— “Katya, when do you get paid? On Friday, right?”
Katya stopped in the doorway of the entry hall, her keys still in her hand. Pasha came out of the room; his phone glowed in his palm. It was December 20th, eight in the evening. A blizzard raged outside, but inside it was warm and smelled like fried potatoes.
“Tomorrow,” she answered, tugging off her boots. “Why?”
“Perfect. For New Year’s we’re taking my mom to a restaurant, so transfer your salary to my card.”
Katya straightened up. The bag with her documents slid off her shoulder onto the floor.
“Sorry—what?”
“For New Year’s we’re taking my mom to a restaurant,” he repeated, eyes back on the screen as he scrolled. “I already booked a table at Panorama on Sovetskaya. Nice place. Mom’s been wanting to go there for ages.”
Katya slowly picked up her bag and walked into the kitchen. Turned the kettle on. Her head was buzzing after a long workday—clients had been calling nonstop, all demanding delivery of building materials before the holidays, as if the world would stop without their bricks and cement.
“Pasha,” she called, “come here.”
He stepped into the kitchen and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe.
“Yeah?”
“We always celebrate New Year’s at home. Or at my mom’s. Why a restaurant?”
Pasha sighed the way people sigh at a slow child.
“Because my mom worked her butt off all year without a vacation. You know how it is—at the clinic the chief accountant keeps dumping work on her. She deserves a proper holiday. Not stuck in the kitchen at the stove, but like a human being.”
“Okay,” Katya nodded, taking a mug from the cupboard. “And will my mom be there too?”
“Yours?” Pasha frowned. “Why?”
“Why what? It’s New Year’s. A holiday. We’re always together.”
“Katya, listen. Mom chose this place on purpose. She wants to spend the evening in a small circle. You, me, her. You get it? A real family.”
Katya set the mug on the table and sat down on the stool.
“And my mom? She’ll be alone?”
Pasha shrugged.
“Lyudmila Petrovna is a modest person. She’ll be fine at home. She’s not used to places like that.”
“Not used to them?” Katya’s voice dropped. “Pasha, my mom has been a nurse for twenty years. She’s the same kind of person as yours. Why does she have to sit alone while we’re in a restaurant?”
“Because,” he straightened, his voice turning hard, “my mom deserves it. She raised me, invested in me. And Lyudmila Petrovna… well, she’s a simple person. She can watch TV and be fine.”
Katya fell silent, staring at her husband like she was seeing him for the first time. Four years of marriage—and only now she was hearing these words.
“Besides,” Pasha continued, “I’ve already allocated my money. Thirty thousand for Mom’s earrings—gold ones, she’s wanted them forever. Plus utilities, plus the car loan. So the restaurant is only possible with your salary.”
“But we were saving for a vacation,” Katya said quietly. “We wanted the sea in summer. Remember?”
“We’ll go,” he waved her off. “We’ll save again. Katya, don’t freak out. It’s once a year. A holiday.”
“A holiday for your mom. And for mine?”
Pasha rolled his eyes.
“Oh my God, why are you clinging to this? If you want—invite your mom too. Pay an extra fifteen thousand and she can come.”
“I don’t have fifteen thousand,” Katya said. “After your forty-five, I’ll have ten left. For the whole month.”
“Then it’s not meant to be,” he spread his hands. “Sorry. I didn’t plan it that way. It just happened.”
He left the kitchen. Katya stayed sitting at the table. The kettle had long since boiled and switched off. Outside, the blizzard howled. Somewhere in the сосед apartment a baby was crying—the Beregovs, the young neighbors, had recently had a son.
Katya took out her phone and opened her banking app. Her salary would come tomorrow: fifty-two thousand. Of that, forty-five to Pasha. Seven thousand left for food, transit, everything until next month.
She glanced at the calendar above the fridge. December 20th. Ten days until New Year’s. Ten days until the day her mother would be alone.
Katya stood up and went into the living room. Pasha was lying on the couch, watching some video on his phone.
“Pasha.”
“Hm?”
“I’ll transfer the money. But I want you to understand something. My mom will be alone. The first New Year after Dad died, she wasn’t alone because I was with her. And every one after that too. And now, for the first time, she’ll be completely alone. Is that okay with you?”
Pasha propped himself up on an elbow.
“Katya, your mom is an adult woman. She’ll manage. Besides, she’s got that neighbor—what’s her name—Vera Mikhailovna. They’ll celebrate together if anything.”
“Vera Mikhailovna is leaving to visit her daughter in Tver,” Katya said. “Mom will be alone.”
“Then invite her to us,” he said. “In the evening, after the restaurant. We’ll be back by midnight.”
“By midnight?” Katya sat on the edge of the couch. “Pasha, the restaurant is open until morning. Your mom will want to stay.”
“Then we’ll stay,” he lay back down, eyes on his phone. “Once a year. Mom deserves it.”
Katya didn’t say anything else. She got up and left. Sat in the kitchen again. Took out her phone and texted her mom: “How are you?”
A minute later the reply came: “I’m fine, sweetheart. How’s work?”
“Fine. Tired. Mom, what are you doing for New Year’s?”
Pause. Three dots appeared—her mom typing. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
“I’ll stay home. Watch TV. They’re showing a concert.”
“Alone?”
Another pause.
“Yes. Why, are you worried? Don’t, Katyusha. I’m used to it.”
