Vika stood by the window of her small apartment, staring at the lights in the building across the street. They looked like a night sky scattered with tiny, flickering stars. Behind her, Andrey’s voice drifted through the room. He was on the phone with his mother again, and not for the first time that week.
“Mom, of course, come by tomorrow,” he said in the soft tone he always used when trying to calm a storm. “Yes, Vika will be home. No, she doesn’t mind. Don’t worry.”
Vika grimaced. Elena Vladimirovna—that “guest from another dimension,” as Vika privately called her—was coming over once more. Every visit felt like an endurance test. Her mother-in-law could always find something wrong: the apartment was too small, the furniture was beneath her standards, the food was never good enough.
What irritated Vika most was Elena Vladimirovna’s favorite accusation: that Vika was stingy. In her eyes, being careful with money, avoiding debt, and trying to save for the future was some kind of character flaw. By now, Vika had learned to let those barbs slide past her. She would just smile and keep quiet.
Andrey ended the call and walked over to her.
“Mom’s coming for lunch tomorrow,” he said casually. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“When have I ever said I did?” Vika replied, her voice flat with exhaustion.
“You always look annoyed when she comes,” he muttered.
“I’m just tired,” Vika lied. She had no energy for an argument.
The next day, precisely at two o’clock, Elena Vladimirovna arrived with a bag of pastries and a bottle of wine, kissed her son on the cheek, and gave Vika a nod that seemed to say, Brace yourself.
“Hello, Vika. How’s work? Still sitting in that little office for pennies?” she asked while taking off her coat.
“Hello, Elena Vladimirovna. Work is stable, and the pay is decent,” Vika answered calmly.
“Decent?” her mother-in-law scoffed. “Thirty-five thousand a month is not decent. It’s pocket change.”
Vika said nothing. Thirty-five thousand, with bonuses, was perfectly reasonable for their town. Explaining that to Elena Vladimirovna would have been pointless.
During lunch, Elena launched into one of her usual speeches about acquaintances who had made fortunes by opening businesses, investing in stocks, or taking out loans to start beauty salons, and now drove shiny new cars.
“That,” she concluded, looking directly at Vika, “is what happens when people aren’t afraid to take risks. Some people, though, spend their whole lives sitting still, afraid to make a single move.”
“Mom, come on,” Andrey said, finally speaking up. “Vika is practical. She saves money. She thinks ahead.”
“Thinks ahead?” Elena repeated. “What kind of future can anyone build in this tiny shoebox?”
Vika clenched her teeth. The apartment might have been small, but it was theirs—or rather, hers. It had been bought without loans, without debt. To her, it was a fortress.
When Elena Vladimirovna finally left that evening, trailing tension behind her like perfume, Vika silently cleared the table while Andrey dried the plates.
“Don’t take it personally,” he said. “Mom’s just like that. She doesn’t mean any harm.”
“I know,” Vika answered shortly.
The following weeks were quiet. Her mother-in-law didn’t visit, only called a couple of times. Vika welcomed the peace. Work went on as usual, evenings were spent watching shows with Andrey, and weekends passed in the park.
But the calm turned out to be deceptive.
One evening, Andrey came home glowing with excitement.
“Vika, Mom has an amazing idea!” he blurted out the second he stepped inside.
“What idea?” she asked cautiously.
“She wants to open a restaurant! A small, cozy place with homemade food. Can you imagine?”
Vika slowly set down her mug.
“A restaurant? Your mother?”
“Yes!” Andrey took both her hands. “Mom is an incredible cook. All her friends say so. She thought, why not turn that into a business?”
“Andrey,” Vika said carefully, “restaurants are a huge risk. Most of them don’t even survive their first year.”
“That’s true for people who can’t cook,” he said, waving it off. “But Mom’s a pro. She even put together a business plan.”
A knot of тревога twisted inside Vika. She could already feel this heading somewhere bad.
“Where is your mother planning to get the money for this restaurant?” she asked.
“We’ll talk about that later,” he said evasively. “The important thing is that the idea is brilliant.”
Vika let it drop, but the uneasiness stayed with her. And the worst was still ahead.
A week later, Elena Vladimirovna appeared again, this time carrying a thick folder of paperwork. She sat at the table, spread out the documents, and launched into a polished presentation.
“Here’s the business plan,” she said. “A location in the city center with lots of foot traffic. The rent is expensive, but it will pay for itself quickly. I’ve calculated everything: equipment, renovation, supplies.”
