a true Sokolova—strong, intelligent, goal-oriented. I bequeath to you my apartment on Malaya Bronnaya. It’s not just real estate; it’s our family’s history.
“My best years passed within these walls. Your father grew up here, and once you lived here too. I hope these rooms will make you happy. That you will build a family and raise children here. But remember: this is your home. Only you decide who crosses its threshold. Above all, remain true to yourself and never let anyone dictate how you should live. With love, your grandmother Alexandra.”
Ira read the letter with tears in her eyes. She had never imagined her grandmother followed her life so closely, let alone felt such pride. Nor had she expected such a generous legacy. “Mom wanted the apartment to stay in the family,” her father explained. “Your mother and I are no longer young; we don’t need such a large place.”
“And she always singled you out among the grandkids, said you were most like her in character.” So at twenty-seven, Ira became the owner of a spacious flat in one of Moscow’s most prestigious neighborhoods. At first she was even afraid to move in—the grief was too fresh, her grandmother’s voice too vivid in those rooms.
But with a light renovation—preserving the historic details—she began to make the place her own. She restored the ceiling plaster, the oak parquet, the antique door handles.
She updated the furniture, keeping only a few of her grandmother’s pieces: the massive Karelian birch bookcase, the grandfather clock, and a small mahogany secrétaire. The highlight of the apartment was the library—hundreds of volumes on medicine, history, philosophy, and classic literature. Ira couldn’t bring herself to throw anything away, though some editions were clearly outdated.
She felt a piece of Alexandra Pavlovna’s soul lived in those books. Moving to the center changed not only the logistics of her life but also her inner sense of self. She became more confident, more independent. With the new address her circle of acquaintances expanded—business owners, doctors, lawyers, professors were now her neighbors.
For the first time Ira felt part of the Moscow elite—not by strings pulled or money, but by right of inherited tradition. During that period she formulated the philosophy she held until she met Andrei. The main principle was maintaining independence—financial, emotional, domestic.
“No one should have power over you,” she often repeated—words she’d first heard from her grandmother. The second principle: quality in everything—in work, relationships, and the things she surrounded herself with. Ira preferred less but better. That applied to clothes, tech, food—and especially to the people in her life.
The third pillar was taking responsibility for her choices. “If you decide something, own the consequences,” she told herself in hard moments. It kept her from hunting for culprits or whining about circumstances. Ira’s career took off in travel. By thirty she was Director of Business Development at an international company arranging luxury trips worldwide.
Her English was impeccable, her Spanish strong, and she’d started on Chinese. She traveled a lot, met interesting people, lived a full life. And yet sometimes, returning to an empty apartment after another business trip, she felt a strange hollowness. She had people to talk to, to spend time with, to share a bed with.
But there wasn’t a person she wanted simply to sit with in silence—no roles, no need to impress. “Maybe I’m too demanding?” she thought, looking at her reflection. At thirty-one she was still attractive—slender, with good posture, expressive gray eyes, and fine features. Not a cover girl, but decidedly an interesting woman.
Men noticed her, but relationships rarely went beyond a few dates. Some were put off by her independence, some by her success, others by her refusal to play traditional gender games. She wasn’t a feminist in the aggressive sense; she just saw no point in pretending to be weaker or dumber than she was.
“When I meet him, I’ll know right away,” she told her friend Natasha whenever the latter tried to set her up with yet another “promising candidate.” Ira believed real feelings don’t require effort and strategy: they either appear or they don’t. And she was sure she’d meet the person she’d want to share a life with. They met by chance—as often happens in fateful stories.
Ira was returning from a trip to Barcelona, where she’d been negotiating with the owners of small family hotels on the Costa Brava. The flight was delayed three hours due to an air-traffic-controller strike, and she was passing time in the business lounge at El Prat, checking email on her laptop. At the next table sat a man in a flawless gray suit.