Katya set the phone on the table and covered her face with her hands. Behind the wall, music played—apparently the Beregovs were putting their baby to sleep. A quiet lullaby.
The next day, December 21st, Katya got her salary. At lunch she transferred forty-five thousand to Pasha. He sent back a thumbs-up emoji.
“Thanks, love. Mom will be happy.”
Katya didn’t reply. She put the phone in her desk drawer and returned to work. On her computer screen a new order glowed—another client demanding block delivery by the 25th. Katya began filling out the invoice.
“Shisterova, you okay?” Vera Kolesnikova—her coworker and friend—peered into the office. “You look crushed.”
“I’m fine,” Katya said without looking away from the screen.
Vera came in and shut the door.
“Don’t lie. What happened?”
Katya kept typing numbers into the spreadsheet. Vera sat on the corner of the desk.
“Shisterova. I’m waiting.”
“Pasha decided to celebrate New Year’s at a restaurant. With his mother. The three of us.”
“So what?” Vera didn’t get it. “You’ll go, celebrate.”
“And my mom will stay home. Alone.”
Vera froze.
“Wait. So Pasha took money for his mother’s restaurant, and your mom will be alone at home?”
“Yes.”
“And you agreed?”
Katya stopped typing and leaned back.
“What could I do? He already booked the table. Bought earrings for his mom for thirty thousand. Said his mom deserved a holiday.”
“Oh God, Katya,” Vera hopped off the desk. “Do you hear yourself? He didn’t even ask your opinion! He just ordered you to hand over the money and go where he wants!”
“Don’t shout,” Katya glanced at the door. “They’ll hear.”
“Let them!” Vera waved her hand, but lowered her voice anyway. “Katya, this isn’t normal. Your mom has been alone since your father… well. Ten years, and she never met anyone. She’s alone! And the first New Year after he died you were with her! And now you’re abandoning her because your mother-in-law feels like it?!”
“Don’t say it like that,” Katya turned back to the computer. “Natalya Anatolyevna really does work a lot.”
“So what? Your mother works less?!” Vera snapped. “She’s a nurse in a children’s clinic! You’ve told me what those shifts are like—twelve hours, no proper lunch!”
Katya was silent. Vera sat back down on the desk and leaned closer.
“Listen to me. Pasha is a mama’s boy. I understood it at your wedding, when Natalya Anatolyevna redid the seating plan three times because she didn’t like her place. And you just swallowed it. You’ve swallowed it for four years. And you know where it leads?”
“To what?” Katya looked at her.
“To the day you wake up and realize: there are three people in your marriage. You, Pasha, and his mom. And his mom comes first. Always.”
Katya didn’t answer. Vera sighed, slid off the desk.
“Just think about it, at least. Okay?”
She left. Katya sat in front of her computer. The cursor blinked in an empty cell.
That evening Katya came home and tried to talk to her husband again. Pasha was at the kitchen table, chewing a sandwich and watching something on his tablet.
“Pasha, let’s discuss New Year’s one more time.”
He looked up, chewed, swallowed.
“What’s there to discuss? It’s decided.”
“No, it isn’t. I want my mom to be with us too.”
Pasha set the tablet aside and wiped his hands with a napkin.
“Katya, we already went through this. I explained. Mom wants to spend the evening with close people. You, me, her. Do you understand?”
“And my mom isn’t a close person?”
“She is,” he nodded. “But it’s different. She’s the mother-in-law. Not your real mother.”
Katya sat across from him.
“Pasha, are you serious right now? She’s not ‘real,’ so she can sit alone at home on New Year’s?”
“That’s not what I meant,” he grimaced. “Mom already planned everything. She doesn’t like it when plans change. You know what she’s like.”
“I know,” Katya nodded tiredly. “That’s why I’m asking. Can you call her and say there’ll be one more person?”
“Katya, why?” Pasha picked up his sandwich again. “She’ll get upset. She’ll say I don’t appreciate her effort. You know how she reacts to things like that.”
“I know,” Katya stood up. “And how my mom reacts when she realizes her daughter abandoned her on a holiday—that doesn’t matter?”
Pasha went quiet. Finished the sandwich. Got up, washed his hands.
“Your mom is a reasonable woman,” he said, drying his hands on a towel. “She’ll understand. My mom won’t. So let’s not upset her.”
Katya wanted to answer, but he had already left the kitchen. She remained standing by the table. Snow fell outside. On the windowsill lay a tear-off calendar: December 21st.
The next day, the 22nd, Katya had to stay late at work. A big client demanded an urgent delivery—a whole truck of cement to a construction site outside the city. Her boss, Oleg Krasnikov, asked Katya to personally oversee the shipment. She agreed—after transferring forty-five thousand to Pasha she needed money, and overtime was paid extra.
She got home around nine. Opened the door and heard voices in the kitchen. A woman’s voice. Natalya Anatolyevna.
“Pasha, are you sure she’ll dress normally? It’s a respectable place.”
“Mom, don’t worry. Katya’s fine.”
“I’m not talking about ‘fine,’” her mother-in-law said irritably. “I’m talking about taste. Remember your corporate party two years ago? What did she show up in? Some black sack.”
“That was a dress,” Pasha laughed.
“A dress, a sack,” Natalya Anatolyevna clicked her tongue. “Anyway—make sure. Let her dress properly, so I’m not embarrassed in front of people.”