Vika flipped through the papers in silence, stunned by the numbers. Three million just to get started—and that was the minimum.
“Elena Vladimirovna, that’s a huge amount of money,” she said.
“Big opportunities require big investments,” her mother-in-law replied. “But once it’s running, the profits will come. I calculated it all. We’ll break even in a year and a half. After that, it’s pure profit.”
“If everything goes according to plan,” Vika said carefully.
“You always look for the negative, Vika. Why can’t you be optimistic?”
“Optimism without realism is a fast road to bankruptcy,” Vika said evenly.
“Mom, where are you going to get three million?” Andrey asked.
Elena Vladimirovna looked at them both with perfect composure.
“I’ve figured that out,” she said slowly. “You have an apartment. Small, yes, but in a good area. It can be sold.”
Vika felt the blood drain from her face.
“What?” she asked.
“Sell the apartment,” Elena repeated firmly. “Use the money to invest in the restaurant. In the meantime, you can live with me or find somewhere cheap to rent. Once the business takes off, you’ll be able to buy something better. A two-bedroom. Maybe even a three-bedroom.”
Silence fell over the room like a curtain. Dense, heavy, inescapable. Vika knew at once: this was only the beginning.
She shot up from the table so abruptly that her chair tipped backward and nearly hit her leg. Her heart slammed against her ribs, and her breathing turned sharp.
“Are you out of your mind?” she burst out.
“Vika, calm down,” Andrey said, already trying to soften the blow.
“I am calm,” she snapped. “Your mother is suggesting I sell my apartment to finance her ridiculous fantasy!”
“Not ridiculous,” Elena corrected coldly. “Promising. You’re too narrow-minded, Vika. You only see what’s right in front of you.”
“At least I see the risks,” Vika shot back. “Ninety percent of restaurants fail in their first year, Elena Vladimirovna. Ninety percent. And you want me to gamble my only home on your dream?”
“This isn’t some dream. It’s a calculated plan!” Elena slammed her palm on the table. “Home-style restaurants are exactly what people want right now. They’re tired of fast food. They want real meals.”
“Then invest your own money,” Vika said coolly. “Sell your own apartment if you’re that confident.”
Elena recoiled as though she’d been slapped.
“My apartment? But I live there!”
“And where exactly do you think we live?” Vika fired back. “In a tent?”
“You’re young. You’ll find somewhere else,” Elena said dismissively. “What am I supposed to do at my age?”
“I need somewhere to live at my age too,” Vika said, her voice hard.
Andrey rose, trying to wedge himself between them like a peacekeeper.
“Let’s all calm down and discuss this like adults.”
“There is nothing to discuss,” Vika said sharply. “I am not selling the apartment. End of story.”
Elena grabbed her bag and began stuffing the papers back inside with jerky, furious movements.
“See, Andryusha? This is the kind of wife you have. Greedy, petty, unwilling to help the family. I’ve done so much for you, and she won’t even lift a finger!”
“Elena Vladimirovna, leave,” Vika said quietly, but with steel in her voice.
“What?” her mother-in-law asked, stunned.
“I said leave my apartment. Now.”
“How dare you throw me out!”
“Very easily,” Vika replied. She walked to the door and pulled it wide open. “This is my apartment. I paid for it. I decide who gets to be here.”
Elena Vladimirovna gathered her things amid a storm of accusations—ungrateful, selfish, heartless—and promised that Andrey would regret this. Then she slammed the door so hard the glass rattled.
Vika remained standing in the middle of the room, breathing hard, her hands trembling with adrenaline. Andrey sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
“Why did you have to talk to her like that?” he asked quietly.
Vika stared at him in disbelief.
“Are you serious? Your mother comes here demanding that I sell my apartment, and that’s what you’re upset about?”
“She was only making a suggestion,” he said weakly.
“A suggestion?” Vika gave a bitter laugh. “Andrey, she came here with a full plan. She had already decided everything. Sell the apartment, fund the restaurant, and let us figure out where to live afterward.”
“Mom’s not reckless,” he protested. “She has a serious business plan.”
“A business plan on paper and real life are not the same thing,” Vika said tiredly. “I work in a bank, Andrey. Every day I see people take out loans and then collapse under the debt. Restaurants are one of the riskiest businesses there is.”
“But also one of the most profitable, if it works,” he insisted.
“If,” Vika repeated. “And what if it doesn’t? Then we’re homeless and broke.”
