One thing Katerina Lomova had never been good at was doing nothing.
She had been working since she was twenty — first while studying, taking shifts at a call center, then part-time as a bookkeeper, and later properly, in the profession she had trained for. By twenty-eight, she had become a lead analyst at a consulting firm, the kind of place that valued people who could keep several tasks in their head at once and stay calm under pressure. Katerina could do that. Her boss, Mikhail Semyonovich, used to say she “thought like a man,” meaning it as praise. Katerina was never offended. She understood that what he really meant was: she thought clearly, without unnecessary emotion. And that was true.
So when she went on maternity leave after having her first child and found herself at home alone with her son Kuzya, it felt right. It felt good. It felt important. And still, it was hard. Not only physically hard, although that too. Mostly it was the change in rhythm. A completely different texture of time.
Her husband, Dmitry, worked as an engineer in a design bureau. He earned decent money — not luxury money, but enough, and reliably. They had discussed maternity leave long before the pregnancy: Katerina would stay home for no more than a year, both sets of parents would help, then kindergarten. Mikhail Semyonovich had let her go reluctantly, but with a promise that her position would be waiting for her.
Everything had been planned sensibly.
Kuzya was born in October — healthy, loud, and already wearing a stubborn expression that, according to Katerina’s mother, he had clearly inherited from his father. Dmitry came to the maternity hospital with flowers and the slightly bewildered look of a man who understood that life had changed forever, but did not yet know exactly how.
At first, things went fairly well. In the evenings, Dmitry would take Kuzya for a while so Katerina could get at least three hours of uninterrupted sleep. Katerina’s mother came on weekends, brought food or something useful, and sat with her grandson. Her mother-in-law, Irina Vitalyevna, had also promised to help. “Of course I will, of course I will, I’m his grandmother.” In practice, that meant showing up on Sundays when Dmitry was home, having tea, rattling a toy in front of the baby for half an hour, then saying, “Well, I have things to do, goodbye.”
Katerina did not resent her. Irina Vitalyevna was working too. She had her own life. They managed.
Things became harder when Kuzya turned eight months old. Dmitry got promoted — unexpectedly, in the middle of the year, when the head of department left. Dmitry took over the role. His salary increased by about forty percent.
That was supposed to be good news.
At first, it was. Katerina was genuinely happy for him. They even went out to dinner alone for the first time in eight months and started making plans. Dmitry seemed energized, talking about “a new level of responsibility” and how he “had to measure up.”
Then the criticism began.
At first Katerina tried not to make too much of it. A person gets tired in a new position, snaps sometimes. She understood that. She snapped too — not at him, just at circumstances. That happened.
But it did not stop.
“Katia, why did you shop at Perekrestok again? It’s more expensive there than at Pyaterochka.”
“Because Pyaterochka is across town, and I had the baby with me.”
“Well, you could plan better.”
Katerina had been “planning better” all her life, and hearing that from a man who had not bought groceries once in the last eight months felt… strange. She said nothing.
“Katia, what did these two thousand rubles go to? I’m looking — there were transfers.”
“I bought Kuzya a winter snowsuit. The old one got too small.”
“You could have looked for a secondhand one.”
“Dmitry. It’s a winter snowsuit for our child.”
“So? Kids outgrow things quickly. Why overpay for new?”
She explained. She reasoned. She showed him the prices. Dmitry listened with the expression of someone hearing excuses.
“You’re just used to spending,” he said. “When you were earning your own money, that was one thing. Now it’s a different situation.”
“Right now I’m taking care of our child,” she replied. “That is work too.”
“Well, it’s work no one pays you for.”
He did not say it cruelly. More like someone stating an obvious fact, tired and irritated. That made it worse than cruelty. He seemed to truly believe it.
Katerina called her friend Olya, someone she had known since university.
“Tell me honestly, is this normal?” she asked, and told her everything.
“No,” Olya said. “It isn’t.”
“Maybe he’s just exhausted?”
“Katia. You’re exhausted too. And on top of that, you don’t sleep properly. You don’t eat properly. You barely leave the house. And still you’re the one being blamed.” Olya spoke simply, without drama. “A kind man does not tell his wife that her work is unpaid work. That sounds like, ‘you’re living off me.’ But you’re not living off him. You’re the mother of his child.”
Katerina was quiet for a moment.
“I know,” she said at last.
“Have you tried talking to him properly?”
“I have. He starts yelling. And I don’t want Kuzya to hear it.”
“You’re sacrificing yourself for the sake of quiet in the house.”
“Probably.”
“That’s not a solution, Katia.”
She knew that. But knowing and being able to act were not the same thing.
When Kuzya turned one, they found a daycare spot. The waiting list had been long, but they got lucky: another family turned down the place. Katerina had already arranged her return with Mikhail Semyonovich. He was still waiting for her, though he had hired someone temporary in the meantime.
Then the illnesses started. Kuzya caught his first cold in the third week at daycare, and from there it was one thing after another. Katerina stayed home, took sick leave, missed work. Dmitry was angry.