Katya stood in the entry hall and listened. Pulled off her boots and listened as her mother-in-law discussed her “taste.” Pasha didn’t even object. Just laughed.
She hung up her coat and went into the kitchen. Natalya Anatolyevna sat at the table with a mug in front of her. Pasha stood by the window.
“Oh, Katyenka,” her mother-in-law turned to her. “You’re back. Where have you been?”
“Working,” Katya replied dryly.
“I see,” Natalya Anatolyevna nodded. “Well, holidays are coming—you’ll rest. By the way, Pasha said you transferred the money for the restaurant. Thank you. It’ll be a lovely evening.”
Katya walked past her in silence, opened the fridge, took out a yogurt.
“We were discussing the evening program,” her mother-in-law continued. “I want us there by seven. Live music, a cello. Very atmospheric.”
“Okay,” Katya opened the yogurt.
“And yes, Katyenka,” Natalya Anatolyevna looked at her. “Please dress properly. This isn’t a backyard café. Decent crowd.”
Katya froze with the spoon in her hand.
“And how do I usually dress?”
“You know,” her mother-in-law waved it off. “Your whole wardrobe is those… little office suits. Gray, black. You need something festive. Dressy.”
“I have a black dress,” Katya said. “The one I wore to the corporate party.”
Natalya Anatolyevna grimaced.
“Didn’t Pasha tell you? I’m buying you a dress. I’ll choose it myself. Something normal. Pretty. So you look достойно.”
Katya set the yogurt down.
“Natalya Anatolyevna, thank you, but no. I have something to wear.”
“Don’t argue,” her mother-in-law cut her off. “I’ve already decided. Tomorrow I’ll go to the store and pick it. And you should see a hairdresser, too. Because that haircut of yours… well, you know.”
Katya looked at Pasha. He was silent—by the window, staring at his phone. He didn’t even raise his eyes.
“Pasha,” she said.
“Hm?” He glanced up.
“Don’t you want to say anything?”
“About what?”
“About what your mom just said.”
Pasha shrugged.
“She wants you to look nice. What’s wrong with that?”
Katya tried to answer, but her mother-in-law cut in:
“Exactly! Pasha is right. I’m not being злой. I want the evening to be perfect. Beautiful. You understand?”
“I understand,” Katya said quietly.
Natalya Anatolyevna finished her tea and stood up.
“Alright, I should go. See you tomorrow, Katyenka. I’ll bring the dress. And you book the hairdresser—say, for the 30th.”
She left. Pasha walked her to the door. Katya stayed in the kitchen, staring out the window. The snow had stopped. The sky was black, starless.
Pasha came back.
“Why are you sulking?” he asked. “Mom meant well.”
“Meant well,” Katya echoed. “Pasha, do you realize what she said? That my taste is bad. That my haircut is bad. That I look inappropriate.”
“She didn’t mean it that way,” he waved it off. “She’s just worried everything goes smoothly.”
“And you?” Katya turned to him. “What do you think? Do I look bad?”
Pasha hesitated.
“No, of course not. You look fine. It’s just… Mom’s used to a certain style. You know. She’s an accountant at the clinic, strict dress code. She values when people look… you know, respectable.”
“Respectable,” Katya nodded. “Got it.”
She took the yogurt and went to the bedroom. Pasha stayed in the kitchen.
On December 26th Katya called her mom. Lyudmila Petrovna picked up right away; her voice was tired.
“Katyusha, hi, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Mom. How are you?”
“I’m okay. Lots of work—before the holidays it’s always like this. Today we did medical screenings, kids everywhere.”
Katya lay down on the couch and stared at the ceiling.
“Mom… what are you doing for New Year’s?”
Pause.
“I’ll stay home. Watch TV.”
“Alone?”
“Katya, don’t worry so much. I’m an adult. I’ll manage.”
“Mom, I feel sorry for you.”
Lyudmila Petrovna sighed softly.
“Don’t feel sorry for me. You have your own life. You’re married. You should be with your husband.”
“And with his mother,” Katya added.
“Well… yes,” her mom paused. “Listen… is Natalya Anatolyevna a good person?”
Katya closed her eyes.
“I don’t know, Mom. Honestly. I don’t know.”
“I see,” her mom went quiet again, then added, “The main thing is that you are okay. Understand? I’ll survive one evening. But you… you should be happy.”
“I’m not happy, Mom,” Katya opened her eyes. “I feel awful. Because you’ll be alone. And I’ll be in a restaurant eating expensive food and pretending everything is fine.”
“Katyusha,” her mom said more firmly, “don’t talk like that. He’s your husband. He wants to do something nice for his mother. That’s normal. Don’t blame him.”
“I’m not blaming him,” Katya sat up. “I just… Mom, I’m sorry. I’m sorry it turned out this way.”
“Sweetheart, you have nothing to apologize for. Truly. Everything is fine.”
But her mom’s voice trembled. Katya heard it. And at that moment she understood: her mother was holding on with all her strength—acting like everything was fine so her daughter wouldn’t worry.
“Mom, I love you.”
“And I love you, Katyusha. Very much.”
They said goodbye. Katya set the phone down and sat in silence. Pasha came into the room.
“Who were you talking to?”
“My mom.”
“How is she?”
“Bad,” Katya looked at him. “Pasha, she feels bad. She’ll be alone on New Year’s.”
He sat beside her and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Katya, why are you winding yourself up? Your mom is strong. She’ll manage. One evening. It’s not страшно.”
