When Fyodor and Tasya got their marriage registered, there was nothing special about their life. No wealthy relatives, no dowry—just a tiny one-room apartment with peeling wallpaper and a creaky sofa that barely fit the two of them. But to Tasya, all that seemed like funny little trifles. She believed—they had everything ahead of them.
Every morning began the same way. Fedya grumbled that the kettle was noisy again, “like a plane taking off,” and she, laughing, would bring him a mug of instant coffee and a sandwich with sausage. The kitchen always smelled of something simple—fried potatoes, yesterday’s soup, or fresh bread they bought at the kiosk by their building.
“Well then, my general, ready for heroic labor?” Tasya would tease when her husband put on the shirt she had carefully ironed the night before.
“Where else would I go,” he’d answer with a slight smile. “The work won’t do itself.”
She loved their morning chats—short, a bit sleepy, but so genuine. And she always tried to say something encouraging, as if his whole day depended on her words.
Back then, Fyodor had started a small business—tiny, but his own. He supplied building materials to small clients; he did the negotiating himself, the driving himself, the hauling himself. Sometimes he’d get home late at night, tired but with eyes ablaze. Then he’d sit with his wife in the kitchen and share his plans: “Another couple dozen orders and we can expand. I told you it would work out.”
She listened, nodding, and believed every word.
Tasya had a job too—she worked as a secretary at a private company—and at that time her income and Fedya’s were about the same.
When their first baby was born, Fedya suggested,
“Tas, listen. Maybe you should leave your job? I’m managing, the income is growing. You can stay home with the baby. It’ll be calmer that way.”
Tasya froze. She felt sorry to give up her job—even if she didn’t love it—it was still her contribution to the family budget. But she looked at her son, then at Fedya—and agreed.
“Okay. Just so it won’t be too hard on you alone.”
From then on, her world revolved around the home, her husband, and the child.
She adapted quickly: learned to cook soup with the baby in her arms, wash diapers at night so everything would be clean by morning. Sometimes, when Fedya was swamped, he’d ask her to come to the office to help with order paperwork, and the two of them would sort through it late into the night, sitting at an old table. Tasya was proud of herself then: she felt she was part of the common endeavor—not just a wife, but a true helper and partner.
“You’re gold,” Fedya would say, kissing the top of her head. “Without you I’d have messed it all up long ago.”
Gradually, business picked up. There were more clients, the office moved to a larger space, Fyodor hired assistants, and for the first time ever they stopped living “from paycheck to paycheck.”
The birth of their second child fixed Tasya firmly in the role of keeper of the home. She no longer got involved in the company’s affairs—she had neither the strength nor the time. Mornings were breakfast, then walks with the kids, daycare, the clinic, activities… The housework never ended, but she even liked it: sometimes she felt like a hamster on a wheel, but the fatigue vanished as soon as she heard the children’s laughter or sank into her husband’s embrace.
Fyodor managed well: he brought money home regularly, and the family lacked for nothing. Tasya only thanked fate that everything had worked out this way. She thought it couldn’t get any better.
Sometimes, true, she caught herself thinking she no longer understood what her husband’s work life was like. If he used to tell her everything in detail, now he shared only in broad strokes. “Everything’s fine,” “don’t worry,” “I’ll handle it.” Tasya didn’t press. If it’s fine, then it really is fine. Why burden each other unnecessarily? She had the kids; he had work.
In every other respect, things seemed cloudless. So cloudless, in fact, that Tasya couldn’t even imagine that one day this well-oiled, even life could go off the rails.
But, as often happens, it’s precisely at such moments—when a person thinks everything is perfect—that fate is already preparing a new turn.
It was an ordinary morning. Tasya made porridge for the children, woke them up, sat them at the table. Fyodor, as always, was in a hurry. He poured himself coffee, picked up his phone, and paced the kitchen back and forth, typing something. She didn’t think anything of it. Work, of course. Everything was on his phone: clients, suppliers, employees.
When the kids ran off to their room and Tasya started clearing the table, he looked at her and exhaled loudly:
“Tas, we need to talk.”
Her heart fluttered. Those words usually boded nothing good.
“What happened?” she asked carefully, brushing crumbs off the table.
Fedya answered evenly, even coldly, as if he’d rehearsed in advance:
“Tas, I’ve decided… we’re getting a divorce.”
The spoon slipped from Tasya’s hands.
“What?” she repeated, hoping she’d misheard.
“We’re getting a divorce,” he said firmly. “You and I are different people. I need a different status, a different level.”
Something seemed to snap inside Tasya. She sat down because her legs wouldn’t hold her.
“Fedy… have you lost your mind? What status? We have a family, two children…”
He only shrugged.
“I’m a different man now, Tas. You… well, you know—simple, without ambition. And I have a business, connections. And… I’ve fallen in love with another woman. She’s younger, prettier, more promising. We’ll look good together.”
Tasya gripped the edge of the table to keep from crying.
“And what is it you want now?” she asked dully.
“I want you to pack your things and leave. You can take the kids, but this house stays with me.”
Then it was as if she woke up. Blood rushed to her cheeks and her voice turned firm:
“No, Fedya, that’s not how it’s going to be. I’m not going anywhere. Everything we have was acquired during the marriage. We’ll split it all evenly.”
He laughed out loud. The laugh was unpleasant, almost mocking.
“Tas, you’re so naïve.”
She was silent, not understanding.
