Vyacheslav was rushing home from work, desperate to get Liana to the clinic in time. An hour earlier, she had called and said she was feeling unwell, so he had asked to leave work early. His wife never bothered him over nothing. She was a confident driver herself, but now she was too afraid even to get behind the wheel.
The first seven months of her pregnancy had passed easily and calmly, and then suddenly everything changed. Slava was deeply worried. Liana had struggled for a long time to get pregnant, and this baby was wanted, long-awaited, and precious to both of them. Panic pressed down on him, but he tried to keep himself under control. After all, he was on the road.
After sitting in traffic for more than ten minutes, Vyacheslav muttered a curse under his breath and began looking around, trying to figure out whether there was any way to get around the jam. He glanced from side to side, wondering if he could turn around somewhere, but his car was tightly boxed in on all sides.
Slava picked up his phone to call his wife. The screen lit up, and a second later the familiar ringtone filled the car.
It was his mother, Kira Leonidovna.
“Yes, Mom, hi. Is it urgent?” Vyacheslav asked, his nerves already stretched thin.
“Hello,” his mother drawled in her usual manner. “Slavik, Nyusha is flying in from Moscow today. You should meet her. Be at the airport in three hours.”
Nyusha.
The name cut through his thoughts. A grown woman, and they still called her Nyusha, as if she were still that spoiled little girl with freckles and braids down to her shoulders.
“I can’t, even if I wanted to,” Slava said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and looking around again, hoping for a chance to slip out of the lane.
“What do you mean, you can’t?” Kira Leonidovna stretched out the words, almost singing them. “Make an effort. You haven’t seen Nyusha in five years. Show your little sister some respect. She’ll be pleased to know people still remember her here.”
“Mom, I have my own problems right now. Liana feels really bad. I need to take her to the clinic, and I’m stuck in traffic.”
“Well, what a problem you found!” his mother snapped. “She’s not some grand lady. Listen carefully, son. Go meet your sister at the airport, and that precious little wife of yours can get to the clinic by metro. End of discussion.”
Vyacheslav didn’t even have time to object before the line went dead. A few seconds later, a message arrived from his mother with the flight number.
Slava let out a heavy sigh and typed back:
“Don’t count on me. Let her take a taxi. She’s not some grand lady.”
Immediately, calls from his mother began tearing through his phone one after another. Vyacheslav had no choice but to put her number on the blacklist for a while. Wound up to the limit, he called Liana. She told him she was feeling even worse.
“Slava, my stomach is pulling so badly. I can’t bear it anymore. Maybe I should call an ambulance?”
“Yes, let’s do that,” he said quickly. “I’m stuck in traffic, and I don’t know how long I’ll be here. Call me afterward and tell me where they’re taking you. I’ll come straight there.”
That was what they decided. Slava’s heart was restless. And on top of everything, his mother would not leave him alone. As soon as he removed her from the blacklist, messages began pouring in, each one more emotional than the last.
So it had started again.
He had lived quietly for a few years while Nadya studied in the capital, but now there would be no peace again. Take Nyusha there, drive Nyusha here, help her with this, explain that.
Kira Leonidovna had always dreamed of having a daughter. She adored her niece as if the girl were her own child, fussing over her like a mother hen, while constantly pushing her own son aside.
Tie Nyusha’s shoelaces. Read Nyusha a bedtime story. Help your little sister with her homework.
Nadya’s own mother lived for herself, dumping her daughter on her sister whenever she pleased. And Kira Leonidovna was happy to take the girl in. She loved her niece more than her own son.
Vyacheslav closed his eyes, and memories swallowed him like a dark whirlpool.
He saw himself again as a small five-year-old boy. Evening. Dim light in the room. Shadows on the walls seemed almost alive. He stood by the bed, clutching the edge of the blanket in his hands, and asked quietly:
“Mom, tell me a story…”
But his mother did not even look at him. She was sitting in an armchair, rocking Nadya in her arms — tiny, rosy-cheeked, wrapped in a soft little blanket.
“Hush,” she hissed irritably. “Can’t you see I’m putting Nyushenka to sleep? She’s little. You’re already grown up. Go to sleep by yourself.”
And at that moment, something inside him seemed to break.
At five years old, he suddenly became “grown up.”
He quietly climbed into his bed, pulled the blanket over himself, and stared for a long time at the ceiling, where the shadows from the curtains swayed like ghosts. That night, he made up his own fairy tale — about a boy nobody noticed.
For some reason, that fairy tale did not turn out kind.
From then on, Nadya seemed to fill all the space in their home. She was brought over often — for weekends, holidays, and sometimes simply because her mother wanted to rest. Each time, Vyacheslav already knew: today, he would be unnecessary again.
The motherly tenderness he had lacked so much no longer belonged to him at all. All he heard were reproaches.
“Why did you scatter your things again?”
“Why did you get a B?”
And then, in the very next moment, she would speak in a completely different, soft voice:
“Our Nyushenka is such a clever girl… What a beauty she’s becoming…”
Those words seemed to come from another world — a world he was not allowed to enter.