“It’s not scary for you,” Katya pulled away from his hand. “Because your mom won’t be alone. She’ll be in a restaurant. On my dime.”
Pasha pressed his lips together.
“There you go again. Katya, I explained. My mom deserves it.”
“And mine doesn’t?” Katya stood up. “My mom has been alone for ten years since Dad died. She’s a nurse, working two jobs just to survive. She doesn’t deserve at least not to be alone on a holiday?”
“She does,” Pasha stood too. “But I can’t make everyone happy! I chose my mom. That’s normal.”
“No,” Katya shook her head. “It’s not normal. Normal would be asking me. Asking what I think. But you just ordered me: give the money and that’s it.”
Pasha stepped toward the door.
“You know what, Katya? I’m tired of these conversations. The decision’s made. Period. If you feel so sorry for your mom, invite her after the restaurant. We’ll be back by midnight.”
“You said we’d stay until morning,” Katya reminded him.
“Well, maybe we’ll leave early,” he shrugged. “We’ll see.”
He left. Katya remained standing in the middle of the room.
The next day, December 27th, Natalya Anatolyevna called Katya at the office. The secretary transferred the call.
“Ekaterina, it’s me.”
“Hello, Natalya Anatolyevna.”
“I wanted to talk about the menu. Pasha gave me your card details—I want to add a few things to the order.”
Katya froze with the receiver to her ear.
“Sorry—what card?”
“The one you used to transfer money for the restaurant. Pasha gave me the info so I could adjust something if needed.”
Cold spread through Katya.
“Natalya Anatolyevna, that’s my personal card.”
“So what?” her mother-in-law snapped. “Pasha gave it to me, so he allowed it. Don’t worry, I’ll stay within the budget. I just want to add red caviar and a couple bottles of good wine.”
“How much will that cost?” Katya asked.
“Eight thousand. Maybe nine.”
Katya closed her eyes.
“Natalya Anatolyevna, can I talk to Pasha first?”
“What’s there to talk about?!” her mother-in-law raised her voice. “This is my holiday! I want everything perfect! And you’re interrogating me! Pasha gave permission, do you understand?! Permission!”
“Okay,” Katya said quietly. “Okay. Add it.”
“Good girl,” her mother-in-law instantly softened. “I knew you’d understand. You’re sensible—though with those jeans of yours…”
She hung up. Katya set the phone down, opened her banking app, checked the balance. Eight thousand two hundred rubles had been deducted. Ten minutes ago.
Katya stood up and walked out of the office. In the hallway she called Pasha. He didn’t pick up right away.
“Yeah, Katya.”
“Did you give your mother access to my card?”
Pause.
“Well… technically, yes.”
“How could you?!” Katya almost shouted. “Those are my money. My card. Personal!”
“Katya, calm down,” Pasha spoke quietly—probably at work. “Mom just wanted to adjust the menu. I gave her the details so she could add a couple items. It’s fine.”
“Eight thousand, Pasha!” Katya clenched the phone. “She charged eight thousand—without my consent!”
“Well, it’s not a million,” he sighed. “Katya, why are you freaking out? Mom wants caviar and wine. It’s a holiday. Once a year.”
“Pasha, I didn’t consent. Do you understand? You gave a third person access to my account!”
“A third person?!” his voice sharpened. “That’s my MOTHER! She’s not a stranger!”
“To my bank account she is,” Katya exhaled. “Pasha, it’s illegal. It’s… what even is this?”
“Listen, I’m at work,” he cut her off. “We’ll talk tonight. And stop hysterics. Mom tried hard, chose the best. And you’re making a scandal.”
He hung up. Katya stood in the corridor staring at the phone. Her boss Oleg Krasnikov walked by, saw her, and stopped.
“Shisterova, are you okay?”
“Yes,” Katya nodded quickly. “I’m fine.”
He studied her.
“You’re pale. Maybe go home?”
“No, thank you. I’ll finish.”
He nodded and walked on. Katya returned to her desk, opened the orders spreadsheet, and started filling in another line—but her hands were shaking.
That evening there was a blow-up. Katya came home and went straight in:
“Pasha, we need to talk.”
He was on the couch watching hockey.
“After the game.”
“Now.” Katya walked over, took the remote, and turned off the TV.
Pasha swung around.
“What are you doing?!”
“You gave your mother access to my card. She charged eight thousand without my consent. Do you realize how wrong that is?”
Pasha stood up.
“I realize you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Mom added a couple items. So what?”
“So what is—those are my money!” Katya stepped toward him. “Mine! I earned them! And I should decide what they’re spent on!”
“You decided,” Pasha folded his arms. “When you transferred forty-five thousand. The rest is мелочи.”
“Eight thousand isn’t мелочи!”
“To me it is,” he shrugged. “Katya, you’ve got a priorities problem. The main thing is my mom feeling good—she deserves it. And you’re clinging to some pennies.”
Katya stepped back.
“Pennies. Eight thousand rubles—pennies.”
“Yeah,” Pasha spread his hands. “In the scale of the holiday—pennies. Katya, why are you freaking out? I don’t get it.”
“You don’t get it,” she repeated. “Okay. Then I’ll explain. I have two thousand rubles left to live on until the end of the month. Because you took forty-five, your mom charged eight, and now I’ve got two thousand for food, transit, everything. Do you get that?”
Pasha was silent. Then:
“I can lend you some.”
