— You definitely packed your passport, right? — Nastya checked her backpack for the third time even though she knew perfectly well her documents were tucked into the inner pocket. The anticipation of vacation had made her a little scattered. — And the vouchers? Roma, are you even listening to me?
Roman jerked his shoulder, adjusted the strap of his bag, and gave a crooked sort of smile. His eyes kept darting around the airport terminal as if he expected a raid—or was looking for an escape route. Usually calm, almost sluggishly unbothered, today he looked like a schoolboy who’d been caught red-handed and was about to be dragged to the principal.
— I’ve got everything, Nast. Relax, — he muttered. But instead of heading toward check-in, he slowed down beside a column plastered with mobile-carrier ads. — Listen… there’s something. I wanted to make a surprise. You know—so everyone would be happy.
Nastya stopped. A chill slid down her spine. Roman’s “surprises” were rarely successful. The last one had been a set of pots and pans for March 8th instead of the spa day he’d promised. But now—two hours before a flight to the Maldives—any surprise felt like a threat.
— What kind of surprise? — her voice hardened. — We’re flying alone. The hotel is paid, the transfer is booked. What could you possibly have changed?
Roman opened his mouth to answer—then a loud, painfully familiar voice cut through the crowd noise and the announcements.
— Romochka! Finally! I thought you got stuck in traffic—I almost called, but I put my phone in the suitcase so it won’t irradiate me on the plane!
From behind a trolley stacked with three enormous bags—wrapped so tightly in green cling film they looked like giant caterpillars—Galina Petrovna popped out.
She was dressed in her “travel” tracksuit with sparkly thread running through it, and she wore a bucket hat even though they were indoors. A bulky little point-and-shoot camera hung from her neck on a cord. In her hands she clutched a puffed-up supermarket bag, and from it leaked a traitorous smell of fried dough and onions.
Nastya froze.
For a second the world tilted. She looked at her husband, then at his mother, then back at him. The pieces in her mind came together painfully slowly because her brain refused to accept something so absurd.
— …Mom? — Nastya said it not as a greeting but as a question addressed to the universe. — Galina Petrovna, what are you doing here? Are you seeing someone off?
— Seeing someone off—don’t be silly! — Galina Petrovna rolled the trolley right up to them, nearly clipping Nastya’s expensive white sneakers with a wheel. — I’m flying with you! Roma said the sun there is vicious, and you’ve got pale skin—you’ll burn the first day. And young people get bored alone for two weeks, you’ll go feral. I’ll keep an eye on your things while you swim, and I’ll rub sunscreen on your back.
Nastya turned slowly to Roman. Roman was studying the departures board with great interest, as if a flight to Antalya mattered more than his own life.
— Roma, — she called quietly. — Explain this to me. Right now.
He finally looked at her. In his eyes was a plea for mercy mixed with the stubborn certainty of a man convinced he’s doing the right thing—everyone else is just too stupid to appreciate it.
— Nast, don’t start, okay? — he lowered his voice and tried to take her by the elbow, but she pulled away. — Mom’s been breaking her back at the dacha her whole life. She hasn’t seen the sea in thirty years. Her blood pressure, her joints… the doctor prescribed sea air. And we’re already going—what, are we going to be stingy? The room’s big, there’s space. I just wanted what’s best.
— What’s best? — Nastya felt cold rage begin to boil under her skin. She wasn’t shouting, but her whisper was sharper than any scream. — This is our honeymoon, Roma. Honeymoon. That means two people. Do you understand what “intimacy” is? Or is your mother going to hold a candle so we don’t violate her sleep schedule?
— Oh please, what intimacy, — Galina Petrovna cut in, businesslike as she adjusted the strap on her son’s backpack. — You’ll have plenty of time for that later, your whole life ahead. Health has to be fixed now. I baked pies for the road—cabbage and egg. On the plane they serve some chemical nonsense, but ours is homemade. Roma, you must be hungry—since morning you haven’t even had a poppy seed in your mouth.