“All the property,” he went on calmly, even proudly, “is in my mother’s name. The business too. The only thing in my name is that old one-room apartment on the outskirts where we used to live. I can give you that—I don’t mind. But you have no rights to this house. So… pack up and leave while we can keep it friendly.”
The ground fell out from under Tasya. All this time, all these years, she believed they were building a future together. She had poured in her soul, her strength, her time. And now it turned out she had nothing; everything she had worked so hard for belonged to her mother-in-law.
“So you… planned all this in advance?” she whispered.
“Of course,” he replied impassively. “That’s how it’s done in business. You have to insure yourself.”
In that moment, Tasya understood: the man she loved and trusted was no longer her husband. Sitting in front of her was a stranger—a calculating man.
“How could this be?—she thought. —I trusted him completely. Gave my whole self to the family. And this is what I got?”
That very day, gathering the bare minimum of things and taking the children, she went to the last place she wanted to go—her mother-in-law’s.
There had never been much warmth between her and Kira Ivanovna. Always strict, perpetually displeased, she had never considered Tasya worthy of her son.
And this time was no different. Kira Ivanovna met them coolly. She didn’t even move to help with the bags at the door—just stepped aside to let them in.
“Well, come in,” she said as if performing an unpleasant duty. “What brings you here?”
Her gaze was icy.
The children slipped straight into a room, while Tasya stayed in the hallway, a shopping bag in her hands.
“We have nowhere to go,” she said quietly. “Fyodor threw us out. Said everything is in your name.”
Her mother-in-law narrowed her eyes; her lips thinned to a line.
“What did you expect?” she said through her teeth. “You cheated on your husband, had those kids with someone else… So he protected himself.”
“What?” Tasya gasped. “What cheating? How could you even say that?!”
Her mother-in-law snorted, lifting her chin.
“My son told me everything. I believe him. I don’t believe you.”
Tasya turned pale. So that’s how it was. All this time her mother-in-law had looked at her as a liar.
“Want proof?” Her voice rang with hurt. “Let’s do a DNA test! So you can be sure!”
“We will,” Kira Ivanovna nodded coolly. “And then you won’t even get child support.”
The tests were done quickly. And when the results came back, there was no doubt: both children were Fyodor’s.
Kira Ivanovna held the paper in silence, her face like stone.
“Well? ” Tasya couldn’t stand it. “There’s your truth. I didn’t sleep around—I lived for this family! For him!”
She broke down, and words spilled out of her like water through a breached dam:
“I didn’t sleep at night, I raised the kids, cooked, washed, cleaned, ironed, and then went to your son’s office to help him! I worked just as hard as he did; we built everything together! Everything!” She clenched her fists. “And now I’m left with nothing because he suddenly decided I don’t suit his ‘status’!”
Kira Ivanovna listened without interrupting, only wincing now and then as if in pain.
That evening she called her son and demanded an explanation. At first, Fedya waved her off:
“Mom, why are you getting into this? I’m an adult. I made my decision, and that’s that.”
But Kira Ivanovna didn’t back down, and in the end he admitted:
“I always knew that as soon as I got on my feet and became successful, I’d swap my wife for someone more worthy. You should understand… a successful man needs a matching wife. Tasya is not of that caliber.”
He spoke easily, almost proudly. And that shocked Kira Ivanovna most of all.
She suddenly realized that all these years he had lied to her—turned her against his wife, told nasty stories so they wouldn’t grow close. And he himself turned out to be empty, petty, insignificant.
She didn’t say this aloud. She sat in silence, listening to her son confidently talk about a “new life,” “status,” and “prospects.”
Very soon, Kira Ivanovna did something no one expected. She liquidated the assets. Everything—the business, the real estate, even the car. And she split the money in half: kept one part for herself and gave the other to Tasya.
“This is yours,” she said, handing over an envelope with documents for a bank deposit. “It’s only fair.”
“Why are you doing this?..” Tasya whispered, unable to believe her eyes.
“Because I’m not going to live the way I did before,” Kira Ivanovna replied. “I’m treating him as he treated us. I think we both deserve compensation. I lived my whole life for him, thought I had raised a decent man, and he lied to me, laid down his rules. He didn’t even let me be a proper grandmother—convinced me the children weren’t his. I can imagine what it was like for you to cope without help. Forgive me. I’m sure you’ll keep managing, and I’ll start my life from scratch.”
Indeed, soon the mother-in-law moved to another city. She had long had a man there, someone she had been corresponding with and secretly seeing. But she hadn’t dared tie her fate to him—her son was against it. Now his opinion no longer interested her.
Having received the money, Tasya moved too. She wanted to start afresh, far from the pain and deceit. In the new city she bought a cozy apartment and enrolled the children in school and daycare. Gradually, life found its rhythm again.
As for Fyodor, he was left with that very one-room apartment that was in his name. Old, cramped, with a shabby kitchen and a rusty bathtub—that was all he had left. And now he had to pay child support.
His young companion quickly lost interest in him when she realized he had nothing to his name. She packed her things and vanished as quickly as she had appeared.
Then he began trying to win Tasya back. He called, wrote, begged:
“Tas, let’s try again. The children need their father.”
“No, Fedya. You made your choice. Live with it,” she said calmly, and hung up.
Life put everything in its place. Having gone through betrayal and pain, Tasya found strength and confidence in herself. Kira Ivanovna found her own happiness too. And Fyodor was left alone—with a shattered dream of “status” and empty hands.