“You’re deliberately finding excuses not to go back to work.”
“Deliberately? Dima, he has a fever of thirty-eight.”
“So ask your mother to watch him.”
“My mother works. Irina Vitalyevna works too.”
“And I’m just supposed to keep carrying all of this on my own?”
She looked at him — at the man she had known for eight years, the man she had laughed with, made plans with — and saw something new in his face. Something deeply unpleasant. Something very close to superiority.
“Dima,” she said, “you’re talking to me like I’m your subordinate.”
“I’m stating facts.”
“The facts are that our child is sick. That is not my fault. And it is not a reason to talk to me like this.”
He gave a dismissive snort and walked into the other room.
The turning point came on a Friday evening. Dmitry came home from work and saw that Katerina had bought Kuzya three new picture books — inexpensive ones, part of a series the pediatrician had recommended to help with speech development. Seven hundred rubles.
“You bought something else.”
“Books. The doctor recommended them.”
“Seven hundred rubles.”
“Dima, it’s seven hundred rubles.”
“That’s my money.”
Katerina felt something then — not anger. Something colder. Sharper. Like the moment you realize a problem has been solved the wrong way and needs to be started over from the beginning.
“Your money,” she repeated.
“Well, yes. You don’t work.”
“I see,” she said. “Everything is very clear now.”
She picked up Kuzya, went into the nursery, and closed the door. She sat on the floor beside him while he flipped through the new books and thought.
Your money. You don’t work. I have to carry everything myself.
It was a pattern. A system. New, recent, carefully built one phrase at a time, one complaint at a time. And at the center of that system was one assumption: that she depended on him. That she could not do anything without him.
Katerina took out her phone and started looking at job openings.
She did it in brief windows — while Kuzya napped, while Dmitry was at work. Calmly, methodically: reading listings, assessing them, sending out her résumé. It was good that Mikhail Semyonovich was waiting for her, but she looked elsewhere too. Just in case. She wanted options.
A few replies came in. One of them stood out — unexpected, interesting: a company in another city, Nizhny Novgorod, was opening an analytics department. The work would be partly remote, partly in-office. They invited her to interview.
She interviewed online. She liked them. They liked her too. They said they would call in two weeks with their final decision.
She had not made up her mind yet. She simply knew she now had a possible way out.
In the middle of February, Dmitry left for a three-day business trip. Katerina stayed home with Kuzya. The first day went fine. The second too.
On the third evening, Kuzya fell asleep earlier than usual. Katerina put away the toys and switched on the kettle. Dmitry’s phone was lying on the charger — he had forgotten his second work phone and asked her to check messages “if anything comes in.”
She had no intention of reading his messages. She just picked the phone up to move it onto a shelf — and saw a notification from Irina Vitalyevna in the preview line.
“…let her sit a couple of days without access to the card, she’ll think things over fast enough. In our family it’s always been done this way — the man has to keep control.”
Katerina set the kettle and read the conversation. Not all of it. Just the last two days.
Irina Vitalyevna was advising her son to “teach his wife a lesson.” Specifically: take away her bank cards, “let her feel dependent.” Because “she’s too used to everything just appearing on its own.” Because “women used to put up with worse, and nothing happened.”
Dmitry’s replies were short. He agreed.
“I’m thinking Friday. I’ll say I lost them. Let her figure it out.”
Katerina put the phone down. Poured herself tea. Drank it.
Then she opened her own phone.
She worked quietly for four hours while Kuzya slept.
First: she called Nizhny Novgorod and confirmed that she accepted the offer. She asked whether it would be possible to work fully remote at the beginning, just until she got settled. They said yes, of course.
Second: she called her mother. Nina Petrovna answered in a sleepy voice — it was already close to midnight.
“Mom, I’m sorry. I need help. Not urgently, but very soon.”
“What happened?” Her mother was awake instantly.
“I’ll explain in person. Can you take me and Kuzya in for a while?”
“You’re asking? When?”
“In a few days.”
“Come tonight if you need to.”
“Not tonight. I need time to pack. But thank you, Mom.”
Third: she opened her banking app. The account where her maternity benefits were paid still had a little money in it. Not much, but enough. She transferred it to a separate card Dmitry knew nothing about. She had opened that card six months earlier, when something inside her had first started tightening — not because she had planned to leave, but because she had felt that she needed something of her own.
Fourth: she made a list of what they would need to take. Documents. Clothes. Kuzya’s things. Her laptop. A few essentials. The baby’s crib could be taken apart in fifteen minutes.
Fifth: she wrote a message to Dmitry. Short and calm: “Kuzya is fine. We’re going to stay with my mother for a while. We’ll talk when you get back.”
Then she put her phone down and set an alarm for six.
He called on Friday evening. By then Katerina was already at her mother’s apartment in Ryazan, the same one where she had grown up. Kuzya was asleep in the small crib her mother had pulled down from the storage shelf.
“Katia, where are you?”
“At my mother’s.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. We need to talk. But not now.”
“What happened?”
