“Damn you!” Igor screeched, and a white flash tore across the room: a vase of fake daisies slammed into the wall. Glass rained onto the floor, caught the lamplight, and a shiny shard nicked Anna’s leg.
She didn’t even flinch.
“Have you completely lost your mind?!” Her voice broke into a shriek. “Kirill is sleeping!”
“And what the hell are you doing?!” He lunged to the table, grabbed his phone, and jabbed at the screen like he wanted to punch a hole through it with his finger. “The card doesn’t work! I’m standing in the store like some total idiot! My mother’s waiting, and I don’t have a penny!”
“Because I cut off access,” Anna answered quietly, but hard.
“What?”
“The account. I closed the account.”
He froze, like he’d been struck.
“What do you mean… why?”
“Think about it. I can count too. This month you pulled out almost a hundred thousand! And it’s all ‘mom needs boots,’ ‘mom needs medicine.’ What—does she have gold on her feet?”
Igor’s face went red.
“She’s my mother, got it?! She raised me! I owe her!”
“And do I not matter to you?” Anna braced her hands against the wall, like she might fall. “We’ve got a loan, utilities, a child… and you’re sponsoring her wardrobe!”
“Shut up.” He stepped closer, the veins in his neck bulging. “Give the access back.”
“No.”
“Give it back, I said!”
A cry came from the nursery. The boy yelped in his sleep, then burst into loud, ragged sobs.
“See what you’re doing?!” Igor roared. “You’re scaring the kid!”
“No, you’re scaring him,” Anna said as she passed him, “with your yelling!”
Kirill was sitting up in bed, eyes full of tears, clutching a plush tiger. Anna sat beside him and hugged him, stroking his head.
“It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay…”
But inside, everything was the opposite. Not “okay”—a knot.
Heavy. Sticky. Bitter.
She understood: this time it wasn’t just a fight. It was the point of no return.
Twelve years together, and it was all for nothing. How many times had she forgiven those “transfers to Mom,” looked away when he’d “lent money to a friend,” “bought a tool,” “helped a relative.” And last night she finally couldn’t take it anymore—opened the banking app, scrolled down. And saw it. In six months—almost four hundred thousand.
In that moment her knees nearly gave out.
“Go to Dad,” she told Kirill softly when he stopped hiccupping. “And Mom’s going to step out for a minute, okay?”
She pulled on a jacket, grabbed her bag.
“Where are you going?” Igor stood by the door, fists clenched, eyes wild.
“To breathe.”
“You’re not going anywhere until you restore access.”
“Move.”
“No.”
The phone on the couch buzzed.
“See?!” he shoved the screen in her face. “Mom’s calling! She’s standing in the store, waiting! Because of you!”
Anna went around him and left. The door slammed.
The stairwell smelled of dampness and dust. The air was heavy, autumnal—October had crept in unnoticed.
Outside, the wind cut to the bone. The evening city was gray like an old bedsheet: puddles, wet leaves, a traffic light blinking lazily. Anna walked to the bus stop without thinking where she was going. She just wanted to get away. Farther from his voice. From the accusations, the squealing, the endless excuses.
The bus came almost at once. She sat by the window, pressed her forehead to the glass.
Her son was at home, and her heart tightened—but she knew Igor wouldn’t touch him. He’d never raised a hand. Not on the child. Not on her either—except with words, pressure, control, but not physically. Not yet.
When the bus reached downtown, Anna got off. A shopping mall glittered with lights, smelled like coffee and vanilla. People walked past with bags, someone laughed. Everyone had their own life. Hers had cracks.
She wandered past the shop windows until she found a café on the third floor. Ordered a cappuccino. Sat there holding the cup in both hands to warm up.
Her phone twitched on the table, lighting up. “Igor.” “Igor.” “Igor.” Then—“Igor’s Mom.” Then him again.
Anna tapped “Silent.”
She hadn’t even had time to cool down when a message came from an unknown number:
“I need to talk to you. It concerns Igor. It’s very important. Café ‘Amaretto,’ in one hour. Address: 18 Kotova Street.”
She reread it three times.
A scammer? But inside, something else pricked—intuition.
She decided to go.