He was on the phone speaking Russian, and Ira couldn’t help but overhear. “No, Galina Petrovna, I can’t fly earlier,” he was explaining to someone, irritation creeping into his voice. “There’s a strike here.” “Yes, I understand.” “What do you expect me to do?” “No, I can’t take a taxi to Madrid—it’s 500 kilometers.” His caller seemed not to grasp the logistics, and the man grew more and more tense.
Their eyes met by chance and Ira gave him a sympathetic smile. “Mom, I have to go,” he said finally. “I’ll call when there’s news about the flight.” He hung up and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. “Tough conversation?” Ira asked, surprising herself with her boldness. She was often more open while traveling than in Moscow.
“Parents,” he said tersely. “They never believe you can’t control the whole world. Especially mothers.” He smiled, and his face transformed—the lines of fatigue smoothed, brown eyes warming. It was a boyish, disarming smile that didn’t quite match his businesslike image. “Andrei,” he introduced himself, offering a hand.
“Irina,” she shook it. That’s how their romance began. Three hours in the airport flew by as they talked about everything—travel, work, books, films. They had much in common: both loved jazz, preferred active vacations to beaches, and read the same authors.
Andrei was five years older. He said he ran his own business—solutions for the travel industry. That resonated with Ira—she was seeking new tech for her company. When boarding was announced, they exchanged numbers.
Ira was sure it would end there—a pleasant airport acquaintance with no sequel. But Andrei called the very next day after they got back to Moscow. “Irina, remember you mentioned problems with your company’s online booking? I have a few ideas that could help. Dinner to discuss?” She agreed—why not?
A business dinner with a potential partner, nothing personal. But when she saw Andrei at the restaurant in a navy jacket with a bouquet of white lilies—how did he know they were her favorite?—she realized this wasn’t just business. Andrei was a gallant, attentive conversationalist.
He listened as if every word mattered, asked questions that showed genuine interest not just in her career but in her as a person. After dinner they walked for a long time through evening Moscow, and Ira caught herself thinking she hadn’t felt so at ease with a man in ages. “You’re unusual,” Andrei said as he saw her home.
“Most women your age only talk about marriage and children, and you tell me about business strategy, travel, books.” “Disappointed?” she challenged. “On the contrary,” he flashed that boyish smile. “Charmed.” At the entrance he didn’t press for coffee. He simply kissed her hand and said he hoped to see her again.
It won her over completely—no pressure, no expectations, only respect for her personal space. Their romance developed quickly. A week later Andrei invited her to a jazz concert. Then a weekend trip to Suzdal. Then the Tretyakov Gallery.
Each meeting revealed new facets—he was well-read, funny, passionate about his work. Ira allowed herself to relax and trust the relationship. For the first time in a long time she felt she’d met a man with whom she didn’t have to pretend or adjust.
They were equals—two successful, self-sufficient people who chose to be together. Andrei spoke about his business with such enthusiasm it was contagious. He was developing an app for the travel industry that would revolutionize how travelers interact with local services.
“Imagine: you land in a new city, and through one app you can book a tour with a local, reserve a table at a place where only locals eat, not tourists, and discover events the standard guides never mention,” he said, eyes shining. “No tourist traps, no overpaying—just authentic experiences.”
The idea seemed promising, and Ira even offered to pilot it with her company’s clients when it was ready. Andrei was grateful for her support and belief. Two months after they met, he told her he was in love. It happened during a walk around Patriarch’s Ponds, right by her home.
It was a warm September evening; the leaves had just begun to turn, and the air smelled of autumn. “I never believed in love at first sight,” he said, stopping by the water. “Seemed like a fairy tale. But when I saw you at that airport, something clicked. Like I’d found the person I’d been looking for all my life without knowing it.”
Ira wasn’t a sentimental woman, but his words touched something deep. “I’ve never felt anything like this either,” she admitted softly. “With you it’s different. I don’t have to play roles or pretend. I can be myself—and it’s enough.”
