Unblock the card, we’re at the checkout with a full cart!” my husband shouted—after promising his mom and sister a banquet on my dime. I answered with a line that made the cashier call security.
His sister was already picking out a fur coat and his mother was choosing caviar, confident I’d pay for everything. But when my husband tapped the card, the terminal flashed a message that made their faces fall.
Veronica unlocked the door with her own key and immediately tripped over sneakers—size 37, covered in rhinestones, filthy. Lara’s. Beside them were Stas’s scuffed boots, size 45.
The apartment didn’t smell like tangerines and pine the way it should on December 27—it reeked of cheap cigarettes (even though Veronica had asked a hundred times not to smoke on the balcony; the stench still seeped into the rooms) and something burnt.
She walked into the hallway. On the coat rack, draped right over her beige cashmere coat, hung a bulky, toxic-pink fur coat. Lara, her husband’s sister, considered herself a style icon.
Loud laughter poured out of the kitchen.
“Well, Stasik, you’re something else!” Lara’s shrill voice squealed. “You actually said that to her? ‘Quiet, woman’?”
“You bet!” Stas boomed. “Am I the man of the house or what? I said we’re going luxury, so we’re going. I already booked it. ‘Park Hotel,’ five stars, all that. We’ll take Mom, you too… We’ll party, basically!”
Veronica froze in the doorway. She was head of logistics at a major transportation company. The last month had been brutal: trucks stuck in snowdrifts, drivers going on benders, clients having meltdowns. She’d been sleeping five hours a night, eating on the run—trying to close out the year and get the bonus they’d planned to…
They’d planned, in fact, to pay down the mortgage. The apartment was premarital—Veronica’s—but she’d taken the mortgage on a studio “for the future baby” she and Stas were supposedly planning.
Although lately Veronica kept thinking she already had one child. Bearded, thirty-six years old, almost a hundred kilos.
She walked into the kitchen.
A picture in oils: Stas sat at the head of the table, sprawled like a pasha. In front of him stood a half-empty bottle of cognac (from Veronica’s stash—a gift from partners) and a plate of cold cuts. Lara sat opposite, poking a fork into a jar of olives.
“Oh, you’re here!” Stas didn’t even stand. “Hi, sweetheart. We’re making plans—why the sour face? Smile, it’s the holidays!”
Veronica silently set her bag on a chair.
“Hi, Lara. Hi, Stas. What plans? What ‘Park Hotel’? We agreed—quiet at home, saving money.”
Stas waved a hand.
“Oh, enough with your accounting boredom! ‘Saving, saving’… You only live once! I decided: we’re going. Me, you, Mom, and Lar’—I already put the booking in.”
“With what money?” Veronica asked.
“With mine!” Stas thumped his chest. “I’m a man! I earned it!”
“Earned it?” Veronica raised an eyebrow. “Where, exactly?”
Lara snorted.
“Ugh, Veronica, how rude. Stasik hustles, he tries. He showed me charts—he’s an investor! And you’re always putting him down. You don’t inspire a man, that’s why he doesn’t grow.”
Veronica looked at her sister-in-law—at the audacity in her eyes and the cookie crumbs falling onto the clean tablecloth.
“Lara,” she said very calmly, “our ‘investor’ is Stas, but I’m the one paying the mortgage—and buying the food in the fridge. So let’s talk inspiration later. Stas, show me the booking.”
Reluctantly, Stas unlocked his phone and shoved it in her face.
“Park Hotel Solnechny,” a suite with a jacuzzi and two standard rooms. Total due: 120,000 rubles. Pay on check-in.
“See?” he said proudly. “I thought it all through. You got your bonus—we’ll pay from that, and I’ll pay you back in January. Cross my heart.”
Veronica didn’t scream or smash plates. She just smiled—a polite, pleasant smile.
“Oh, well, if you’ll pay it back… Then sure, great idea, Stas. Let’s party.”
Stas beamed.
“There you go! I told you, Lar’! She’s a smart woman—she understands everything. Pour it, Veronica! To success!”
Veronica poured herself water from the filter.
“To success,” she said. “And to unexpected surprises.”
She downed it in one gulp. The water was cold—like her plan.
The morning of December 28 began with her husband’s voice. He was in the bathroom, running water for cover, but the door wasn’t fully closed and he was on speakerphone.
“Stop whining, Lar’!” Stas sounded confident and condescending. “I said I’d buy it, so I will. Veronica was nice yesterday—I worked her over. She’s a sucker in real life, only knows how to count her trucks. I’ll spin her some story about the car—parts, transmission acting up. Then I’ll transfer it to your card and you’ll buy your boots.”
“And Mom?” Lara’s squeaky voice came through the speaker. “Mom wanted black caviar! And those perfumes—the twenty-thousand ones!”