Nastya stared at the surreal scene and understood: her beautiful plan—white bikini, sunsets, cocktails, long nights of love—was being smashed under a copper basin. The kind Galina Petrovna used to make jam.
— Why am I finding out at the airport that you bought a ticket for your mother to our honeymoon because she’s “never been to the sea”? Roma, we’re going on a romantic trip, not a family sanatorium. Do you realize you’ve ruined it for us?
— Lower your voice, people are looking! — Roman hissed, glancing around. — **Stop acting like an egoist. The tickets are non-refundable. The money’s paid. Mom’s been looking forward to it. You want to make a scene now and leave an elderly woman in an airport with suitcases? She’ll clutch her heart!
— I’m the one about to clutch my heart, — Nastya cut him off. — You put me in front of a fact. You didn’t ask. You decided my opinion doesn’t matter. You dragged your mother into our bed—along with her pies and hypertension.
— Don’t exaggerate! — Roman’s temper flared, boosted by the support of his mother’s presence. — What bed? We booked a room with an extra bed. We’ll just live in the same unit. It’s savings, Nastya! Do you know what a single room costs for one person? We’d go broke! This way—Mom is happy and the budget stays intact.
Meanwhile, Galina Petrovna had already started rummaging in her bag. The smell of fried onions thickened, stomping all over Nastya’s expensive perfume.
— Nastenka, why are you so pale? — her mother-in-law asked with false concern, offering Nastya a greasy bundle in a napkin. — Have a pie, you’ll feel better. And don’t scold Romochka. He’s a good son, he takes care of his mother. You should learn kindness from him. Instead you’re standing there pouting like a mouse staring at a grain sack. We’re family now. And in a family everything should be shared. Even vacations.
Nastya looked at the pie, then at the satisfied face of a woman who had already mentally unpacked into their hotel room, and then at her husband—chewing his lip, waiting for her to sigh and surrender and accept the rules like she always did.
— I don’t want a pie, — Nastya said, stepping back from the trolley piled with luggage. — And I’m not playing “happy family on tour.” Roma, show me the hotel booking. Right now.
— Why? — he tensed.
— Show it. The booking.
Reluctantly Roman pulled out his phone, tapped, and turned the screen toward her.
Nastya read: “Room: Standard, triple occupancy (2 adults + 1 adult).” The booking date had been changed three weeks ago—exactly two days after they filed their marriage papers.
— So you planned this for a month, — she said flatly. — You lied to my face for a month while we talked about champagne on the balcony—while you were picking a fold-out bed for your mom.
— Not a fold-out bed, it’s a proper sofa… — Roman began, but Nastya no longer heard him. She stared at the endless check-in line and understood that it didn’t lead to a paradise vacation, it led to a domestic hell under palm trees.
— Move it, why are you standing there? — Galina Petrovna barked, pushing her trolley forward like an icebreaker. — Over there, where families with kids are—that line moves faster.
Nastya walked after them mechanically. Her legs felt watery; her head buzzed as if she were already in a depressurized cabin. She looked at her husband’s back in the sky-blue polo shirt she had chosen for him a week ago “for beautiful sunset photos.” Now that back looked чужой—foreign. Hunched, guilty, endlessly dependent on the commands of the woman in the bucket hat.
The line snaked forward, sweaty and long. The terminal air-conditioning was straining and losing. Galina Petrovna parked her luggage train right against Nastya’s feet.
— Roma, here, — the older woman said, producing a plastic container from her cavernous carry-on. The lid popped off with a little “thwup,” releasing a cloud of fried dough and garlic. — While we’re waiting, we need fuel. You didn’t finish breakfast.
— Mom, we’re not on a train, — Roman protested weakly, glancing at a stylish couple ahead sipping coffee from paper cups.