He embraced her, and they stood a long while, gazing at the dark pond with the streetlights reflected in it. That night Andrei stayed with her for the first time. Their relationship seemed ideal—not only did they love each other, they shared interests, values, life goals. Both were ambitious, valued independence, preferred quality over quantity in every aspect of life.
Only one thing cast a slight shadow: Andrei lived with his mother. He explained it as caring for an older woman, widowed long ago and dependent on her son. “My father died when I was sixteen,” he said. “Since then it’s just been Mom and me. She sacrificed everything—career, personal life—for my sake.”
“I can’t just leave her alone.” Ira understood, but it made her uneasy. She wanted their relationship to progress—to live together, to wake up in the same bed not only on weekends but every day. “Why don’t you move in with me?” she suggested. “My apartment is more than big enough for two.”
Andrei hesitated. “You see, my mother is very attached to me. I’m not sure she’ll manage on her own.” “She’s not eighty,” Ira said gently. “And you won’t be on the other side of the city. You can visit as often as you like.” Eventually Andrei agreed to talk to his mother about moving.
But that conversation kept getting postponed, and their relationship continued as before—together on weekends and sometimes on weekdays when Andrei could get away. Four months after they met, Andrei introduced Ira to his family: his mother, Galina Petrovna, and his younger sister, Veronika. Dinner was at the Sokolovs’—a Stalin-era apartment on Frunzenskaya Embankment with a view of the Moscow River.
Galina Petrovna was a stately woman around sixty, with dyed chestnut hair and keen dark eyes. She greeted Ira with punctilious politeness but little warmth. “Andryusha has told me so much about you,” she said, giving Ira an assessing look. “Says you’re some sort of business lady.”
There was a barely audible irony in her voice that made Ira uneasy. She decided to ignore it—meeting a boyfriend’s mother is always stressful, especially when the son is as close to her as Andrei was. Veronika, the sister, was Andrei’s opposite.
If he was organized and driven, she seemed the eternal student, though already past thirty—some vague job “in the arts,” a bohemian look, a habit of dramatizing trifles. It put Ira on guard, but she decided not to judge too quickly. Over dinner, Galina Petrovna asked Ira about work, future plans, family.
The questions were polite but loaded—she was clearly probing for weak spots. “And how will a busy lady like you combine career and family?” she asked, pouring tea. “Andryusha’s always dreamed of a big family, hasn’t he, son?” Andrei, who had been proudly talking about Ira’s professional achievements, suddenly looked flustered.
“Mom, we haven’t discussed that yet,” he said, avoiding Ira’s eyes. “How can that be?” she replied in surprise. “You’ve always said you wanted three children. That’s our family tradition.” Ira felt awkward. They really hadn’t discussed kids; it seemed too soon.
Besides, she wasn’t sure she wanted a large family, given her career ambitions. “I think modern women handle balancing career and motherhood quite well,” she said diplomatically. “But specific plans are for Andrei and me to discuss in private when the time comes.” Galina pursed her lips, clearly displeased.
Veronika suddenly perked up. “Is it true you inherited your apartment from your grandmother?” she asked, not bothering to hide her interest. “Andrei says your place at Patriarch’s is amazing.” “Yes,” Ira confirmed. “My grandmother was a cardiologist at the Kremlin Hospital. She received the apartment for her service.” “Some people get all the luck,” Veronika drawled.
“We never could afford to live in the center. After Dad died, Mom had to sell our old apartment and buy this smaller one.” “Veronika!” her mother snapped. “Don’t talk nonsense. We have a lovely apartment, and it suits us perfectly.” But the look she shot Ira held poorly concealed envy.
Ira was unpleasantly surprised—she had never flaunted her position and believed material things were not the main thing in life. On the ride back, she couldn’t shake the feeling the meeting had gone less smoothly than she’d hoped. “Your mother doesn’t seem thrilled with me,” she ventured. “Nonsense,” Andrei squeezed her hand.