Katerina thought for a moment, then said:
“You were planning to take my bank cards away so I would ‘think things over.’ Those were your mother’s words. And you agreed.”
A long silence followed.
“You read my messages?”
“I saw the notification when I moved your phone. Then I read further.” Her voice remained even. “Dima, you were planning to deliberately cut me off from money while I had a child in my arms. That isn’t ‘being in control.’ That is humiliation.”
“I wasn’t going to do it for long—”
“Dima.” Her tone stayed calm. “You were going to use my dependence as a tool of pressure. Your mother suggested it. You agreed. That is enough.”
“Katia, let’s talk about this properly—”
“I tried to talk to you properly for a year. Every time, you either shouted or walked away. Now I’m doing what I believe is right.” She paused. “I found a job. A good one. Remote. I’ll be earning my own money. When you’re ready for a real conversation — one without ‘your money’ and without your mother coaching you on how to ‘keep me in line’ — call me.”
“Katia—”
“Goodbye, Dima.”
She ended the call. Then she walked into the kitchen. Her mother was standing at the stove, warming milk.
“Did you talk?” she asked.
“We did.”
“How are you?”
“I’m okay.” Katerina took the mug. “Mom, can I stay here for a while?”
“I already told you — for as long as you need.”
“Not forever. But for now, yes.”
The weeks that followed were difficult, but in a different way than before. Not in that dragging, hopeless way that had built up over months. This was the difficulty of actual tasks: negotiating with a new employer, paperwork, finding daycare in Ryazan, speaking to Mikhail Semyonovich — who was disappointed but wished her luck. Speaking to a lawyer too, just for a consultation, just to understand her options.
Dmitry called. At first, demandingly. Then more quietly. Katerina answered briefly, without drama. She kept saying the same thing: she was willing to talk, but not yet, and not like this.
Three weeks later he came to Ryazan in person. Her mother took Kuzya out for a walk, and the two of them were left alone.
Dmitry looked tired. Different too — the way people do after something has shaken them badly.
“I want to say that I was wrong,” he said. “Specifically wrong. I should never have said ‘my money.’ You being home with our child is a contribution, not dependency. I understood that on some level, but I never said it. And that was dishonest.”
Katerina listened.
“And about my mother.” He paused. “I should never have listened to that advice. What she suggested was humiliating. I understand that now.”
“Did you understand it then?” Katerina asked.
“No.” An honest answer. “At the time I thought I had the right. Because I was the one earning. That was nonsense.”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “It was.”
She was silent for a moment, then added, “Dima, I need to know something. Is this understanding real? Or is it only here because I left?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Honestly, I don’t know. But I want to try.”
“Wanting to try is not enough.”
“I know. But at least it’s honest.”
She looked at him for a long time.
“I need time,” she said finally. “I need to work. That is not up for discussion. I need to feel that our budget is shared, not yours. And I need your mother’s ideas about how to ‘keep a woman in line’ to stay out of our life.”
“I understand.”
“No. Not just now. Not, ‘I understand, so everything is fixed.’ I will stay here. I will start working. And then we’ll see whether you can actually keep your word.” She paused. “Kuzya is our son. He will see you. He is not a bargaining chip. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Spring came earlier to Ryazan than to Moscow — Katerina noticed that while walking along the embankment with Kuzya in late March. It was already warm. The snow was already melting. Kuzya walked beside her, having grown over the winter, toddling more confidently now, pointing at everything he saw.
Work began well. The tasks were interesting. The colleagues were normal, kind, competent. Katerina felt like someone who had spent too long underwater and had finally surfaced. Not because breathing below had been impossible. But because she had forgotten that air could feel like this.
She and Dmitry spoke once a week. At first the conversations were tense. Then calmer. He came every two weeks, took Kuzya out, spent time with him, brought him back. Katerina did not monitor how that time was spent. She only watched one thing: her son returned happy.
In May, Dmitry asked:
“When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “That depends on you more than it does on me.”
“What do I need to do?”
“Not do,” she corrected him. “Be. For long enough that I can believe this is real and not temporary.”
“I understand.”
“That’s all I can tell you right now.”
They spent the summer apart, but without hostility. In the fall, Kuzya started daycare in Ryazan. Katerina worked from home. Her mother gave up a small corner of one room and put a desk there for her. It was cramped, temporary, not ideal — but it worked.
Sometimes she thought about that night — the phone charging on the shelf, the preview notification, the four quiet hours in which she simply did what had to be done. No panic. No tears. Just work. A list of tasks, one after another.
Maybe that was who she really was. Once, Mikhail Semyonovich had said she “thought like a man.” At the time she had not minded. Now she thought: no. She simply thought clearly. Without unnecessary emotion. That wasn’t masculine. It was hers.
At dinner, Kuzya tipped over his bowl of porridge. Her mother laughed. Katerina laughed too.
Seven hundred rubles for picture books.
“Your money.”
That felt like another life now. Another apartment. Another woman who looked like her, but was more obedient.
Those books were worth exactly what they cost. Maybe more.
And no one would ever tell her otherwise again.
