— Have you lost your conscience completely? — Rita nearly choked on indignation. — So I’m supposed to survive on plain buckwheat because your mommy suddenly feels like going to the seaside again?
She was shouting, and Kirill sat there like a stone. Not a sigh. Not a flicker of emotion.
— What’s gotten into you, Rita? It’s my mom… — he said at last.
— I can’t even afford something as basic as a manicure! — Rita’s voice trembled. — I’m turning thirty in a month, do you get that? I wanted to celebrate, buy a dress. And she’s off again, living it up under palm trees somewhere!
Kirill snorted.
— Then go work. Do I owe you a free ride?
— And I’m home with our child, in case you’ve forgotten! — Rita raised her voice.
— And you’ve forgotten who the provider is, — he barked back. — I work. I grind. And you just suck money out of me. You should be bowing at my feet for having a warm roof and food.
He saw the tears in her eyes—and got angrier.
— Here we go again. What is this hysteria? I’m sick of the constant whining.
— And your mother? — Rita exploded. — She doesn’t “rest”? All she does is spend money!
Kirill sprang up and grabbed her by the shoulders.
— Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that! She’s a saint, and you… you’re nobody without me! I dragged you out of poverty, gave you a home, a job, stability!
Rita felt something important collapse inside her.
— Go to hell, — she whispered right in his face.
In that second she understood: she would never be the obedient wife again. That version of her life was over.
But once, it had all started beautifully.
Rita—a red-haired stylist—and her client Klara Stepanovna: stern, controlling, Kirill’s mother.
— You know, dear, maybe you should meet my son, — Klara announced after a perfect blowout. — He’s single, has his own business. I’m dreaming of grandchildren.
Rita tried to refuse, but Klara didn’t take no for an answer. On the first date Kirill didn’t impress her at all, yet his mother was obsessed with pairing them up. Soon there were expensive restaurants, bouquets, compliments. Rita—tired of indifferent men—let herself believe she’d finally found “the one.”
Klara Stepanovna had divorced her husband long ago because, as she put it, he had “stopped matching her level.” After that, her son became her main source of comfort and pleasure. She never worked, convinced that her job was to live beautifully—and her son’s job was to pay for it. Kirill grew up believing his mother mattered more than anything. He bought her apartments, cars, paid for every whim without hesitation.
After the wedding, the mask slipped—especially when Rita got pregnant. Kirill stopped seeing her as the woman he loved and started seeing her as an extra expense.
— Why do you need a new lipstick? Why a new sweater? You’re home all day anyway. Save money, Rita.
Meanwhile he kept flying off on vacations with his mother—without even asking Rita.
From the very start, Klara Stepanovna pushed her way into everything: renovations, meals, clothes. She called her son several times a day with demands, and Rita became a rival—someone stealing time, attention, and money. Kirill listened in silence, then repeated his mother’s words like gospel. He insisted Rita consider his mother’s taste in everything.
— You’re my wife, — he answered coldly when she protested. — And I’m my mother’s son. That’s how it is.
Rita didn’t dream of luxury. She just wanted a fresh manicure or a cup of coffee at a café.
— Wait a little, — Kirill would say. — Once you’re back from maternity leave, you can pay for it yourself.
Her birthday was coming fast. Thirty.
— Kir… can we celebrate? — she asked carefully. — Maybe a small restaurant?
— Are you out of your mind? What restaurant? We’re short on money. Mom’s going to Bali. That’s expensive. So forget it. Stay home.
— So… — Rita said slowly, — for your mother it’s yes. For my birthday it’s no?
— What’s the big deal? She’s my mom. And you? You don’t bring anything in. You just give birth, sit at home, and spend money. Consider yourself lucky. Not everyone would take you. Be grateful.
Rita snapped. The slap landed louder than any words.
He tried to grab her, but she stepped back.
— So that’s how you treat me? — he hissed. — Fine. Then get out—both of you. I don’t need a wife like this.
And Rita realized: it was the end. She would not swallow humiliation anymore.
— You’re right, — she said firmly. — A wife like that really doesn’t suit you. And I’m leaving.
She packed. The next morning she took her child and walked out of a house that had stopped being a home.
Life restarted from scratch—hard, lonely, frightening.
But free.
She rented a tiny apartment, went back to the beauty salon, and managed to earn enough to survive. In court she secured child support. And Kirill stayed with his mother. Klara Stepanovna kept giving orders, and her son kept carrying them out.
Only now—without a family. Without love. Without Rita.