— And what difference does it make? — Galina Petrovna snapped. — Your stomach doesn’t care if it’s on a train or in an airport. Eat. Gastritis never sleeps. Nastya, want one? Cabbage or do you like meat? I forget—you’re always dieting, the wind could knock you over.
Nastya only shook her head and took another step away. Being in the epicenter of this everyday insanity made her skin crawl. People really were turning to look. The smell of home cooking clashed with the sterile air of the departure zone, shattering the illusion of travel.
But the worst part wasn’t the pies.
The worst part was Roman himself—how he looked around, then obediently took the pastry and started chewing, trying to do it fast as if he could swallow the shame and be done with it. He chewed and nodded at his mother while she chatted about a neighbor whose greenhouse had burned down.
And in that moment Nastya didn’t see a man she could build a future with.
She saw a grown child, handed from one set of hands to another. From mother to wife—but with a condition: the mother remained the controlling shareholder.
— Roma, — Nastya cut through the greasy pause. Her voice was dry, like a branch snapping. — I looked at the hotel details. You didn’t just add a person. You downgraded the room.
Roman choked. Galina Petrovna fussed to pat his back, but he swatted her away. He wiped his greasy lips with the back of his hand—a gesture Nastya hated—and looked at his wife like a frightened animal.
— Nast, let’s use logic, — he began in the tone people use to explain obvious things to a slow child. — A junior suite with ocean view is two hundred thousand. A standard room with garden view is one-twenty. Plus Mom’s flight, plus the third bed… We ended up at the same total! I just redistributed the budget. That’s called financial literacy.
— Financial literacy? — a twitch pulled at the corner of Nastya’s mouth. — So you stole our ocean view to shove us into a room facing bushes—where we’ll live three people to a box? Do you realize “Standard” has one bathroom? One for three. And the shower has a glass partition, Roma. Glass.
— Oh please, like I haven’t seen anything, — Galina Petrovna barged in, licking her fingers. — What a bunch of princesses. I’ve seen you both in diapers—well, not you, Nastya, but we’re women, we have no secrets. I’ll turn away if you’re shy. Or I’ll take a walk while you wash. You’re inventing problems out of thin air.
Nastya looked at her mother-in-law. The woman genuinely didn’t understand. In her world personal boundaries simply didn’t exist. Her son and his wife were just extensions of her own body—attachments she had a right to control.
— It’s not about what you’ve seen, Galina Petrovna, — Nastya said quietly, fighting not to shout though everything in her was seething. — It’s about the fact we planned this vacation for a year. I worked without weekends to pay my half for that exact hotel. That exact room. And Roma, without even talking to me, took my money and his and decided your wishes mattered more than our comfort.
— Your money is family money! — Roman snapped, raising his voice for the first time. Several people in line turned their heads. — Why are you counting pennies? We’re married! My mother is your mother now. And you’re acting like a stranger. “My half,” “my comfort”… where’s “ours”? Where’s respect for elders?
— Exactly! — Galina Petrovna chimed in, offended. — **I came with my whole heart, baked pies, didn’t sleep nights, and she gives me “view of bushes.” Who cares what you’re looking at—trash heap or flowers—as long as the sea is near! You young people are spoiled rotten. We once stayed in a shed in Gelendzhik, four of us on one cot, and we were happy! And you’re whining about a glass partition.
Roman looked at his mother with gratitude. There it was—support. Someone who understood him. His wife stood there with a stone face: beautiful, cold, completely чужая. He felt irritation rise. Why couldn’t she just be happy? Why did everything have to be difficult?
— Enough, Nastya, — Roman straightened his shoulders, convinced the facts were on his side. — Stop ruining the mood. We’re here. Tickets are in hand. The room is paid. Either you calm down and we have a normal vacation, or… I don’t know, keep standing here sulking. But it’s stupid. Mom’s abroad for the first time—you should show empathy.
He said the trendy word empathy as if proud he’d learned it.