One memory stood out especially clearly.
His tenth birthday.
He had spent a long time gathering courage before finally asking:
“Mom, could I have this game as a present? I really want it…”
She did not even let him finish.
“Too expensive. You’ll manage without it.”
He only nodded then, swallowing his disappointment as usual. But just a month later, his mother brought Nadya a huge doll, almost as tall as a child, for no reason at all. The doll could walk and talk. Nadya squealed with joy, hugging the toy, while his mother looked at her with such pride, as if she had given her the whole world.
Slava stood aside.
At ten years old, he already understood numbers very well. He knew perfectly that the doll cost far more than his “too expensive” game.
But he said nothing.
He had learned long ago that arguing with his mother was useless.
As the years passed, little changed. Only her words became harsher.
“I feed you, dress you, and put shoes on your feet,” she used to say. “Earn the rest yourself.”
And that very same day, she could buy Nadya a new dress, expensive shoes, or a piece of jewelry just to make her happy. As if Nadya were not an ordinary girl, but a princess from a real fairy tale.
Gradually, Nadya herself became that way — spoiled, demanding, accustomed to getting everything she wanted the moment she asked for it.
Her own mother once even told Kira Leonidovna:
“You spoiled her. Now you can fulfill all her wishes yourself.”
Kira did not object.
On the contrary, she seemed ready to accept that role. Expensive clothes, gold jewelry for every birthday, paying for Nadya’s education — all of it became natural to her.
But to her son, she said something else:
“I raised you. Now you owe me help.”
Sometimes Slava tried to understand why everything had turned out that way. He went through different explanations in his mind, searching for at least some logic he could hold on to. In the end, he found the simplest and perhaps most painful one:
His mother had always wanted a daughter, but he had been born instead.
And then Nadya became that daughter for her — desired, long-awaited, the one who received everything that might have belonged to him.
He was not angry.
At least, he tried not to be.
He told himself it was not a reason to hold resentment. But somewhere deep inside, there still lived a quiet, stubborn pain — the kind that cannot be explained and cannot be fully silenced.
When Vyacheslav first decided to bring Liana home, he was nervous, though he did not admit it even to himself. Not like a boy, of course. By then, he had long since grown used to relying only on himself.
But somewhere inside him, a foolish, almost childlike hope still glowed.
What if this time things were different?
What if his mother looked at him not as an eternal debtor, but simply as her son? What if she smiled, said something warm, supported his choice?
Kira Leonidovna greeted them with restraint, studying Liana carefully. She barely smiled, only nodded briefly, looking the young woman up and down — too attentively, too coldly, as if the person before her were not a human being, but an object to be examined quickly and judged.
The conversation at the table did not flow. Liana tried to keep it going. She answered calmly, sometimes asked questions herself, but everything seemed to disappear into empty air. Kira Leonidovna answered shortly and dryly, and again and again, she turned the conversation back to Nyusha.
“Nyusha recently came back from a trip…”
Her niece’s name sounded in that house like a refrain, like something unquestionable, like the center around which everything else was expected to revolve.
When Liana left, she said goodbye politely and thanked her for dinner. Vyacheslav did not return home immediately after walking her out. He moved slowly, already knowing what was about to begin.
And he was not mistaken.
“Well, what can I say…” Kira Leonidovna drawled as she cleared the table. “She’s nowhere near Nyusha, of course.”
At first, he did not even understand.
“What do you mean?”
“In every way,” his mother shrugged. “Wrong looks. Wrong presence. If only she were at least half as beautiful as Nyusha…”
Vyacheslav felt irritation rise inside him — rare, unfamiliar irritation when speaking to his mother. But this time, holding back was not easy.
“But Nyusha will never come close to Liana in character,” he said, sharper than he had intended. “I would never tie my life to someone as spoiled as Nyusha. I don’t envy her future husband.”
A heavy, prickly silence settled over the room.
His mother pressed her lips together but did not argue. Only something cold and distant flashed in her eyes — something he had known since childhood. For Kira Leonidovna, Nyusha remained the center of the universe, the light in the window, the ideal no one could match.
After the wedding, Kira Leonidovna made no attempt to build a relationship with her daughter-in-law. She did not call, invite them over, or show interest in their life. It was as if Liana simply did not exist.
Liana did not suffer over it.
“If she doesn’t want to, then fine,” she once said calmly one evening, when Vyacheslav awkwardly tried to make excuses for his mother. “It’s easier that way. Less interference means more peace.”
And that, too, was her strength.
She did not try to earn love at any cost. She did not impose herself. She did not break herself for someone else’s approval.
A sharp car horn behind him tore him out of his memories.
Slava flinched, opened his eyes, and for a moment did not understand where he was. The road stretched out ahead of him. Cars were slowly moving forward. The traffic jam had already begun to clear, and he was still standing there, holding everyone back.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake…” he breathed quietly, starting the car forward.
His hands moved automatically on the steering wheel, but his thoughts were still caught in the past.
At that moment, his phone vibrated.
