In the bedroom, the final piece of the picture was revealed. A folding cot. A narrow, army-style one, covered with a plaid blanket. On a chair nearby, her mother-in-law’s things were laid out: sweaters, skirts, underwear. Larisa Semyonovna was planning to sleep here. In the same room with her and Viktor.
Polina stood in the middle of her apartment — the very one her father had gifted her 15 years ago with the words “this is your safety net” — and looked at it all with complete composure. They had gone further than she thought. The crib meant they had no intention of leaving. The cot in the bedroom meant her mother-in-law planned to control her every breath. The pink walls instead of emerald meant they were destroying everything that was hers.
“Terrible taste,” she remembered her mother-in-law’s words. “It will hurt the eyes.” They didn’t even hide their contempt. They decided for her, cut up her life like cheap fabric, and were sure she would swallow this too.
But the main feeling now wasn’t anger, not resentment, not pain. It was a calm, almost cheerful satisfaction. They were digging their own grave, diligently and with enthusiasm, unaware of how deep it would turn out to be.
Polina took out her phone and snapped a few pictures: the room with the painters, the stripped wallpaper, the crib in its packaging, the cot in the bedroom. Just in case. Then she put the phone away and coughed loudly to announce her presence.
Her mother-in-law was the first to hear her. She emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on Polina’s apron — the one with the inscription “Best Chef,” which she had once brought back from a trip to Lviv. A fleeting moment of confusion flickered across Larisa Semyonovna’s face, but it was quickly replaced by her usual expression of being in charge — the one she had worn for 30 years in the factory cafeteria, commanding cooks and dishwashers.
— Oh, Polinka is back. — Her voice sounded as if Polina were a guest in her own home. — We’re just settling in comfortably here. You can’t imagine what a mess you had. It’s a good thing I came to tidy up.
Polina remained silent, and this silence hung in the air like pre-storm humidity.
— The boys are almost finished, — Larisa Semyonovna nodded towards the guest room. — Pink is for a girl, it’s calming. Your green was just awful, a child’s eyes would hurt from such a color. Doctors say you can’t have bright colors in a nursery. It’s a good thing I intervened in time.
— What doctors?
— What? What doctors said that about the colors? — Larisa Semyonovna blinked, not used to her statements requiring proof, and waved her hand in irritation. — What difference does it make which ones? Everyone knows bright colors are harmful. You better sort out your things, I’ve cleared a space for you in the bedroom, three shelves in the wardrobe.
— Three shelves, — Polina repeated flatly.
— Well, what did you expect? Ulechka needs a place for the baby’s things, and I need a place for mine. You’ll have to put up with it for a while, you understand the situation.
Ulyana floated out of the room, supporting her lower back, with the air of a martyr, although she was still two months from her due date, and her belly, for all its size, was unlikely to be putting that much pressure on her spine. Polina’s silk robe, brought from a business trip to Turkey, looked out of place on her: the sleeves were too short, the belt barely closed.
— Oh, Polya, hi! — Her voice was sickly sweet, with that special intonation Ulyana used whenever she wanted something. — When did you get here? Sorry we started without you, but the doctor said I shouldn’t get stressed. And the painters were only available today.
She caressed her belly. This gesture had become her main argument, her shield and sword at once.
— The room will be wonderful, bright, and calm. Perfect for the little one.
— For your little one, — Polina specified.
— Well, yes, whose else? — Ulyana giggled and then stopped short, meeting her sister-in-law’s gaze.
Polina looked at them both: at her mother-in-law in her apron, at her sister-in-law in her robe — and thought about how easily they had written her into their script. The role was simple: the submissive wife who would tolerate, who would understand, who would make room. For four years, they had been rehearsing this play, and she, the fool, had been playing along to their tune.
The lock on the front door clicked.
— Mom, I bought everything! — Viktor’s voice from the hallway. — I got the pork mince you like for the varenyky. And sour cream.
He appeared in the corridor with bags from “ATB,” saw Polina, and broke into a wide smile. The same smile she had once thought was sincere, but now saw right through.
— Polinka, you’re home already! What a surprise! — He dropped the bags and hugged her shoulders, not noticing she stood motionless like a mannequin. — We’re preparing a family evening. All together, just like I wanted.
— Just like you wanted, — she repeated.
— Well, yeah. Look how great it’s turning out. Mom and Ulka are here. We rented out Mom’s apartment — 22,000 hryvnias a month, by the way. Ulka’s due soon, and the maternity hospital is 10 minutes from here. Mom will help with the baby. Everyone wins.
He spoke with the enthusiasm of a man who genuinely believes in his own genius. And Polina suddenly realized that in four years of marriage, she had never truly known this man. She saw before her a 32-year-old construction materials sales manager who still asked his mother which socks to wear.
— Vitya, — she said very calmly, — you decided everything. Without me.
— Well… — he faltered. — We wanted to make you happy. A surprise, you see? A surprise. Yes. You arrive, and everything’s already set up, the nursery is almost done, Mom is making borscht.
— And my room?
— Which room of yours? The guest room that I decorated. I ordered wallpaper from Kyiv, picked out the light fixtures.
Viktor waved his hand dismissively:…
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