The café was small and old, with peeling signage and a smell of cinnamon. At a back table sat a woman. Young—about thirty—tired, in a cheap jacket. Anna was about to turn around when the woman stood and awkwardly adjusted her belly.
Pregnant.
“Are you Anna?” she asked quietly, as if afraid of her own voice. “I’m Valeria. Could I have a minute?”
Anna sat down. She felt the air leave somewhere inside.
“I’m sorry, I know this is… unexpected,” Valeria said fast, stumbling over her words. “I’m not your enemy. I just have to tell the truth. I’ve been with Igor for two years now. And… the baby is his. Fifth month.”
The words hit like a slap. Two years. Five months.
Anna stared without blinking. Then forced out:
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because he’s lying to both of us.” Valeria worried at a napkin, twisting her fingers. “He said you’d split up. That he lived alone, just ‘didn’t finalize the divorce.’ But today I saw his messages—he wrote you: ‘I’ll be late, meeting.’ And I realized he’s been living with you this whole time.”
Anna was silent for a long moment. She looked at Valeria, at the belly under her jacket. A new life was moving there, and that made it feel especially cruel.
“And that money,” Anna said quietly. “The money he’s ‘sending his mother’…”
“Me,” Valeria nodded. “For rent. I’m not working, the pregnancy is complicated. He helps and says, ‘We don’t have much time, soon we’ll live together.’”
There it was. Everything clicked.
Anna laughed—short, joyless.
“Well then. Congratulations to both of us. Two women, one paycheck.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. If I had known…”
“Oh, stop.” Anna waved it off. “He’s a master. He’ll make his mother look like a saint, himself like a martyr—he’ll talk anyone in circles.”
They sat in silence. Outside, the autumn rain drew tracks down the window.
“So what are you going to do now?” Valeria asked.
“I don’t know. Not yet.” Anna paused. “And you?”
“Have the baby. And then… we’ll see.”
Anna nodded and pulled out her phone.
Fifteen missed calls, three messages from her mother-in-law. The last one—like a blade:
“If you don’t return the money, you’ll be sorry.”
Anna showed the screen to Valeria.
“See? A noble soul, that woman.”
“He told me about her too,” Valeria gave a sad half-smile. “That she’s sick, that I ‘shouldn’t meddle.’ And when I offered to help, he almost yelled at me.”
Anna finished her cold coffee and stood up.
“Time. It’s time to put an end to this.”
When Anna came home, Igor was standing by the window. Hands in his pockets, his face angry like a cornered wolf.
“Where have you been?” he ground out. “The child was sitting alone!”
“I know. You were with him. Is everything okay?”
“No, it’s not okay! Have you lost it?!” He stepped toward her. “Where did you go?”
Anna met his eyes straight on.
“To your Valeria.”
He froze. Only for a second—but it was enough.
“What?”
“She’s pregnant. With your child. And you’re supporting her.”
He said nothing. Then turned away.
“It’s not like that.”
“Of course. For you it’s never ‘like that.’ Only she’s carrying your baby. And you’re buying him a future on my dime.”
She stepped closer.
“Igor, I’m filing for divorce.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Too late.”
He gave a bitter, hostile smirk.
“You think you’ll win? The apartment is joint.”
“No. It’s mine. Bought before the marriage.”
He snapped around, eyes flooding red.
“I won’t forgive you for this.”
“Don’t. I’m not asking.”
He muttered something, swore, and slammed the door.
Anna was left alone.
The apartment was quiet. You could hear water murmuring in the pipes.
She went to her son. He was asleep, face buried in the pillow. Cheeks damp, lashes stuck together.
Anna sat beside him and pressed her palm to his hair.
“It’ll be okay, baby,” she whispered. “We’ll get through it.”
The next days dragged on like wet cotton.
Igor slept at home, but spoke only through clenched teeth. The TV blared as if it were replacing their voices.
On the third day, her mother-in-law showed up—no call. Burst in with a key she’d once wheedled out of him.
“You ruined my family!” she screamed from the doorway. “Because of you, my son will end up homeless!”
Anna lifted an eyebrow.
“Your son ruined everything himself.”
“He’s a man! Men cheat! And you clearly couldn’t keep him!”
Kirill, pressed to his mother in fear, started crying.