Nastya looked at him for a long, assessing moment. She watched him reach toward his mother’s container for a second pie, watched him dutifully hold her water bottle. She saw the symbiosis—unbreakable. In that equation she wasn’t a wife or a loved woman. She was a paying passenger who should keep quiet and be grateful.
— So: “Standard,” garden view? — Nastya repeated, and her voice turned oddly soft—soft in a way that was far more frightening than anger.
— Yeah, — Roman nodded, chewing. — Big balcony, chairs. We’ll sit in the evening, drink some wine, play cards. It’ll be fine, Nast. Stop winding yourself up.
He truly believed the conflict was over. He thought she had surrendered. He didn’t notice the last warmth in her eyes go out, replaced by something icy and empty.
The line moved. Galina Petrovna shoved the trolley forward and nearly knocked Nastya off balance.
— Come on, come on! — she commanded. — Or the best seats will be gone and we’ll have to sit by the toilet. Roma, keep your passport handy. Nastya, why are you standing? Give me your suitcase, I’ll put it on the trolley—you shouldn’t carry heavy things.
— No, — Nastya gripped the handle of her suitcase so hard her knuckles whitened. — I’ll handle it.
She stepped toward the counter—but not to hand her passport to the smiling airline clerk. A plan had formed in her mind: hard, brief, final. Like a shot.
— Give me the passports, I’ll put them in my special folder, — Galina Petrovna extended her hand. — I’ll wear it around my neck—safer.
And Roman, without even glancing at his wife, obediently placed his passport into his mother’s soft palm.
Nastya watched with the distant curiosity of a researcher observing insects. There: the big female managing her oversized offspring. There: the offspring—taller and broader than his mother—offering himself up, tilting his neck so she could fuss with his collar.
— All sweaty, poor thing, — Galina Petrovna cooed, pulling out a paper tissue and dabbing his forehead. — **On the plane the air-conditioning blows, don’t catch cold. I’ll ask for a blanket right away. And I put warm socks in your carry-on—you’ll change as soon as we take off.
Roman closed his eyes and let her wipe him. He looked utterly content and safe.
Nastya felt nausea rise—not from the pies still hanging in the air, but from a physical, visceral disgust. This man had seemed like an anchor yesterday. She’d imagined him as a passionate lover, the head of their new family. But now she saw a thirty-year-old infant who needed his diaper changed.
— Roma, — she said. Her voice sounded muffled, as if from inside a barrel.
He opened his eyes. For a second irritation flashed—she’d interrupted the cozy cocoon of maternal care.
— What now? — he muttered, pushing his mother’s hand away without stepping any farther from her.
— Come here. One minute. Without your mom.
— Why? We’re almost at the counter— he fussed.
— One minute, Roman. Or I’ll talk right here, and the whole terminal will hear.
He rolled his eyes, sighed heavily like a martyr, and took two steps aside toward an advertising panel. Galina Petrovna’s ears perked up, but she stayed behind with the trolley, theatrically checking the zippers on her bags.
Nastya came close. She didn’t look into his eyes—she stared at a button on his shirt. It felt like if she met his gaze, she’d see emptiness, and it would break her.
— I want to ask you one question. A simple, technical question, — she said carefully, trying not to let her voice shake. — We’re going on a honeymoon. That implies a certain kind of vacation. How exactly do you imagine it working? Practically speaking.
— What do you mean? — Roman frowned, honestly not grasping the point. — We’ll swim, tan. Take an excursion—Mom wanted waterfalls—
— Not waterfalls, — Nastya cut him off. — Us. Husband and wife. You booked a room where we’ll live three people. One room. One bathroom. Are you planning to make love to your wife while your mother snores two meters away on the next bed? Or will we do it in the toilet? Or on a schedule when she goes out for pies?
Roman blushed. Red patches climbed up his neck to his cheeks. He glanced nervously toward his mother to make sure she wasn’t hearing this “heresy.”