Liana had sent him the hospital address.
His heart clenched painfully. Everything else immediately became unimportant. He entered the address into the navigation app and pressed harder on the gas.
From the parking lot to the hospital entrance, he ran without noticing the road beneath his feet.
“Nothing serious,” the doctor reassured him. “You came in time. We need to observe her for a couple of days, and everything should be fine.”
Those words seemed to lift a heavy weight from his chest.
“Can I see her?” was all he asked.
Liana was lying in the ward, pale and exhausted. But when she saw him, she gave a barely noticeable smile.
He sat down beside her, took her hand, and only then finally allowed himself to breathe out. They barely spoke. They simply stayed beside each other.
Then his phone rang again.
He looked at the screen for several seconds, deciding whether to answer or not. In the end, he picked up.
“How dare you behave like this?!” his mother’s irritated voice crashed through the phone. “I asked you to meet Nyusha! She can’t find a taxi, they’re all busy! How is she supposed to get home now? She’s tired after her flight!”
“Mom,” Slava said wearily but firmly, “that is not my problem. I didn’t promise anything.”
“What do you mean, not your problem?!” she raised her voice.
But he had already ended the call.
A minute later, a message arrived, then another call, which he did not answer. Then came a voice message in which Kira Leonidovna coldly declared:
“Don’t count on my help with the baby, since this is how you treat my request.”
Slava smiled without joy.
They had not been counting on it anyway.
After that, his mother remained silent for a long time.
When he called her himself to share the news, his voice was quiet but happy.
“Mom, our daughter was born…”
A short pause hung on the line.
“Well done,” she replied without much emotion. “We’re busy right now. Nyushenka’s wedding is coming up. Preparations, you understand.”
“I see,” he said softly and hung up.
He was glad things were going well for her. Truly glad.
And the fact that she did not come to the maternity discharge, did not see her granddaughter, and did not even really congratulate them did not hurt him.
He was used to it.
Used to living without her involvement, without her approval, without her love.
And strangely enough, at that very moment, standing beside Liana and looking at their tiny daughter, he felt for the first time that he no longer needed it.
Two months passed.
Life slowly settled into a new rhythm. Then, on one ordinary day, the doorbell rang.
They were not expecting guests.
When Slava opened the door, he froze for a moment.
Kira Leonidovna stood on the threshold.
Without her usual confidence. Without the cold distance he was used to. She looked different somehow.
“Will you let me in?” she asked after a pause. “I… came to meet my granddaughter.”
Silently, he stepped aside and let her into the apartment.
In the room, Liana was gently rocking the crib. Kira Leonidovna came closer, and suddenly, as if someone had flipped a switch, her face changed. It practically lit up with a smile.
“My God…” she breathed. “She… she looks like me. When I was little. Exactly like me…”
She leaned over carefully, almost reverently, studying little Sonya. For the first time in a long while, real warmth appeared in her voice.
“What a blessing…” she whispered. “Son… forgive me. For everything. For what I said… about not helping. I blurted it out without thinking. I… I would be happy to help you with Sofushka…”
Vyacheslav tensed almost imperceptibly.
“Mom,” he said calmly, “our daughter’s name is Sonechka. Let’s not make up other names for her… like you did with Nadya.”
“Yes, of course… Sonechka…” Kira Leonidovna agreed quickly.
Then, as if suddenly remembering something important, she sighed heavily.
“By the way, about Nadya…”
She lowered herself onto a chair, and her voice changed. It became fragile and trembling.
“I did everything for her…” she began, tears shining in her eyes. “I bought her the best wedding dress… helped with everything… ran around, solved every problem… And she… at the last moment, she said her fiancé had a high status, that he was known in certain circles… and that our relatives would not be invited. ‘Later, Aunt Kira, we’ll sit together and have tea,’ she said…”
Kira laughed bitterly.
“Can you imagine?”
Now everything fell into place.
The sudden visit. The softness. The desire to “help.”
Vyacheslav exchanged a brief glance with Liana. They had already talked about this before Sonechka was even born. It was as if they had both sensed that this moment would come one day.
“Mom,” he said, “Liana and I are very glad you came. Truly. And the fact that you decided to meet Sonechka is important. But… we don’t need your help.”
Kira Leonidovna looked up at him in surprise.
“What do you mean… you don’t need it?”
“We’ll manage ourselves,” he continued calmly. “You can come whenever you want. You can see your granddaughter. We’re not against that. But we don’t want her to grow up the way Nadya did. Without boundaries, without limits. I’m sorry, but we will not allow anyone to spoil our child.”
The words were spoken quietly, but they carried the firmness he had lacked for so long.
Kira Leonidovna remained silent for a long time. Her face reflected everything — offense, confusion, and perhaps, for the first time, understanding.
She slowly exhaled and lowered her gaze to little Sonechka, who was sleeping peacefully in the crib.
“Yes… of course…” she said quietly. “Maybe you’re right.”
And there was no longer any of her old stubbornness in those words.
Only exhaustion.
And a late realization of what blind, reckless love can lead to.