“There,” Anna said calmly, “even a child can’t stand your voice.”
Raisa Petrovna threw up her hands, muttered something, and stormed out cursing.
The door slammed, leaving behind the smell of expensive perfume and cheap malice.
Anna exhaled.
She wasn’t scared anymore. Only cold. Cold and empty.
She walked to the window. An October evening laid gray haze across the sky, distant lights blinking.
Her phone blinked with a new message.
“Anya, it’s not your fault. Thank you for telling me. Take care of yourself.”
From Valeria.
Anna stared at the screen, then at her reflection in the glass.
“Take care of yourself…” she repeated softly. “And who ever took care of me?”
She turned off the light and lay down beside her son.
A week passed.
It didn’t seem like much, but Anna had gotten so tired it felt like she’d been dragging a freight car of bricks.
The home turned foreign. The silence—hostile. The air—heavy, like before a storm.
Igor was still there, on the couch. He had no intention of leaving. He moved around gloomy and mute, but the anger showed in his eyes.
Anna could feel the storm coming.
On Friday evening, when she came home from work, his voice rang through the apartment:
“We need to talk.”
She wearily took off her jacket.
“Again?”
“Yes.”
He stood by the window, phone in hand.
“I saw a lawyer,” he said. “The apartment gets split in half.”
“Are you an idiot?” Anna didn’t even hold it back. “I bought it before the marriage!”
“Prove it.”
“I have the papers.”
“You think the court will believe you?”
She looked at him a long time, coldly.
“Igor, I’m done. Move out. Today.”
“Not a chance,” he sneered. “I’m not leaving. This is my home too.”
Anna said nothing. She just walked past him and shut herself in the bedroom.
He stayed outside the door. Then threw something at the wall—the sound like a mug shattering.
Kirill woke up crying.
“Mom… is he angry again?” the little boy whispered.
“Shh. Sleep, sweetheart. Soon everything will be quiet.”
The next morning the apartment door flew open without a knock.
Raisa Petrovna barged in like a hurricane. With a bag, with a voice, with accusations.
“What have you done?!” she screamed. “My son said you’re trying to throw him out?!”
Anna turned from the sink where she’d been washing dishes.
“He’s right. I am.”
“You’ve got some nerve, little miss! Who do you think you are?! This is his home—he’s the man of the house!”
“The man of the house?” Anna dried her hands and looked straight at her. “Then let him pay the utilities, the loans, the internet. The man of the house, right…”
“You ungrateful witch!” her mother-in-law shrieked. “My Igoresha bent over backward so you’d have everything!”
“Oh yeah? Funny. I thought he was bending over backward for his Valeria.”
Raisa Petrovna choked.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Anna grabbed a towel and headed toward the nursery. “Everything’s ‘fine’ over there, isn’t it? Go sort things out with your daughter-in-law.”
Her mother-in-law stomped around, then hissed:
“I’ll never forgive you. You ruined my son.”
“He ruined himself.”
Igor burst out of the room.
“Mom, enough—leave!” he yelled.
“I’m not leaving until she looks me in the eye and says she’ll stop tormenting you!”
Anna turned back.
“In the eye, you say? Fine. I won’t. I’ll just throw you both out.”
Raisa Petrovna flared up, screaming; Kirill started crying.
Anna walked to him, lifted him into her arms, and left the apartment.
The door slammed behind her like a gunshot.
Outside, an icy wind blew. October was nearly exhausted—November ahead: short days, gray drizzle, wet mittens, and the smell of frozen asphalt.
Anna walked Kirill to kindergarten, then went to work.
In the metro—people, tired faces, the smell of coffee from thermoses, sleepy silence.
She caught her reflection in the glass—eyes dull, but alive. She hadn’t broken. That was already something.
At work, her boss called her in.
“Anna Sergeyevna,” she began carefully, “I understand things aren’t easy for you right now. But there’s an option that might help.”
“What option?”
“Our branch in Kaliningrad. They need specialists there—housing is provided. The salary is higher. A six-month assignment, and after that you can stay.”
Anna froze.
“Kaliningrad…?”
“Yes. Think about it.”
She nodded, walking out of the office with the feeling someone had switched a light on inside her.
