One of the many things Katerina Lomova had never been good at was doing nothing.
She had been working since she was twenty — alongside her studies at first, in a call center, then part-time as a bookkeeper, and later properly, in the field she had trained for. By twenty-eight, she had become a lead analyst at a consulting firm, a place that valued people who could hold several tasks in their heads at once and stay composed under pressure. Katerina could do that. Her boss, Mikhail Semyonovich, used to say that she “thought like a man,” meaning it as praise. Katerina never took offense. She understood what he actually meant: that she thought clearly, without unnecessary emotion. And that was true.
So when she went on maternity leave after having her first child and suddenly found herself at home alone with her son Kuzya, it was the right thing, the good thing, the necessary thing. And still — it was hard. Not only physically hard, though that too. It was the rhythm that was different. The texture of time itself.
Her husband, Dmitry, worked as an engineer at a design bureau. He earned a decent salary — not luxurious, but steady. 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 when she returned.
Everything had been planned sensibly.
Kuzya was born in October — healthy, loud, with a stubborn expression that, according to Katerina’s mother, he had inherited from his father. Dmitry came to the maternity ward with flowers and the slightly lost expression of a man who understands that life has changed forever, but not yet how.
The first few months went fairly well. In the evenings, Dmitry would take Kuzya so Katerina could get at least three uninterrupted hours of sleep. Her mother came on weekends, bringing food, holding the baby, helping however she could. Her mother-in-law, Irina Vitalyevna, also promised to help — “Of course I will, I’m his grandmother.” In reality, that meant a Sunday visit when Dmitry was home, a cup of tea, thirty minutes of shaking a rattle, and then, “Well, I have things to do, goodbye.”
Katerina didn’t resent her for it. Irina Vitalyevna worked. She had her own life. They managed.
Things became harder when Kuzya turned eight months old. Dmitry got promoted — unexpectedly, halfway through the year, after the department head left. Dmitry stepped into the role. His salary went up by about forty percent.
That should have been good news.
At first, it was. Katerina was genuinely happy for him. They even went out to dinner together — the first time in eight months — and made plans. Dmitry was upbeat, talking about “a new level of responsibility” and how he needed to “rise to it.”
And then the criticism began.
At first, Katerina didn’t think much of it. A man under stress, adjusting to a new position, snapping sometimes. She understood that. She snapped too — not at him, at circumstances, at exhaustion. It happened.
But it didn’t stop.
“Katia, why did you shop at Perekrestok again? It’s more expensive than Pyaterochka.”
“Because Pyaterochka is across town, and I had the baby with me.”
“You could plan better.”
Katerina had been “planning better” her entire life, and hearing it from a man who had not bought groceries once in the past eight months was… strange. She said nothing.
“Katia, what did these two thousand rubles go to? I’m looking at the transfers.”
“I bought Kuzya a winter snowsuit. The old one was too small.”
“You could have looked for a secondhand one.”
“Dmitry. It’s a winter snowsuit for our child.”
“So what? Kids outgrow clothes fast. Why overpay for something new?”
She explained. Gave reasons. Showed him prices. Dmitry listened with the expression people wear when they think they are listening to excuses.
“You’re just used to spending money,” he would say. “When you were earning your own salary, that was one thing. Now the situation is different.”
“Right now I’m taking care of our child,” she would answer. “That is work too.”
“Well, work no one pays you for.”
He didn’t say it cruelly — more with weary certainty. As if he were stating something obvious. That made it worse than cruelty: he seemed to truly believe it.
Katerina called her friend Olya, whom she had known since university.
“Tell me honestly,” she asked, after explaining everything. “Is this normal?”
“No,” Olya said. “It isn’t.”
“Maybe he’s just stressed.”
“Katia. You’re stressed too. You barely sleep. You barely eat properly. You barely leave the house. And on top of that, you get blamed.”
“He’s a good person. It’s just right now—”
“A good person does not tell his wife that what she does is work no one pays for. That sounds like he thinks you’re living off him. And you’re not. You’re the mother of his child.”
Katerina fell silent.
“I know,” she said at last.
“Have you actually talked to him?”
“I’ve tried. He starts shouting. And I don’t want Kuzya to hear.”
“You’re sacrificing yourself for the sake of silence in the house.”
“Maybe.”
“That isn’t a solution, Katia.”
She knew that. But knowing something and being able to act on it were not the same thing.
Kuzya turned one. They found him a place in daycare — the waiting list had been long, but they got lucky when another family gave up their spot. Katerina had already spoken with Mikhail Semyonovich about coming back; he had been waiting for her, though he had hired a temporary replacement.