“She’s just worried. You’re the first woman I’ve introduced in years. Give her time to accept that her son has grown up and wants a family.” Ira nodded, though an inner voice told her the problem ran deeper. She pushed the thought away; after all, she was in love with Andrei, not his mother or sister.
The relationship continued to develop, but the question of living together remained unresolved. Andrei often stayed at Ira’s on weekends and sometimes for a few weekdays, but he wouldn’t move in for good—citing his mother, or the need to be close to the office. Ira began to feel a diffuse unease.
It seemed there was a submerged rock in their relationship—something unspoken, unsettled. Whenever she tried to discuss it, Andrei joked it away or changed the subject. Then, seven months after they met, he proposed.
It happened during a trip to Venice—romance distilled: narrow streets, gondolas, bridges over canals. Perfect for vows. They were walking through Piazza San Marco, feeding pigeons, admiring the basilica.
Suddenly Andrei knelt in the middle of the square, in front of dozens of tourists, and pulled a little velvet box from his pocket. “Irina Viktorovna Sokolova,” he said solemnly, “I love you and want to spend my life with you. Will you marry me?” Ira froze in astonishment. She hadn’t expected a proposal, not so soon at least. They’d been together less than a year; they were still getting to know each other; living together remained unresolved. But looking into his eyes, full of hope and love, she couldn’t say no.
She did love him, and she did see a future with him. “Yes,” she said, her voice trembling. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” He slid a small but flawless diamond onto her finger, rose, and hugged her tight.
Tourists applauded; someone even shouted “Gorko!” in Russian. “I’ll make you happy,” Andrei whispered. “I promise.” In that moment she believed him completely. Back in Moscow, they announced their engagement.
Ira’s parents reacted with restraint—her father thought a year of acquaintance before marriage was the bare minimum, and her mother worried her daughter was rushing. But seeing Ira’s happiness, they didn’t object—just asked not to rush the wedding. Andrei’s family’s reaction was more complicated.
When she heard, Galina pursed her lips. “Well, if you’re sure, son. I hope Irina understands the responsibility she’s taking on.” “What responsibility, Mom?” Andrei frowned. “We just want to be together.” “How can you say that?” Galina exclaimed. “You’re to be the head of a family—you need a reliable home front. And I’m not getting younger; I need support too.”
“We’ve always been a single family, and I hope Irina understands that.” A chill ran down Ira’s back—the clear hint that after the wedding they’d be expected to care for the mother. Veronika was enthusiastic but with a twist: “Wow! So you’ll be living in that chic place by Patriarch’s now? Cool! Maybe there’s a little room for me.” “Joking, joking,” she added quickly when she saw Ira’s face. But Ira understood it wasn’t entirely a joke. They set the wedding for two months later—modest, intimate, just close family and friends.
Ira insisted, and Andrei agreed—though Galina had hinted that an only son deserved something splashier. A week before the wedding they finally discussed where they’d live. “I think it’s logical for you to move in with me,” Ira said. “I’ve got a three-room place in the center—it makes sense.” Andrei hesitated. “I think so too, but…”
He trailed off. “Mom will be upset if I leave her completely.” “Andrei,” Ira said gently, taking his hand, “you’re thirty-six. A grown man getting married and starting his own family. It’s normal to live apart from your mother.” “I know,” he sighed. “It’s just—she hasn’t felt well lately. Blood pressure, heart. I’m afraid to leave her alone.”
“What about Veronika? She lives with her.” He hesitated again. “She’s not very reliable day-to-day. And she’s often off to some exhibitions, festivals. Mom can’t count on her.” Ira felt her irritation rising but kept her tone calm. “Alright,” she said.
“Here’s the plan: after the wedding you move in with me, and we visit your mother regularly. If her health worsens, we’ll consider a housekeeper or a visiting nurse.” Andrei nodded with relief. “Thank you for understanding. You’re the best.” Ira smiled, but inside she sensed this problem was only beginning.