A new life. The sea. Far away from all this crap.
That evening at home—they were there again.
Igor and Raisa Petrovna, sitting at the kitchen table, discussing a “plan of action.”
Anna came in and quietly put down her bag.
“Oh, you’re back,” Igor smirked. “We’ve been thinking.”
“I’m already scared.”
“You have to compensate me for moral damages.”
Anna burst out laughing.
“What?”
“I’ll sue,” he went on. “I have a witness.” He nodded at his mother. “She saw how you abuse me.”
Anna took out her phone and turned on the recorder.
“Say that again, please,” she said calmly. “For the record.”
Raisa Petrovna froze.
“What?”
“Everything you just said. And the ‘abuse’ part too.”
“You were recording?!” Igor bellowed.
“Yes,” Anna answered simply. “The last four days. Every one of your visits, every threat. I have a whole archive. Want to listen?”
She played a clip.
From the speaker came Igor’s voice:
“I’ll take everything from you! The apartment, the child—you’ll dance to my tune!”
Then Raisa Petrovna:
“You snake! People like you should be thrown out on the street!”
Anna turned it off.
“In my opinion, that’s pretty solid material for court.”
Raisa Petrovna went pale.
“My blood pressure…”
“Then take your pills,” Anna said coldly. “And get out. Both of you.”
Igor stepped right up to her, hissing:
“You’ll pay for this.”
“You won’t get the chance, Igor. It’s too late.”
Half an hour later the door slammed—they were gone.
Anna leaned against the wall and exhaled.
The apartment became truly quiet.
No voices. No shouting.
Only the fridge humming and the clock ticking.
The next day she called her boss.
“I agree,” she said shortly. “Kaliningrad. When do I leave?”
“In two weeks. Can you make it?”
“I can.”
The divorce was finalized quickly.
At first Igor swaggered and blustered, then quieted down. He must’ve realized he’d lost.
When Anna hinted the recordings could be shown not only to a judge, he stopped making demands.
They set child support—pennies, but she didn’t even need it. The main thing was freedom.
Kaliningrad met them with wind—salty, stinging, smelling of the sea.
From day one, Kirill was happy: running along the beach, collecting pebbles, shouting at seagulls.
Anna stood on the shore, watching waves slam against the concrete breakwater, and for the first time in a long while she felt she could breathe easily.
They rented a cozy apartment in the old part of town, with a view of rooftops. The job was good, the people were calm.
Some evenings she took out her phone and reread old messages:
“Restore the account.”
“You’ll regret it.”
“No one needs you.”
And deleted them one by one.
Now she knew: she was needed. By herself. By her son. That was enough.
One day a message came.
Unknown number.
“Anna, thank you for telling me everything. I had a boy. I named him Alyosha. Igor disappeared as soon as he realized I wasn’t going to demand money from him. But I’m happy. My son is the best thing I have.”
Anna replied:
“Me too.”
December.
A thin layer of ice gripped the sea near the shore. The sky hung low, heavy.
A letter from the court arrived unexpectedly:
Igor had tried to sue for the apartment.
He lost.
The judge listened to the recordings, reviewed the documents—and ruled the home belonged entirely to Anna. More than that, Igor had to pay compensation.
Fifty thousand.
Pennies. But satisfying.
Anna smirked—not from joy, but from a sense of justice.
She hadn’t broken. Hadn’t sunk. Hadn’t drowned.
She’d gotten out.
That evening she and Kirill went for a walk by the sea.
Snow was just beginning to fall—sparse, light.
Kirill dragged a sled even though there was nothing to sled on.
“Mom, look! A ship!” he shouted, pointing.
In the gray haze, a huge tanker really was moving, its lights blinking like stars.
Anna sat down on a bench beside her son.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh. And when will we sail on a ship?”
“In the summer,” she smiled. “We definitely will.”
He wrapped his arms around her neck, pressed close.
She breathed in the smell of his hair—warm, homey, her own.
Ahead was a new life. Without hysterics, without lies, without fear.
Only the sea, the wind, and her—Anna, finally a free woman who pulled herself out of the swamp, didn’t wait for a miracle, but made one herself.
And if someone asked her whether she was happy, Anna would answer simply:
“Yes. Now—yes.