“We’ll buy the caviar and the perfume—because I’m a man! I’m the head of this house, I decide where the money goes. Veronica’s card limit is huge, she won’t even notice. Alright, okay, kiss you. Get ready—shopping tomorrow!”
Veronica lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
“A sucker,” huh. “Worked her over.”
She took her phone and opened her banking app.
She had two accounts: her main payroll account and an additional one linked to the card Stas carried. He always kept it on him “for household needs.” The spending limit was 100,000 rubles. Veronica had trusted her husband—until this morning.
She tapped “Card settings.”
Purchase limit: 500 rubles per day.
Cash withdrawal limit: 0 rubles.
Online transfers: Disabled.
Notifications: Only to my phone.
And tapped “Save.”
Then she brewed coffee and drank it while looking out at the gray Moscow winter.
Stas came out of the bathroom, smelling like her expensive shower gel.
“Oh, you’re up, little fish!” He kissed the top of her head. “Listen, I need to swing by the service shop today—something’s knocking in the car, probably the transmission. Transfer fifty thousand to my card, yeah? For diagnostics and parts.”
Veronica turned to him.
“Stas,” she said, looking him straight in the eyes, “my app is frozen. Some big outage—can’t transfer anything, can’t withdraw anything.”
Stas tensed.
“What do you mean? And what about… the service shop?”
“Well, you’ve got my extra card. Pay with that. Or…” she paused, “…pay with your own.”
His eyes darted.
“Uh… yeah, I’ll use that one then. Okay, I’m off! Tons to do!”
He grabbed his jacket and bolted. Veronica knew he wasn’t going to a service shop—he was going to his mom and sister to promise them the moon.
“Run, Forrest, run,” she whispered. “The finish line’s close.”
December 29 was a “test drive.”
That evening Stas came home angry.
“Listen, what the hell is wrong with the card?” he started right from the doorway. “I tried to get gas and it said ‘Declined’! I had to put in my last five liters! Like an idiot!”
Veronica sat on the couch with her laptop.
“I told you—bank issues, technical work before New Year’s. They’re swapping servers. Support said it might glitch for three days.”
“Three days?!” Stas went pale. “And what about… gifts? We were going to the mall tomorrow with Mom and Lar’!”
“Well, the card works,” Veronica lied without blinking. “Big purchases just might not go through right away. Try splitting it into smaller amounts. Or…” she smiled, “…pull out your secret stash.”
“Fine, we’ll push through. Tomorrow everything will work, I can feel my luck turning.”
December 30.
Veronica was at work. She deliberately didn’t take the day off, saying she had year-end reports.
At 2:00 PM her phone pinged.
Purchase attempt: L’Etoile, 24,500 rubles — declined, limit exceeded.
A minute later—again.
Purchase attempt: Snezhnaya Koroleva, 89,000 rubles — declined.
And again.
Purchase attempt: Globus hypermarket, 15,600 rubles — declined.
Veronica stared at the screen, sipping tea, and laughed—picturing the scene.
At the mall:
Stas stood at the grocery checkout. Behind him his mother, Tamara Ilyinichna, hovered over a cart packed with delicacies: smoked sturgeon, three jars of caviar, pineapples, expensive champagne. Beside her whined Lara, who had just struck out with the fur coat and perfume.
“At least we’ll buy food!” Lara hissed. “Stas, you promised! What was that humiliation in the clothing store?! ‘The card got demagnetized’! You embarrassed me in front of the saleswomen!”
“Quiet!” Stas hissed, wiping sweat off his forehead. “It’ll work. It’s just the terminals glitching.”
The cashier—a heavyset woman in a New Year’s cap—scanned the last item.
“That’ll be fifteen thousand six hundred rubles. Card or cash?”
“Card,” Stas said confidently and tapped the plastic.
The terminal thought for a moment, then emitted an ugly beep.
“Declined. Insufficient funds.”
“Try again!” Stas squealed. “There’s money on it!”
“Sir, the terminal says: ‘Limit exceeded.’ What is this—some kind of kids’ card?”
The line behind them began to grumble.
“Hey! My dumplings are melting!”
“How much longer?!”
“Ma’am, control your son, let him pay cash!”
Tamara Ilyinichna flushed in blotches.
“Stasik, what is happening? You said Veronica approved this!”
“She did!” Stas yelled. “It’s her… She pressed something!”
He grabbed his phone and called his wife.
Veronica answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“You!” Stas roared so loudly the line went quiet. “What did you do to the card?! We’re at the checkout! Mom’s with a cart, I can’t pay! You humiliated me!”
“Stas?” Veronica’s voice was calm. “Don’t yell. I’m in a meeting.”
“What meeting?! Turn the card on! Now! I have to pay for food and gifts!”