The wedding was exactly as planned—chamber, elegant, without pomp. Ira wore a simple white dress by a Russian designer; instead of a banquet they held a dinner at a small restaurant for twenty guests. Andrei wore a classic navy suit.
Galina arrived in a deep wine-colored dress with heavy gold jewelry and elaborate hair: clearly intent on outshining the bride. It only amused Ira; she was too happy to care. Ira’s parents were dignified without pretension.
Her father, Viktor Aleksandrovich—now fully gray but still trim—gave a toast that moved everyone: “May your love be strong as steel and tender as the first spring flower; may you always be each other’s support in joy and in sorrow, in wealth and in want; and may you never forget why you made these vows today.” Ira’s mother, Yelena Sergeevna—an elegant woman with their daughter’s keen eyes—quietly cried as she watched the happy couple. And Galina, after her third glass of champagne, suddenly boomed, “So, Irochka—when will you be blessing us with grandchildren? Andryusha dreams of kids.”
The blunt question, asked in front of everyone, made Ira tense. She and Andrei had barely touched on children and agreed they’d live for themselves a year or two and then think about it. “In good time,” Ira answered diplomatically. “First we need to settle in and get used to each other.” “What’s there to get used to?” Galina waved a hand.
“Live like normal people and all will be well. The main thing is that the husband be the head, and the wife the neck.” Ira felt Andrei tense beside her. She expected him to respond, but he stayed silent, only squeezing her hand. After the wedding came the daily life.
Andrei moved in with Ira, as agreed. At first everything was perfect—they enjoyed each other, set up the household, planned their future. Andrei worked on his app; Ira continued to run her department. But slowly the idyll began to crack.
Galina called her son several times a day—complaining about her health, the neighbors, the utilities. Andrei grew anxious, often bolting to his mother’s in the middle of a workday—or a family dinner. “Sorry, honey, Mom says her heart really hurts,” he’d say, shrugging on his jacket. “I need to check on her.”
Ira didn’t object—caring for parents is natural. But when the “emergencies” began to happen several times a week, she grew worried. Matters got worse when Veronika announced she was going to India for six months “to find herself.” “I’ll look after Mom,” Andrei finished, looking at Ira. “She’ll move in with us while Veronika’s in India.”
“Temporarily, of course.” And so began the true test of their family. The temporary move stretched into three long months. During that time Ira felt like a guest in her own home. Her mother-in-law rearranged the kitchen to her liking, criticized Ira’s style of dress, her cooking, her work schedule.
“Andryusha’s used to home-cooked food,” she’d say reproachfully when Ira came home late. “A man needs to be fed on time, or he’ll look elsewhere.” Andrei didn’t stand up for his wife. Around his mother he turned into someone else—pliant, passive, ready to agree with her every word.
When Veronika finally returned from her spiritual journey, Galina reluctantly moved back to her place. But the fragile balance in Ira and Andrei’s marriage was already upset. They argued more and drifted apart. The crisis hit in their third year.
Andrei’s app—into which he had poured his soul and substantial funds, including money borrowed from Ira—collapsed. A major investor pulled out at the last minute, and competitors launched a similar product first. “I’ve lost everything,” he said, sitting in the kitchen with a bottle of whiskey. “Three years of work, all the money. All for nothing.”
Ira tried to support him—insisting this wasn’t the end of the world, that he was talented and would come up with something new. But Andrei seemed broken. He lay on the couch for hours scrolling his phone, refused to look for a new job, snapped at any suggestion. “You don’t understand what it’s like to fail like this,” he said bitterly. “Everything works out for you; I’m the loser.”
Ira didn’t give up. She looked for openings that matched his experience, lined up interviews, tried to boost his confidence. But Andrei botched one interview after another—arrived late, seemed uninterested, or demanded unrealistic pay.