“Lend,” Katya laughed. “Me. From my own money.”
“Katya, I don’t want to fight,” he stepped closer. “Let’s not ruin the holiday. Everything will work out. You’ll manage till payday. Live cheaper for a couple weeks. You won’t die.”
Katya stared at him—the man she’d lived with for four years—and felt like she was seeing him for the first time.
“I won’t die,” she repeated. “Right.”
She turned and walked into the bedroom. Lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Pasha didn’t follow. He turned the TV back on; the game continued.
On December 29th Natalya Anatolyevna arrived with a dress. Katya was home; Pasha was at work. Her mother-in-law rang the bell and walked in with a big bag from an expensive store.
“Katyenka, look what I bought you!”
She laid a dark blue dress on the couch—long, closed, a high collar. Completely faceless.
Katya looked at it.
“Thank you, but I already have a dress.”
“Oh, come on,” her mother-in-law waved it away. “That black one of yours? It’s out of fashion. This is classic—always актуально. Try it on.”
“Natalya Anatolyevna, really, don’t. I’ll wear mine.”
Her mother-in-law frowned.
“Ekaterina, I went out of my way for you. Do you have any idea how much time it took? And you turn up your nose.”
“I’m not turning up my nose,” Katya stood. “I just want to wear my dress.”
“Your dress isn’t suitable,” Natalya Anatolyevna snapped. “It’s cheap. You can see it immediately. And we’re going to a decent place—I don’t want people looking at you.”
Something tightened inside Katya.
“No one will look.”
“They will,” her mother-in-law raised her voice. “Ekaterina, do you hear me? In places like that people instantly see who’s who. And if you show up in that black rag, everyone will know you’re… well, from simple stock.”
Katya stayed silent. Natalya Anatolyevna kept going:
“I don’t want to hurt you. Truly. But you need to know your place. You’re my son’s wife, and you must look the part. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Katya said quietly.
“That’s my good girl,” her mother-in-law softened. “Try it. You’ll see it suits you.”
Katya took the dress and went into the bedroom, closing the door. She looked at herself in the mirror: a tired woman with dull eyes.
She put the dress on. It was too big—hung like a sack. Katya came back out.
“Well,” Natalya Anatolyevna assessed her. “Good. It is a bit big, but you can cinch it with a belt.”
“I don’t have a belt for it,” Katya said.
“I’ll buy one,” her mother-in-law nodded. “I’ll bring it tomorrow. And did you book the hairdresser?”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?!” Natalya Anatolyevna threw up her hands. “Ekaterina, you’re an adult! How can you go to a restaurant with that hair?!”
Katya looked at her.
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Everything,” her mother-in-law pressed her lips. “That haircut is for your office papers, not for a holiday. You need styling. Curls, for example.”
“I have short hair,” Katya said, exhausted. “Curls won’t happen.”
“They will if you try,” Natalya Anatolyevna pulled out her phone. “I know a good stylist. I’ll book you for tomorrow afternoon.”
“No,” Katya said. Right there in the living room she pulled the dress off and tossed it on the couch. “I’ll go as I am.”
Her mother-in-law went still.
“What do you mean, ‘as you are’?”
“I mean in my own dress, with my own hair.”
“Natalya Anatolyevna,” Katya met her eyes, “I hear you. I just don’t want to wear the dress you bought without asking me.”
Silence fell. Natalya Anatolyevna turned pale, then flushed.
“How dare you speak to me like that?!”
“I’m speaking нормально,” Katya didn’t look away. “You bought the dress without my consent. I didn’t ask for it. And I won’t wear it.”
“Pasha will hear about this!” her mother-in-law snatched up her purse. “He’ll tell you!”
“Let him,” Katya shrugged.
Natalya Anatolyevna spun and left, slamming the door so hard the walls trembled.
Katya stood in the middle of the room. Ten minutes later Pasha called.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
“Hi,” Katya sat down on the couch.
“Mom’s in tears! She says you were rude to her!”
“I wasn’t rude. I refused to wear a dress she bought without my consent.”
“Katya, she tried for you!”
“Pasha, I didn’t ask her to.”
“But she wanted to help!” he shouted. “She wanted you to look decent! And you said to her face you wouldn’t wear it!”
Katya closed her eyes.
“I’ll wear my dress. The black one. The one I bought with my own money. The one I like.”
“Nobody likes it,” Pasha snapped. “Except you. Mom’s right. It looks cheap.”
“Well, sorry,” Katya opened her eyes. “I can’t afford thirty-thousand-ruble dresses. I have two thousand rubles left after your restaurant.”
“There you go again!” Pasha exhaled. “I can’t talk now. I’ll come home tonight, we’ll deal with it. But you will apologize to Mom. Got it?”
“No,” Katya said.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I won’t apologize. I have nothing to apologize for.”
Pasha said something, but she had already hung up. She put the phone down and just sat there.
That night Pasha came home gloomy. Went into the kitchen, poured water, drank it in one gulp. Katya stood in the doorway.
“So?” he said without turning around. “Are you going to apologize?”
“No.”
He snapped around.
“Then you’re not going to the restaurant at all.”
“Fine,” Katya nodded. “I won’t go.”
Pasha blinked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m not going. Go with Mom, just the two of you. Have a nice evening.”
“Katya, what are you talking about?” he stepped toward her. “It’s New Year’s! You have to be there!”