“Stasik, I can’t turn anything on. The bank blocked suspicious activity. They said there were too many attempts to flush money down the toilet.”
“What?!”
“That. You’re an investor—spend your own. My card is for my needs. Oh, and by the way, I bought myself an all-holidays spa package. So there’s no money left on the card. Happy New Year!”
And she hung up.
Stas stood with the phone in his hand, listening to the beeps.
The cashier looked at him with half pity, half contempt.
“Sir, cancel the transaction?”
“Cancel,” Stas whispered.
“Cancellation! Return items to the shelves!” the cashier shouted.
Lara snatched a bag from his hand—inside was a single chocolate bar she’d bought with her own spare coins.
“You’re such trash, Stasik,” she said loudly. “Some investor. Mom, let’s go—I’ll call a taxi.”
“And me?” Stas asked.
“You can walk.”
That evening Veronica sat at home. She didn’t go to the spa—she’d lied to Stas. She sat in the clean apartment, drank wine, and waited. At 8:00 PM the door opened.
Stas walked in, followed by Tamara Ilyinichna and Lara. They were furious, hungry, and empty-handed.
“There she is!” the mother-in-law shrieked, pointing at Veronica. “Sitting there! Drinking! Katya—ugh, Veronica! Have you no shame?! You left the family without a holiday! We spent half the day being humiliated in stores!”
Veronica set her glass down. Stood up.
“Good evening, Tamara Ilyinichna. Hi, Lara. And what are you doing here? I didn’t invite guests.”
“This is my son’s home!” the mother-in-law declared.
“Your son’s home?” Veronica laughed. “Interesting.”
She walked to the dresser and pulled out a folder.
“You know, I work in logistics—I love numbers. Here, Tamara Ilyinichna, take a look.”
She handed her a printed table with graphs.
“What is this?” the mother-in-law squinted.
“This is the financial report for LLC ‘Stas’s Family.’ See the line ‘Stas’s income for 2024’? See that number?”
“Zero?” Lara said, peering over her shoulder.
“Bingo—zero. And here’s ‘Stas’s expenses’—from my card. See it? Six hundred forty-two thousand rubles.”
“How much?!” the mother-in-law clutched her chest.
“Six hundred forty-two: for beer, for your gifts (which he gave you pretending they were from him), for gas, for Lara’s little wants.”
Veronica snatched the sheet back from the stunned woman.
“Your son is a kept man, Tamara Ilyinichna. A common parasite—and I’ve disinfected. Shop’s closed.”
Stas stood in the corner, red as a boiled crayfish.
“Veronica… why in front of Mom? We could’ve worked it out ourselves…”
“We did work it out, Stas. Your suitcase is by the door—I packed it an hour ago.”
“What suitcase?” he went pale. “You’re kicking me out? Before New Year’s?”
“Exactly. You wanted to be a man? Be one—rent a place, feed your mom. Just not on my dime. Keys on the table.”
Stas tried to play for pity.
“I’ve got nowhere to go! Mom, tell her!”
“My son…” his mother mumbled. “But we… the couch is broken and it’s cramped…”
“See?!” Stas spread his hands. “Veronica, come on, let’s talk! I’ll get a job! After the holidays!”
“No, Stas. You’ll get a job right now. Loader or courier—those pay well these days. This isn’t a shelter.”
Veronica opened the door wide.
“Out. All three of you.”
Lara tried to push past her.
“I just need the bathroom! And I’ll grab my perfume—I left it here last time!”
Veronica blocked her.
“Bathroom’s at McDonald’s. And the perfume…” she nodded at the shelf where a Chanel bottle stood. “That’s my perfume. Yours is in Mom’s bag—right there.”
They left noisily. The mother-in-law screamed that Veronica would “end up alone.” Lara squealed that “her brother will find a younger one.” Stas trudged out last, dragging the suitcase and sniffling.
When the door clicked shut, Veronica locked it with two deadbolts and the chain.
December 31. 11:55 PM.
She sat in an armchair in reindeer pajamas, a plate of sandwiches with red caviar on her knees.
The Christmas tree blinked its lights. On TV, Zhenya Lukashin was flying to Leningrad for the hundredth time.
Her phone pinged.
A message from Stas:
“Nika, forgive me, I’m an idiot. We’re at Mom’s, there’s nothing to eat, Lara’s hysterical. Can I come back? I’ll work it all off!”
Veronica smiled.
She tapped “Block contact.”
Then she opened champagne—the pop of the cork совпided with the first chime of the Kremlin bells.
“Happy New Year, Veronica,” she told herself. “New happiness—and a new, clean budget.”
Behind the wall, the neighbors shouted “Hurray!” And Veronica just stretched her legs out and closed her eyes.