“I won’t take that position,” he declared after another interview Ira had arranged through her contacts. “I won’t work for peanuts.” “They offered decent money,” she argued. “And it’s a good starting point with growth potential.” “Don’t tell me what to do,” he snapped. “I’ll decide my career myself.”
But he wasn’t deciding anything. Instead of job-hunting, Andrei spent time with friends, played video games, or just lay around. Their savings for the future melted at a dangerous pace. Ira noticed he asked to “borrow” more often—gas, a meeting with a potential partner, a new gadget supposedly needed for work.
The loans, of course, weren’t repaid. Then her immediate boss returned from maternity leave, and Ira was moved back to her previous role. It hurt—she’d grown used to the higher status and salary. “See, I’m not the only one with problems,” Andrei remarked with a strange satisfaction. “You got demoted too.” “I wasn’t demoted,” Ira replied.
“I was acting department head temporarily—everyone knew that. It’s normal.” But Andrei seemed not to hear. He sank deeper into apathy, often disappeared God-knows-where, came home late. Their marriage was coming apart. During that period her mother-in-law began to show up more often.
She came to “support her boy in a difficult time,” but in fact made things worse—constantly reminding him of his failure while simultaneously blaming Ira for everything. “You pressured him too much,” she’d say after Andrei left the room. “A man needs space for self-realization. And you with your career—who builds a family like that?” Ira tried not to react.
She loved her husband, believed in him, wanted to save the marriage. But with each day hope melted like the first snow under spring sun. On their fourth anniversary Andrei didn’t come home at all. No call, no text. Ira waited all evening with a cooked dinner and a gift—expensive cufflinks she’d saved up for.
He came at dawn, drunk, with a hickey on his neck, and didn’t even remember the date. For the first time she seriously considered divorce. But she didn’t decide—hope still clung that something could be fixed, that the Andrei she’d fallen for at the Barcelona airport still existed somewhere inside this sullen, perpetually dissatisfied man.
Deep down she knew she was fooling herself. She recalled her father’s words about turbulence and hoped their plane would still find calm skies. But the turbulence continued, with no end in sight. In their fifth year two events put the dots over the i’s.
First, Andrei took a job—not in tech, but as an ordinary sales manager at a former classmate’s company. Ira was glad, thinking it was a way out. The joy didn’t last. Two months later Andrei announced he was being laid off due to downsizing.
Ira later learned from mutual acquaintances that he was actually fired for chronic tardiness and missing sales targets. “That job wasn’t for me,” he said, coming home the day he was fired. “I’m a creative, not a salesman.” Ira held her tongue though she burned inside. For two years her “creative” had created nothing but problems for their family.
The second event was positive: Ira was promoted to Director of Business Development at her travel company. After years of hard work, she finally received the recognition she’d dreamed of—along with a sizable raise and new opportunities for growth. That night she came home elated, ready to share the news.
She hoped it might be a fresh start for both of them—with her new salary, Andrei could take time to learn, perhaps even launch a new project. He sat in the kitchen lazily browsing his laptop. When Ira told him about the promotion, he nodded indifferently—then suddenly brightened: “How nice that you got a promotion!
“Mom and my sister are moving in with us for good—now you’ll be supporting everyone.” He blurted it out and, without waiting for an answer, grabbed the car keys. “I’ll go pick them up—they’ve already packed.” Ira froze in shock. In five years she had learned to forgive and endure much, but this was the last straw.
This wasn’t just disrespect for her as a wife; it was the complete erasure of her as a person with her own wishes and rights. Her grandmother’s words from the farewell letter surfaced: “This is your home, and only you decide who crosses its threshold.” The decision came instantly and was final. As soon as the door closed behind Andrei,
Ira called the locksmith. Then she methodically began packing her husband’s things—clothes, shoes, personal items—neatly into suitcases and bags, which she set by the door. Three hours later a new lock was installed; the old keys no longer fit. She sat in an armchair and waited.