“Why?” Katya looked at him. “So I can sit in a dress I hate? Listen to how I’m a failure? How lucky I am that your mother tolerates me?”
“She didn’t say that!”
“She did,” Katya stepped closer. “At your corporate party two years ago. Remember? We were at the same table. She said, ‘Katyenka, Pasha is lucky he’s so patient. Not every man would put up with a girl with such… modest means.’ You were right there. And you said nothing.”
Pasha looked away.
“She didn’t mean it like that.”
“She meant exactly that,” Katya turned toward the bedroom. “Go to the restaurant. With Mom. I don’t need it.”
She walked into the bedroom. Pasha didn’t follow.
On December 30th Katya woke up early. Pasha was asleep on the couch in the living room—they hadn’t spoken after the fight. She got dressed, packed a bag, and left quietly.
At work, a surprise awaited her. Oleg Krasnikov called her into his office.
“Shisterova, have a seat.”
Katya sat. Her boss opened a folder on the desk.
“I wanted to talk about your work this year. You’ve shown good results. Clients are satisfied, orders are on time. I’ve decided to raise your salary starting in January.”
Katya blinked.
“Really?”
“Really,” he nodded. “Plus fifteen percent. And a December bonus—thirty thousand. You’ll get it tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Katya felt tears fill her eyes.
Krasnikov looked at her carefully.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “It’s just… thank you. I really needed that right now.”
He didn’t ask questions. Just nodded.
“Alright. Go work. And happy upcoming.”
Katya left the office. In the hallway she met Vera.
“Well?” her friend asked anxiously. “Did he call you in?”
“He gave me a raise,” Katya smiled. “And a bonus.”
Vera hugged her.
“That’s great! Means you didn’t bust your back all year for nothing. Katya, you did amazing.”
Back at her desk, Katya took out her phone and texted her mom: “Mom, I got a bonus. Thirty thousand. I’ll come tomorrow and bring you ten. Buy yourself something.”
Her mom replied a little later: “Katyusha, don’t. Keep it for yourself.”
“No, Mom. Take it. Please.”
Her mom sent a heart. Katya put her phone away and got back to work.
That evening she came home. Pasha was in the kitchen; a box with a cake sat on the table.
“Hi,” he stood. “Katya, let’s make up.”
Katya set her bag on the floor.
“Pasha, I’m tired. Not today.”
“But tomorrow is New Year’s,” he stepped closer. “Katya, let’s not ruin the holiday. I talked to Mom. She agrees she went too far. She’ll apologize. Really.”
“Okay,” Katya nodded. “I’m glad.”
“So you’ll go to the restaurant?”
Katya looked at him.
“No.”
“Why?!”
“Because I don’t want to.”
Pasha clenched his fists.
“Katya, I’m trying to find a compromise! Mom is ready to apologize! What else do you need?!”
“I don’t need her apology,” Katya walked into the kitchen. “I need you to understand one simple thing. Tomorrow my mom will be alone. Sitting at home, greeting New Year’s in front of the TV. Alone. And you know what’s the worst part? I’ll be ashamed. Ashamed in front of her. In front of myself. Do you understand?”
Pasha was silent. Then he said:
“I can’t cancel the restaurant. Mom already paid for everything.”
“With my money,” Katya reminded him.
“With ours,” he corrected. “Katya, we’re husband and wife. We have a shared budget.”
“Shared?” Katya laughed. “Pasha, you took forty-five thousand from my paycheck. Your mom charged another eight. Is that shared?”
“It’s a one-time expense,” he turned away. “For the holiday.”
“Fine,” Katya took out her phone. “Then let’s count. In four years, how much money has gone to your mom? Gifts, trips, her anniversary?”
“Don’t start counting,” Pasha lifted a hand. “She’s my mother. I’m obligated to take care of her.”
“And you’re not obligated to take care of mine?”
“I’m not!” he turned to her. “Because she’s not my mother! Do you understand? She’s yours—so you take care of her!”
Katya froze.
“Say that again.”
Pasha realized what he’d said. He hesitated.
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Say it again,” Katya stepped closer. “My mom isn’t your responsibility. Right?”
He sighed.
“Well… technically, yes. My mother is my responsibility. Your mother is yours. That’s logical.”
Katya nodded. Turned away. Went into the bedroom, took a bag from the closet, and started packing.
Pasha followed.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing,” she didn’t turn around.
“Where?”
“To my mom’s. I’m spending New Year’s with her.”
Pasha grabbed her wrist.
“Stop. You can’t just leave.”
“I can,” Katya pulled free. “Let go.”
“No,” he blocked the doorway. “We need to talk.”
“We talked,” Katya walked around him. “You said everything I needed to hear. My mom is my responsibility. Your mom is yours. Great. So I’m going to my mom. And you go to yours.”
“Katya, that’s not what I meant!” he trailed after her. “You understand!”
“I understand,” she zipped the bag. “I understand everything now, Pasha. Finally.”
She picked up the bag. Pasha stepped in front of the door.
“If you leave now, I won’t forgive you.”
Katya looked at him.
“Okay.”
She went around him and left the apartment.
On December 31st Katya woke up in her old room at her mom’s. Lyudmila Petrovna was already up, cooking something in the kitchen.
“Sweetheart, get up. I made an omelet.”
Katya went into the kitchen. Her mom set a plate in front of her.
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
“For what, Katyusha?”