— Nastya, you’re vulgar, — he hissed, and something disgusted rang in his tone. — That’s all you think about. We’ve lived together a year—what haven’t we seen? We can survive a week. Or do you need some kind of nightly marathon?
— Survive? — she repeated. The word landed like a slap. — So our honeymoon is something we should “survive”? For what?
— For family! — Roman threw up his hands, then caught himself and lowered his voice. — Mom’s old. She’s lonely. You’re young—we have our whole life to… you know. But she might only have a couple years of active life left. Is it really that hard to show a drop of respect? You’re acting like a selfish bitch who only cares about getting what she wants.
Nastya looked at him and understood: he truly meant it. This wasn’t a defense tactic. This was his belief. For him, his mother’s needs were sacred, the highest priority. A wife was supposed to step aside, shut up, and be grateful she’d been included at all.
— So I’m a bitch because I want to spend my honeymoon with my husband, not his mother? — she clarified, voice icy. — Because I don’t want to wake up to my mother-in-law going to the toilet behind a glass partition? Because I want to walk around my room in lingerie, not in a tracksuit?
— Oh, stop it! — Roman winced as if from a toothache. — You’re dramatizing. Mom’s basically one of us. She even said she’ll take walks in the evenings so we’re not bothered. She gets it. But you… you’re just looking for an excuse to ruin everything. I put in so much effort—organized everything, found the tickets, rebooked the hotel—so everyone would be happy. And you’re standing here destroying my brain over nonsense.
— Everyone? — Nastya’s mouth curved into a small smile—more terrifying than tears. — You made exactly one person happy, Roma. And it’s not me. It’s not even you. It’s your mom. You sacrificed our marriage to her comfort. Do you realize you’re making a choice right now?
— I’m not choosing anything! — he snapped, real anger flaring. The kind of hardness weak people get when they’re cornered. — We’re one family. If you can’t accept my mother, you don’t accept me. That’s it. Point. Enough talking. Come to the counter—our turn’s next. And fix your face. You’re upsetting Mom.
He turned sharply and walked back to Galina Petrovna, who was already waving at them—the check-in agent had become available. Roman walked with the confidence of a man who believes “son’s duty” puts him in the right. He was sure Nastya would follow. Where could she go? Tickets bought, the plane waiting, the sea ahead. She’d sulk and then come around. Women always do.
Nastya stayed by the ad panel.
The airport roared around her: boarding for Dubai, a laughing crowd, a crying child. But her sound had been switched off. Inside her head was crystal clarity. The last piece clicked into place. Roman had told the truth: she didn’t accept this model of “family.” And most importantly—she didn’t want to “survive.” Not a week. Not a year. Not a lifetime.
She inhaled deeply. The chilled air of the terminal suddenly felt unbelievably clean—no cheap dough, no stale compromises. She adjusted the strap of her backpack and walked toward the counter, slow and steady.
Not to stand beside her husband.
— Miss, here are the passports—three of us, — Galina Petrovna said triumphantly, slapping the documents down and pinning them under her elbow as if afraid a draft would steal them. — And seats together, please, so we can stretch our legs. My boy’s legs are long—he gets cramped.
The airline clerk—an exhausted blonde with perfect makeup and empty eyes—nodded automatically and reached for the documents.
At that moment, Nastya’s slim, manicured hand covered her mother-in-law’s.
The gesture was calm, but the force in it made Galina Petrovna loosen her grip in surprise.
— Not three, — Nastya said clearly. — Two.
She deftly pulled her own passport from the pile. The red cover with gold lettering rested in her hand and with it came the feeling of control returning to her life.
— Nastya, what the hell are you doing? — Roman hissed, leaning toward her ear. His face mottled red, sweat shining on his forehead. — She’s waiting! Don’t make a circus—give your passport! People are staring!
— Let them, — Nastya said evenly. Her voice didn’t rise, yet every word dropped like a heavy stone into the swamp of their cozy “family.” — Miss, please check in these two passengers. I’m not flying anywhere.