Andrey got up and paced the room.
“You just don’t believe in my mother. You don’t believe she can do this.”
“I don’t believe in miracles,” Vika said quietly. “I believe in numbers, statistics, and common sense. And all of those say this is a terrible idea.”
The conversation stalled there. Andrey disappeared into the bathroom. Vika stayed in the kitchen, staring out the window, trying to calm herself, though everything inside her was still boiling.
That evening, Andrey came home late, dark-eyed and withdrawn. He dropped onto the couch and stared blankly at the television. When Vika tried to speak to him, he brushed her off.
“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
“All right,” she said.
The next day the subject resurfaced immediately.
“I talked to Mom,” Andrey said as soon as he got home from work. “She’s really hurt.”
“I can imagine,” Vika answered dryly.
“Vika, let’s discuss this again. Calmly. No emotions.”
“There is nothing to discuss,” she said. “I’m not risking my home.”
“But it’s a chance to build something!” he protested. “Mom did all the math. In a couple of years we could own a three-bedroom in the city center.”
“Or in six months we could have nothing,” Vika shot back.
“You’re short-sighted,” he said, shaking his head. “You can’t see the opportunity because you’re too afraid of risk.”
“I’m realistic,” Vika replied. “Risk should make sense. Putting everything you have into an untested idea isn’t courage. It’s foolishness.”
“So now my mother’s a fool?” he said, frowning.
“I didn’t say that. I said the idea is bad. Risky. Poorly thought through.”
Andrey leapt to his feet.
“Poorly thought through? She has a thirty-page plan, calculations, charts, projections!”
“Paper can look beautiful,” Vika answered. “Reality is different. Nine out of ten restaurants fail.”
“Not Mom’s!” he shouted.
“Why are you so sure?” Vika asked quietly.
He fell silent for a moment, then said in a low voice:
“Because she’s my mother. She doesn’t make mistakes.”
A chill ran through Vika, cold and sudden as an icy gust in the middle of summer. There it was: blind faith. Not in evidence, not in logic, but in his mother.
“Andrey,” she said gently but firmly, “your mother may be a good person, but that doesn’t make every one of her ideas brilliant. Mothers can be wrong too.”
“You just don’t believe in her,” he accused. “That’s the problem. You think she’s a failure.”
“I’m not judging her. I’m judging this idea,” Vika corrected him. “Those are not the same thing.”
But Andrey had already stopped listening. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To Mom’s,” he threw over his shoulder. “At least she understands me.”
The door slammed, and the apartment sank into dead silence.
An hour passed. Then two. Andrey didn’t return. Vika called him—he didn’t answer. She sent messages—he read them, but said nothing.
She went to bed alone. When she woke up the next morning, he still wasn’t home. She called in sick to work and spent the day waiting, restless and anxious. Maybe he had just spent the night at his mother’s to cool off. Maybe he would come back.
But by evening, a short message appeared on her screen:
“I need time to think. I’m staying with Mom for now.”
Vika stared at the phone and slowly lowered it. So that was it. He had already chosen.
She called him herself.
“Andrey, we need to talk.”
“I don’t want to right now,” he said wearily.
“Are you coming back?” she asked directly.
The pause stretched.
“I don’t know, Vika,” he said at last. “I just don’t understand how you can refuse my mother. This is her dream.”
“And what about my stability?” Vika asked. “Does that count for nothing?”
“Your stability is a one-room apartment on the outskirts,” he snapped. “It could have been a three-bedroom in the center and an income from the business.”
“Or it could have been nothing at all,” Vika said bitterly. “Why can’t you see that?”
“Because I believe in my mother,” he answered simply. “And you don’t.”
“I believe in reality,” Vika said, exhausted. “I’m not against your mother. I’m against this idea because it’s reckless, and we could lose everything.”
“Tell your mother her plans for my apartment are dead,” Vika said, her voice shaking with anger. “I am not paying for someone else’s fantasy!”
The silence that followed was unbearable.
“So that’s how it is,” Andrey said slowly. “You’re choosing the apartment over me.”
“No,” Vika replied, steady and cold. “You’re choosing your mother and her reckless scheme over our marriage.”
“My mother is part of the family,” he shot back.
“She was,” Vika said softly, “until she demanded that I sacrifice my home.”
Andrey hung up.
Vika remained standing there with the phone in her hand, staring into empty space.
A week passed. Then another. Andrey did not come back. He called a couple of times, but their conversations were strained and shallow. Work. Weather. Nothing real.