“For how it all turned out.”
Lyudmila Petrovna sat across from her.
“Nothing ‘turned out.’ You’re here. With me. And I’m happy about that.”
Katya smiled.
“I’m happy too, Mom.”
They spent the day together—cooking, watching old movies. Lyudmila Petrovna didn’t ask about Pasha. Katya stayed silent too.
Toward evening Katya checked her phone. Not a single message from her husband. Not a single call. She texted him: “I’m spending New Year’s with Mom. Happy upcoming.”
He read it. Didn’t reply.
At eleven they set the table—simple, no luxuries. Salads, a hot dish, компот. Lyudmila Petrovna put on a festive dress she’d bought ten years earlier. Katya changed too—into that same black dress Natalya Anatolyevna hated.
“Mom, you look beautiful,” Katya said.
“And you, sweetheart,” her mom stroked her cheek.
They sat at the table and turned on the TV. A concert played. Lyudmila Petrovna poured champagne for both of them.
“Let’s drink to you,” she said. “To my smart girl. To your happiness.”
A lump rose in Katya’s throat.
“Mom, I don’t know if I’ll be happy.”
“You will,” her mom took her hand. “You will. Everything will settle.”
They clinked glasses and drank. And at that moment Katya’s phone rang. Pasha.
She answered.
“Yes?”
“Where are you?” His voice was tight.
“At Mom’s. I told you.”
“Katya, come. We’re at the restaurant. Mom keeps asking where you are.”
Katya looked at her mom. Lyudmila Petrovna was smiling at her.
“No, Pasha. I’m not coming.”
“Why?!”
“Because I’m here. With Mom. And I’m good here.”
Pause.
“So you’re serious? You’re abandoning me on New Year’s?!”
Katya closed her eyes.
“Pasha, you abandoned my mom first.”
“It’s different!”
“No. It’s the same.”
She hung up. Turned the phone off and set it on the table.
“Katyusha, maybe you should go?” her mom asked softly. “I don’t want it to be because of me—”
“No, Mom,” Katya hugged her. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay here. With you. Where I belong.”
They welcomed the New Year together. Watched the clock strike. Clinked glasses, hugged. And Katya felt good—calm, in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.
On January 1st Katya woke up late. Her mom was already in the kitchen.
“Happy New Year, sweetheart.”
“Happy New Year, Mom.”
Katya turned her phone on. Several missed calls from Pasha. No messages. She texted him: “I need my things. I’ll come today to pick them up.”
An hour later he replied: “Take them.”
Katya arrived at their apartment around two. Opened the door with her key. Pasha sat in the kitchen—gloomy, dark circles under his eyes.
“Hi,” Katya said.
“Hi,” he didn’t look up.
Katya went into the bedroom, pulled a suitcase from the closet, and started packing. Pasha came in behind her.
“You’re serious?”
“Serious about what?” she didn’t turn around.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
Silence. Then Pasha said:
“You embarrassed me yesterday.”
Katya stopped and turned.
“Me? How?”
“Mom was furious,” he folded his arms. “She talked all evening about how ungrateful you are. That I married you for nothing. That I should’ve chosen someone more decent.”
Katya nodded silently.
“And what did you say?”
Pasha looked away.
“Nothing.”
“Of course,” Katya laughed. “As always. Nothing.”
She kept packing. Pasha stepped closer.
“What was I supposed to say?! She was right! You ruined the holiday! I booked that restaurant for her! Spent money! And you just didn’t show up!”
“My money,” Katya corrected. “You spent my money. Without my consent.”
“Oh God, here you go again!” Pasha dragged a hand over his face. “Katya, how long can you keep going?! It’s my MOTHER! I had the right to spend money on her!”
“My money,” Katya repeated. “That I earned. That you took without asking if I wanted to.”
“You’re my wife,” Pasha stepped closer. “We have a shared budget.”
“No,” Katya snapped the suitcase shut. “Not anymore.”
Pasha froze.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m leaving, Pasha. For good.”
“Where?”
“To my apartment. The one we rented out. The tenants moved out for New Year’s.”
Pasha was silent. Then:
“You’ll come back.”
“No.”
“You will,” he nodded. “You’ll cool off and come back. Because you love me.”
Katya looked at him—and suddenly understood she didn’t. Not anymore. Not for a long time.
“No, Pasha. I’m not coming back.”
She lifted the suitcase. Pasha didn’t move.
“I’m not going to chase you,” he said. “This is your fault. You ruined everything.”
“I know,” Katya nodded. “I’m at fault. I tolerated it for four years—your mom humiliating me, you staying silent, you putting her first. That’s my fault. I should’ve left earlier.”
She walked out. Pasha didn’t follow.
Katya went to her apartment. Opened the door. It smelled stale—the tenants clearly didn’t air the place often. The walls were dirty; stains on the floor.
She set the suitcase down and walked through the rooms—kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. Everything needed repairs.
A knock came at the door. Katya opened it. Her downstairs neighbor, Grigory Petrovich—a retired military man—stood there.
“Hello, Ekaterina. You’re back?”
“Hello. Yes, I’m back.”
He nodded, peered inside.
“Your tenants made a mess. If you need help with repairs, let me know. I’ve got tools.”
“Thank you,” Katya smiled. “I’ll definitely ask.”
Grigory Petrovich left. Katya closed the door, sat on the floor in the middle of the room, and took out her phone. No messages from Pasha.