Inside there was emptiness—no anger, no hurt—just calm resolve and a strange relief, as if she had finally shed a burden she’d carried too long. They arrived as a trio—Andrei, Galina, and Veronika—laden with bags and boxes. Ira heard the key scrape in the lock—and fail. The doorbell rang. She approached but didn’t open.
“Andrei, this is the end,” she said evenly through the door. “I’m filing for divorce. Your things are by the door. Take them and go.” “What?” His voice sounded shocked. “Ira, open up now. What kind of joke is this?” “It’s not a joke. I don’t want to be your wife anymore. And I’m certainly not going to support you, your mother, and your sister.”
An outraged voice cut in: Galina’s. “How dare you, you ungrateful wretch! My son is the best thing that ever happened to you. Open this instant!” “Galina Petrovna, I don’t wish to speak with you at all,” Ira said curtly. “You did everything you could to destroy our family. Congratulations—you succeeded.” “Ira—” Andrei’s tone now had a pleading note.
“Let’s talk like adults. I understand—you’re tired, it’s been a hard day.” “No, Andrei. I’ve made my decision. For five years I put up with your disrespect, your laziness, your consumer attitude. I loved you, supported you, believed in you. And you didn’t even ask whether I wanted your relatives living with us. You just presented it as a fait accompli.”
“But they’re my family!” “And what am I to you?” Silence. Then Ira heard Veronika’s quiet voice: “Andrei, let’s go. You can see she’s made up her mind.” “We’re not going anywhere!” Galina cut in. “This is our home too! Andrei has a right to it!” “No, Galina Petrovna,” Ira said firmly. “This apartment belongs to me. I inherited it from my grandmother.
“Andrei has no rights to it. If you don’t leave now, I’ll call the police.” Silence returned. Then came the rustle of movement—Andrei, apparently, began gathering his things. “You’ll regret this,” Galina threw at last. “A man like my Andryusha, you won’t find with a lantern at high noon.”
Ira didn’t respond. She went back to the living room and sank into the armchair, feeling a strange mix of emptiness and relief. Tears ran down her face, but her soul felt calm—as if, after a long illness, recovery had finally begun. The divorce was harder than she expected.
Prodded by his mother, Andrei hired a lawyer and tried to claim a share of the apartment—arguing he’d invested in its renovation and upkeep. But Ira had all the paperwork—on the inheritance and on expenses for the flat, most of which she had borne. The legal wrangling dragged on for six months.
During that time Andrei made several attempts to return—came with flowers, swore he loved her, promised to change. When pleading failed, he turned to threats and manipulation. “You’ll never find anyone better than me,” he told her at one meeting. “Who would want you—a careerist with your personality?” Ira listened silently, refusing to take the bait. Her decision was made, and she wouldn’t go back.
Galina also didn’t give up—she called Ira’s parents to complain how ungrateful their daughter was, sent angry messages, even ambushed Ira by her office once. “You broke my boy’s heart,” she declared, blocking Ira’s path to the car. “He’s suffering; he can’t sleep at night.”
“Galina Petrovna, your ‘boy’ is a grown man who destroyed our marriage with his own behavior,” Ira replied evenly. “And please stop harassing me, or I’ll have to go to the police.” After that, the mother-in-law backed off, but things with Andrei remained tense.
He oscillated between threats—he’d take all their jointly acquired property—and begging for another chance. “I’ve changed, Ira,” he said during one meeting with the lawyers. “I found a job. I moved out from Mom’s. I live on my own.” “I’m glad for you, Andrei,” she answered sincerely. “But our marriage is over.”
In the end the court sided with Ira: the divorce was finalized, and the apartment remained hers. Andrei got the car they’d bought during the marriage and some appliances. After the divorce, Ira didn’t rush into new relationships. She focused on work, on rebuilding her social circle—narrowed over the years—and on finding a new balance.
At first it was hard. She was used to falling asleep not alone, cooking for two, sharing daily joys and burdens. Now she had to learn to live differently. “You’ll manage, daughter,” her father said when she visited after the final hearing. “You’re strong—like all Sokolovs.” And she did manage—day by day, step by step.