Eventually, Vika understood: he wasn’t coming home. He had made his choice.
It hurt. It was humiliating. But it was the truth.
In the third week, she made an appointment with a lawyer. They discussed divorce and property division. The apartment had been hers before the marriage and was registered solely in her name. There was nothing to divide.
“File the paperwork,” the lawyer said. “In a month, you’ll be free.”
Vika signed the documents. That same day, she sent Andrey a message:
“I filed for divorce.”
His reply was brief.
“Okay.”
That was all. Four years of marriage, reduced to one word.
The divorce went through court. Andrey showed up with his mother. Elena Vladimirovna stroked her son’s hand and kept throwing poisonous looks at Vika. Vika ignored her.
The judge announced the ruling: the marriage was dissolved, and the apartment remained with Viktoria. Andrey didn’t object. He signed in silence.
When they stepped out of the courtroom, Elena Vladimirovna smiled maliciously.
“Well, that’s for the best. Andryusha is finally free of you.”
Vika looked at her calmly.
“Elena Vladimirovna, I sincerely wish you luck with the business.”
“We don’t need your wishes,” the older woman sniffed.
They went their separate ways.
As Vika walked down the street, she felt something unexpected: relief. The weight was gone. It was over.
Life moved on. Work. Friends. Evenings with a book. She wasn’t searching for another relationship. She was simply living. Quietly. Peacefully.
A year passed. Viktoria had almost stopped thinking about Andrey and Elena Vladimirovna. When she did remember them, there was no pain left—just the feeling of a page already turned.
Then one day she ran into Svetlana, a mutual acquaintance.
“Vika, have you heard about Andrey?” Svetlana asked cautiously.
“No. What happened?”
Svetlana hesitated.
“Well… Elena Vladimirovna did open the restaurant. She sold her apartment and put all the money into it.”
Vika nodded. That part did not surprise her.
“And how did it go?”
“It didn’t,” Svetlana said sadly. “The place went under in six months. It closed, and the money was gone. Now Andrey and his mother are renting a tiny one-room apartment on the outskirts and barely making it.”
Vika stood very still. She wasn’t shocked. She had seen it coming from the start. Still, she felt a wave of sadness.
“That’s awful,” she said quietly.
“Elena Vladimirovna is washing dishes in a café now,” Svetlana continued. “And Andrey is working two jobs. They’re drowning in debt. Their landlord is threatening to evict them.”
Vika shook her head slowly. Exactly as the statistics predicted. Ninety percent of restaurants don’t survive their first year. Elena Vladimirovna had not been the exception.
“Andrey asked me to tell you something,” Svetlana added. “He said you were right. He regrets not listening to you.”
Vika exhaled.
“It’s too late for regrets.”
“Do you think you could ever get back together?” Svetlana asked.
“No,” Vika said at once. “Andrey made his choice. Now he has to live with it.”
They said goodbye, and Vika walked home thinking about what she had heard. Yes, it was sad. But nothing could be changed now. People live with the consequences of their own decisions.
At home, she made herself some tea and sat by the window. She watched the city lights and let her thoughts settle. A year earlier, she had believed her whole world was falling apart. Now she knew it had all turned out for the best.
If she had agreed to sell the apartment, she would be renting now too, working herself to exhaustion, buried in debt, living beside a man who had chosen his mother over his wife.
Instead, she had her own place, a stable job, and a quiet life. No reckless schemes. No constant pressure. No manipulation. Just the simple happiness of being herself.
Vika finished her tea and smiled faintly at her reflection in the dark glass.
She had done the right thing.
Her caution had saved her from disaster. Her ability to say no had protected her from ruin.
Andrey and Elena Vladimirovna had learned their lesson. An expensive lesson, but a necessary one. Dreams are fine—if they are grounded in reality. Ambition is admirable—if it does not demand sacrifice from others. Faith matters, but risk still has to be measured.
Vika stood up and stretched.
Life was moving forward—her life, in her apartment, on her own terms. And that felt wonderful.
Outside, the streetlights burned steadily. The city went on living: some people rejoicing, some grieving, some making choices that would shape their futures. Vika was part of that world too—small, independent, and free.
That night, she went to bed with a deep sense of peace.
Tomorrow would bring a new day, dependable work, a steady paycheck, and a home that was truly hers.
Let others chase impossible dreams in the sky.
Vika was content holding something real in her hands.
The End.