Then the illnesses started. Kuzya caught his first cold in daycare during the third week, and after that it was one thing after another. Katerina stayed home, took sick leave, missed work opportunities. Dmitry grew irritated.
“You’re always finding reasons not to go back to work.”
“Reasons? Dima, he has a temperature of thirty-eight.”
“Then ask your mother to stay with him.”
“My mother works. Irina Vitalyevna works too.”
“So I’m the one who has to carry everything alone?”
She looked at him — at the man she had known for eight years, the man she had laughed with, planned a life with — and saw something new and unpleasant in his eyes. Something like superiority.
“Dima,” she said, “you’re talking to me like I’m your subordinate.”
“I’m stating facts.”
“No. The fact is that our child is sick. That is not my fault, and it is not a reason for this conversation.”
He gave a short scoff and walked into the other room.
The real 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, from a series their pediatrician had recommended to support 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, and much sharper. The kind of clarity you get when you suddenly see that the whole solution is wrong and you need to start over from the beginning.
“Your money,” she repeated.
“Well, yes. You don’t work.”
“I see,” Katerina said. “Now I understand.”
She picked up Kuzya, went into the nursery, and shut 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’m the one carrying everything.
It was a system. New, recent, built carefully — one phrase at a time, one accusation at a time. And at the center of that system was one assumption: that she was dependent on him. That she could do nothing without him.
Katerina took out her phone and began looking at job listings.
She did it in fragments — while Kuzya slept, while Dmitry was at work. Calmly, methodically: scanning openings, evaluating options, sending out her résumé. Mikhail Semyonovich was waiting for her, which was good, but she looked elsewhere too. Just in case. She needed options.
Several responses came back. One in particular caught her attention: a company in another city, Nizhny Novgorod, was opening an analytics department. The role was partly remote, partly in person. They invited her to interview.
Katerina interviewed online. She liked them. They liked her. They said they would call in two weeks with a final decision.
She had not made up her mind yet. But now she knew there was an option.
In mid-February, Dmitry left on a three-day business trip. Katerina stayed home with Kuzya. The first day passed normally. The second as well.
On the third evening, Kuzya fell asleep earlier than usual. Katerina put away his toys and set the kettle on. Dmitry’s phone was charging — he had forgotten his second, work phone and had asked her to “check messages if anything important comes in.”
She had no intention of reading his correspondence. She only picked up the phone to move it onto a shelf — and saw a notification from Irina Vitalyevna in the preview bar.
“…let her sit without a bank card for a couple of days, then she’ll understand. In our family we’ve always done it this way — the man has to keep control.”
Katerina turned off the kettle and read the messages. Not all of them — just the last two days.
Irina Vitalyevna was advising her son to “teach his wife a lesson.” Specifically: take away her cards, “make her feel dependent.” Because “she’s gotten too used to everything just appearing by itself.” Because “women used to put up with worse.”
Dmitry’s replies were short. He agreed.
“I’m thinking Friday. I’ll say I lost them. Let her figure it out.”
Katerina set the phone down. Poured 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, for the time being, she could work entirely remotely until she got settled. They said yes, of course.
Second: she called her mother. Nina Petrovna answered in a sleepy voice — it was almost midnight.
“Mom, I’m sorry. I need help. Not urgently, but soon.”
“What happened?” Her mother was fully awake at once.
“I’ll explain when I get there. Can you take me and Kuzya in for a while?”
“Are you even asking? When?”
“In a few days.”
“Come tonight if you have to.”
“Not tonight. I need to get organized. But thank you, Mom.”
Third: she opened her banking app. Her maternity payments had been going into her own account — there was not much in it, but it was something. She transferred the money to a separate card Dmitry did not know about. She had opened that card six months earlier, when something inside her had first begun to tighten — not because she was planning to leave, but because she had felt, instinctively: I need something of my own.
Fourth: she made a list of what they needed to take. Documents, clothes, Kuzya’s things. Her laptop. A few other essentials. A little furniture — the baby cot could be taken apart in fifteen minutes.
Fifth: she wrote Dmitry a message. Short and simple: “Kuzya is fine. We’re going to stay with my mother for a while. We’ll talk when you get back.”
Then she turned off the phone and set her alarm for six.
He called on Friday evening. By then Katerina was already at her mother’s place in Ryazan, in the same apartment where she had grown up. Kuzya was asleep in the little crib her mother had taken down from storage.
“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 she said:
“You were going to take my bank cards away so I would ‘understand how things work.’ Those were your mother’s words, but you agreed.”