And suddenly she felt light. For the first time in a long time—light.
January flew by. Katya lived in her apartment and did repairs in the evenings. Grigory Petrovich really did help—lent tools, showed her how to patch cracks in the walls. Sometimes he dropped by with food.
“You’re alone, so you don’t cook much,” he’d explain. “I made borscht—brought you some.”
Katya thanked him. Sometimes they sat at her kitchen table and talked. Grigory Petrovich told stories about his service, about his wife who left five years ago. Katya listened.
Pasha didn’t call. Didn’t text. Katya waited the first two weeks. Then stopped.
On January 28th she sat in the kitchen drinking tea. Snow fell outside. Her phone lay on the table. Katya stared at it, then picked it up, opened a browser, and typed: “How to file for divorce through Gosuslugi.”
She read the instructions. Went to the site. Filled out the application. Reached the “Submit” button and froze.
Four years of marriage. Four years of hopes, plans, dreams. All of it would end with one tap.
Katya pressed it.
Application submitted. Court in one month.
She set the phone down, stood up, and went to the window. The snow came down heavier. The city sank into white.
Katya smiled—for the first time in a month, a real smile.
The next day she texted Pasha: “I filed for divorce. Court in a month. Come or don’t, your choice.”
He replied an hour later: “Ok.”
Two characters—for four years. For everything between them.
Katya deleted the chat, blocked his number, and felt relief.
February was cold. Katya worked, did repairs, went to her mom’s on weekends. Lyudmila Petrovna didn’t ask about Pasha—just hugged her daughter, fed her, let her go.
Vera at work supported her however she could.
“You did the right thing, Katya. You’re strong.”
“I don’t know if it’s right or not,” Katya shrugged. “I just did it.”
“It’s right,” Vera nodded. “Trust me.”
Oleg Krasnikov also knew. One day he came into the office and set an envelope on the desk.
“What’s this?” Katya asked, surprised.
“An advance,” he shrugged. “You need money right now. For repairs.”
“Oleg Vyacheslavovich, I can’t just take it.”
“It’s not ‘just because,’” he turned toward the door. “It’s an advance against a future project. In March we have a big order. You’ll run it. So take it—you’ll earn it.”
He left. Katya opened the envelope. Fifty thousand rubles.
That evening she called her mom.
“Mom, they gave me a big advance.”
“That’s good, sweetheart.”
“Mom, I want to buy you a new coat. The one you’ve wanted for so long—in that store, remember?”
Lyudmila Petrovna was quiet. Then softly:
“Katyusha, don’t. Keep it for yourself.”
“Mom, please. Let me do something nice for you.”
Her mom started crying. Katya could hear it through the phone.
“I’m so proud of you,” Lyudmila Petrovna said. “So proud, sweetheart.”
On February 25th there was court. Katya arrived early and waited in the corridor. Pasha didn’t come—sent a representative.
The judge read the application and asked if there were any property claims. Katya said no. Pasha’s representative also said no.
“The marriage is dissolved,” the judge announced.
That was it. Four years ended in one sentence.
Katya walked out of the courthouse. It was sunny. The snow was starting to melt. Streams ran along the sidewalks.
She took out her phone and texted her mom: “It’s done. Divorced.”
Her mom replied instantly: “Come. I’m waiting.”
Katya took a taxi to her mom’s. Lyudmila Petrovna opened the door and hugged her. They stood in the hallway holding each other.
“It’s okay,” her mom whispered. “Everything will be okay.”
“I know,” Katya pressed into her. “Mom, I know.”
March came with warmth. The snow melted in a week. The city woke from winter. Katya finished the repairs in her apartment. Grigory Petrovich helped assemble a new wardrobe and hang shelves.
“There,” he surveyed the room. “Beautiful now.”
“Thank you,” Katya poured him tea. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Oh, come on,” he waved it off. “I’m glad to help.”
They sat in the kitchen. Birds sang outside—the first spring birds.
“Ekaterina,” Grigory Petrovich looked at her. “Don’t worry. Everything will settle. Your whole life is ahead of you.”
“I know,” Katya smiled. “I’m not worried. I feel good.”
And it was true. She felt good—for the first time in four years, truly.
The next day Vera called and invited her for a walk. Katya agreed. They strolled through the park, drinking coffee from paper cups.
“How are you?” Vera asked.
“Good,” Katya nodded. “Really good.”
“Is Pasha trying to contact you?”
“No. And he doesn’t need to.”
Vera hugged her by the shoulders.
“I’m proud of you, Katya. You’re strong.”
“I just did what I had to,” Katya shrugged. “I left.”
They walked a little more, then Vera headed home—her kids were waiting. Katya stayed in the park, sat on a bench, watched children running, young mothers pushing strollers, old men feeding pigeons.
Life went on. Without Pasha. Without his mother. Without their demands.
Katya took out her phone, looked at the screen, then texted her mom: “Mom, I’ll come this weekend. Want to go to the movies?”
Her mom replied instantly: “Of course, sweetheart! I’ll be waiting!”
Katya put her phone away, stood up from the bench, and walked home—to her own apartment. Her own. Where no one would tell her what to wear, how to look, where to go.
Where she was free.
And for the first time in a long time, Katya felt happy—not the artificial, stretched happiness she’d had with Pasha, but real happiness from inside.
She walked down the street with a real smile on her face.
Life went on.
And it was good.