The clerk froze, eyes flicking between them. The line behind went quiet, hungry for free entertainment. Galina Petrovna, finally understanding, threw up her hands and almost hit the monitor.
— What do you mean you’re not flying? And the money?! — she shrieked, forgetting all “proper behavior.” — Roma, did you hear? She’s throwing money away! The tickets are non-refundable! Do you know how much we’ll lose?!
— Mom, wait— Roman brushed his mother off and grabbed for Nastya’s sleeve. — Nastya, you’re having a meltdown. You’re overheated. Drink water, get on the plane—You can’t just walk away. This is our honeymoon!
Nastya stepped back and shook his hand off with disgust. She looked at him and saw a stranger—pitiful, frantic, terrified not of losing his wife, but of losing money and his mother’s peace.
— Honeymoon? — she smiled, and that smile was sharper than a scalpel. — **Roma, you already have a honeymoon partner. There she is—with pies and a suitcase full of medicine. You two are a perfect match. You understand each other instantly, you share a budget, you have the same idea of comfort. Why do you need me? To sit on a folding chair in the corner and clap for your filial devotion?
— You’re insane, — Roman spat in a furious whisper, eyes narrowed. — That’s my mother! You want me to throw her out? You’re giving me ultimatums?
— No ultimatums, — Nastya shook her head. — Just facts. I don’t want to be the third wheel in your marriage. Because that’s what it is, Roma—a marriage. A psychological incest you’ve been living in for years. You’re not a husband. You’re an obedient son afraid to upset Mommy. And I need a man. An adult man. Not a mama’s boy whose nose gets wiped at thirty.
— How dare you! — Galina Petrovna squealed, clutching her heart while still keeping an eye on the luggage tags. — **Snake! I came with my whole soul and she—Roma, you hear how she insults your mother? Is that a wife? Kick her out!
— Exactly, Galina Petrovna, — Nastya nodded with icy calm. — Kick her out. Only I’m leaving on my own. You win. Take your boy back—he’s defective. I’m returning him in perfect condition, along with your non-refundable tickets and his complete lack of spine.
Roman stood there opening and closing his mouth like a fish on dry land. He was stunned. He was used to Nastya yielding, meeting halfway, swallowing it. He hadn’t believed she could destroy everything like this—publicly, five minutes before check-in.
— You’ll regret it, — he forced out at last, trying to salvage what was left of his dignity. — **You’ll crawl back, Nastya. You’ll end up alone. Who needs a woman like you?
— Maybe I will be alone, — she agreed lightly. — But it’s better than sharing a bed with a man who consults his mother in his head. Fly with her. Have your “Standard” room with a view of bushes. I’ll annul the marriage when you get back. Thank God we didn’t have children yet—and there’s nothing to divide except your infantilism.
Nastya turned sharply. Her wheeled suitcase glided over the tiled floor. She didn’t look back. She knew what would happen behind her: Galina Petrovna would be shoving valerian at her son and wailing about the money; Roman would stand there blankly, trying to process what had just occurred.
But she didn’t care.
She walked toward the exit of the terminal, against the current of people rushing into vacations. Happy couples passed her, families with kids, sun-brown tourists. And she felt as if she’d just shrugged off a fifty-kilogram backpack she’d been hauling uphill for a year.
Outside, air reeking of taxi exhaust and buses felt sweet.
She pulled out her phone, opened a taxi app, and without her finger even trembling, deleted the contact labeled “Husband.” Then she called her lawyer friend.
— Lena? Hi. Yes, I’m in Moscow. No, I didn’t fly. Listen—I need the papers for an annulment urgently. Yes, right now. Long story, but in short: the groom turned out to be married to his mother.
She slid into a yellow cab and shut the door, cutting herself off from the airport noise, the smell of fried pies, and the life that almost became her nightmare. For the first time in a long time she knew exactly where she was going.