A long silence.
“You read my messages?”
“I saw the notification while I was moving 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 ‘keeping control.’ That’s humiliation.”
“I wasn’t going to do it for long—”
“Dima.” Her voice stayed calm. “You were going to use my dependence as a tool to pressure me. Your mother suggested it, and you agreed. That is enough.”
“Katia, let’s talk normally—”
“I tried to talk to you normally for a year. Every time, you either shouted or walked away. Right now I’m doing what I think is right.” A pause. “I found a job. A good one. Remote. I’m going to earn my own money. When you’re ready for a real conversation — without ‘your money’ and without advice from your mother — then call.”
“Katia—”
“Goodbye, Dima.”
She hung up. Then she went into the kitchen. Her mother was standing by the stove, warming milk.
“Did you talk?” she asked.
“We did.”
“How are you?”
“I’m okay.” Katerina took the mug from her. “Mom, can I stay with you for a while?”
“I already told you — forever, if you want.”
“Not forever. But for now — yes.”
The next few weeks were difficult, but in a different way from before. Not that slow, airless tension that had been building for months. These were practical difficulties: negotiations with her new employer, paperwork, arranging daycare in Ryazan, calling Mikhail Semyonovich — who was disappointed but wished her luck. Speaking to a lawyer — just a consultation, just to know where she stood.
Dmitry kept calling. At first insistently, then more quietly. Katerina answered briefly, without fighting. She told him she was willing to talk, but not yet, and not like this.
Three weeks later he came to Ryazan himself. Her mother took Kuzya out for a walk, and the two of them were left alone.
Dmitry looked tired. Changed, a little — the way people do when life has shaken them hard.
“I want to say that I was wrong,” he said. “Specifically: I should never have said ‘my money.’ You staying home with our child is a contribution, not dependence. I understood that, but I never said it. And that was unfair.”
Katerina listened.
“And my mother.” He hesitated. “I should never have listened to that advice. What she suggested was humiliating. I see that now.”
“Did you understand that then?” Katerina asked.
“No,” he said honestly. “At the time, I thought I had the right, because I was the one earning. That was nonsense.”
“Yes,” Katerina said after a pause. “It was.”
Then she looked at him and asked, “Dima, I need to know — is this just something you understand now because I left? Or has something really changed?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Honestly, I don’t know. But I want to try.”
“Wanting to try is not enough.”
“I know. But it’s the truth.”
She was silent for a long time.
“I need time,” she said at last. “I need to work — that is not negotiable. I need to feel that our money is shared, not yours. And I need to know that your mother’s ideas about how a man should ‘keep control’ are not going to shape our life.”
“I understand.”
“Not now. Not ‘I understand’ and then suddenly everything is fine. I’m staying here. I’m going back to work. We’ll see whether you keep your word.” She paused. “Kuzya is our son. He is not a bargaining chip. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Spring came to Ryazan earlier than it did to Moscow — Katerina noticed that while walking with Kuzya along the embankment at the end of March. It was already warm, already thawing. Kuzya waddled beside her, having grown over the winter, pointing excitedly at everything.
Work started well. The tasks were interesting, the colleagues sensible. Katerina felt like someone who had been underwater for a long time and had finally broken the surface. Not because she had been drowning exactly. 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 other weekend, took Kuzya out, brought him back. Katerina did not monitor how he spent the time — she only looked at her son and saw that he was happy.
In May, Dmitry asked:
“When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know,” Katerina said. “That depends on you more than on me.”
“What do I need to do?”
“Not do,” she corrected him. “Be. For long enough that I can believe it isn’t temporary.”
“I understand.”
“That’s all I can tell you right now.”
They spent the summer apart, but without hostility. In autumn, Kuzya started daycare in Ryazan. Katerina worked from home — her mother had given up one corner of a room so she could set up a desk there. It was inconvenient, temporary, but workable.
Sometimes she thought back to that night — the phone charging, the message preview, 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.
That, perhaps, was who she really was. Once, Mikhail Semyonovich had said she “thought like a man.” At the time, she hadn’t minded. But now she thought: no. She simply thought clearly. Without unnecessary emotion — that wasn’t masculine. It was hers.
At dinner, Kuzya knocked over his bowl of porridge. Her mother laughed. Katerina laughed too.
Seven hundred rubles for picture books.
“Your money.”
That was long ago now. A different apartment. A different woman — someone who looked like her, but was quieter, more willing to bend.
Those books were worth every ruble. And no one would ever tell her otherwise again.