She began traveling again—not just for work but for herself. She made new friends, reconnected with old ones she’d drifted from. Her career soared—she became Director of International Development, overseeing new tourism destinations for the company. The job required frequent trips, partner meetings, immersion in different cultures.
Ira reveled in the sense of competence and demand. A year after the divorce, Galina died of a heart attack. Ira hesitated but went to the funeral—not out of duty to her former mother-in-law but out of respect for the bright feeling that had once bound her to Andrei.
He looked older, gaunter, but held himself with dignity. After the service he came up to her. “Thank you for coming. Mom…she loved me in her own way, but that love didn’t always do me good.” Ira nodded silently. She felt neither gloating nor special pity—only a quiet sadness for what might have been and wasn’t.
“I’ve thought a lot about us, Ira,” Andrei went on. “You were right back then. I didn’t respect you, didn’t value you. Mom always controlled me too much, and I let her.” “I believe you’ve changed, Andrei,” she said. “And I truly wish you happiness.” They parted—this time for good.
From mutual friends Ira later heard Andrei had finally gotten his act together—found a job in a tech company, begun paying off his debts, including to her. Veronika married a foreigner and moved to Australia. Ira herself didn’t rush. There was a short romance with a colleague from the Spanish office, a few dates with different men, but nothing serious.
She enjoyed her newfound freedom—the ability to make decisions without looking over her shoulder, to live by her own rules. At thirty-nine she realized she didn’t want to postpone motherhood any longer. After careful thought, she decided on IVF.
It was a deliberate, adult choice. She wanted a child and felt she had the strength and love to raise one on her own. She didn’t want to bind herself to someone just to create a “complete” family. The pregnancy went smoothly, though doctors warned of possible complications due to her age. When she told her parents, they supported her.
“You’ll be a wonderful mother,” said Yelena Sergeevna. “And we’ll always be here to help.” Viktor Aleksandrovich was more restrained but approved as well: “I’m proud of you, Irinka. You make decisions and take responsibility. That’s what matters.” Sofia was born at the end of December—a sturdy, healthy girl with gray eyes like her mother and dimples in her cheeks.
Ira named her in honor of her grandmother, Alexandra Pavlovna, who had always said her second name was Sofiya. Motherhood changed Ira. She became softer, calmer, learned to savor small things she hadn’t noticed before. She didn’t quit work—she went remote for maternity leave, later hired a nanny and returned to the office—but with a different attitude toward her career.
She now valued balance more, learned to refuse projects that demanded too much time and energy. When Sofia turned three, Mikhail appeared in Ira’s life—an architect she met at a contemporary art exhibition.
Steady, grounded, with a gentle sense of humor and a deep outlook, he didn’t try to impress or play at passion. Their relationship developed slowly, without haste; they got to know each other, adapted to quirks and habits, learned to respect boundaries. Mikhail accepted Sofia—not trying to replace her father but becoming a true friend and mentor.
The girl warmed to him, feeling his genuine interest and care. Two years later they married—in a small circle, without pomp. Once again, in the spacious apartment by Patriarch’s Ponds, two voices resounded—male and female—and a third joined them: a child’s, bright and joyful.
Sometimes, as she tucked her daughter in, Ira thought about her winding path—its rises and falls, its sudden turns. She regretted nothing—not the marriage to Andrei, not the divorce, not the years of solitude. Each stage mattered; each made her who she had become: a woman who knows her own worth and her decisions, able to defend her boundaries yet remain open to the world.
She remembered her grandmother’s words from the farewell letter: “This is your home. Only you decide who crosses its threshold.” Now she understood their deeper meaning. It was not only about physical space, but about the inner world—about the heart, the soul.
And Ira was grateful to her grandmother for that lesson—for the strength passed down through generations, for the art of changing locks not only on doors, but in life. That’s the story.