Home. Back to her own life—where there was no longer room for three.
Back at the check-in counter, Galina Petrovna was already efficiently shifting items from her son’s suitcase into hers to avoid overweight fees, loudly scolding Roman for choosing such a “nervous, ungrateful” girl.
Roman didn’t answer. He stared at the retreating figure of his wife. Two feelings fought inside him: panic at the realization that his marriage had just collapsed, and the obedience drilled into him since childhood—the reflex to yield to his mother’s authority.
He made a small, hesitant motion forward, as if he might drop the suitcases and run after Nastya—catch her, fall to his knees, promise to put Mom in a taxi immediately… But Galina Petrovna’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder, anchoring him more firmly than any chain.
— And thank God, son, — she chattered, zipping the swollen suitcase shut. — Good riddance. Found a time to throw a tantrum! Miss Fancy-Pants, nothing’s good enough for her. Don’t worry, Romochka, we’ll have a wonderful vacation. I’ll rub ointment on your back, we’ll go on excursions, and we’ll save a fortune on her cocktails. You’ll find a normal, practical girl—none of this… hysteria.
Roman looked at his mother.
For the first time in thirty years he didn’t see a caring parent.
He saw a suffocating, all-consuming force that had just swallowed his future with a smile and a pie in her hand. And with a sudden, terrifying clarity he pictured that evening: the cramped “Standard” room, two narrow beds, the smell of medicine, endless talk about seedlings and neighbors instead of ocean waves and the whisper of the woman he loved.
— Miss, check us in! — Galina Petrovna barked proudly at the clerk. — Window seat for me—I’ll photograph the clouds with my little camera. And aisle for my son—he needs room for his legs.
Roman mechanically placed his suitcase on the belt.
He was leaving.
He was leaving by inertia—because Mom decided, because “the money’s paid,” because he didn’t know how to live any other way. But he understood: this plane wasn’t taking him to a dreamy vacation.
It was taking him into an endless loneliness for two.
Meanwhile the yellow taxi merged smoothly into the flow of traffic on Leningradskoye Highway, carrying Nastya away from the airport. The cabin smelled of cheap air freshener and old leather, but to her it was sweeter than any French perfume. She leaned back and closed her eyes.
Her phone buzzed. She checked the screen, expecting pleas, missed calls, threats—anything. But it was only a bank notification confirming the payment for the trip.
The screen stayed dark.
Roman wasn’t calling.
He was probably obediently taking off his shoes at security while his mother arranged them in the tray.
Instead of tears, a laugh burst out of her chest—first quiet, then louder. It was the laugh of relief, the laugh of someone who had narrowly escaped disaster. She thought about the money spent on the vacation—an enormous sum, enough for a car or a whole new wardrobe. And then she imagined the other price: five or ten years of living in a “communal apartment” with her mother-in-law, wrecked nerves, a broken psyche, children raised by Galina Petrovna’s rules.
— Cheap escape, — Nastya whispered, watching the gray industrial outskirts slide by outside the window. — I just bought my freedom. Best investment of my life.
The driver, an older man with kind eyes, glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
— You alright, sweetheart? Crying or laughing? Want some music?
— I’m perfect, — Nastya wiped a tear that had formed from laughing and smiled so wide and honestly—wider than she had in a long time. — Turn it on. Something loud and cheerful. Today’s a holiday for me.
— Birthday? — the driver asked, turning up the radio.
— Better, — she replied, lowering the window and letting the wind toss her hair, blowing out the last traces of doubt and the smell of fried onions. — A day of clarity.
Somewhere high above, a jet thundered through the sky, carrying two passengers toward their strange, symbiotic “honeymoon.” But down on the ground, in the ordinary Moscow stream of life, a young woman was going home—to a quiet apartment, to her own rules, her dreams, and a whole life that belonged only to her now.
And that was real. That was honest happiness.
