— I opened a savings account in your name. I put my money in there. The money I was saving for a car. Let it be for the baby. Only you have access. I can’t even see how much is in there. It’s your money. Ours, for the little one.
Olga stared at the screen, disbelieving. 50,000. He had given his savings. The savings he had been accumulating for two years for a new car.
— Kirill…
— No need to thank me. It’s the least I can do. — He put his phone away and looked at her. — I realized something. The car can wait. But the baby can’t. He’ll be born in six months, and he needs a proper crib, stroller, clothes. That’s more important.
Olga felt a warm stir inside her. Not forgiveness — it was too soon for that. But hope. A small, cautious hope.
— Thank you, — she said quietly.
Kirill smiled. For the first time in days. A hesitant, guilty, but sincere smile.
The next day, Saturday, they went to a baby store together. They walked down the aisles, choosing a stroller. Kirill studied the specifications, checked the wheels, the mechanisms. Olga looked at the colors, the fabrics. They chose a gray, universal, three-in-one: bassinet, stroller seat, car seat. 32,000. Expensive, but high-quality. Then a crib — white, with an adjustable base. 20,000. A mattress, bedding, bumpers — another 10,000. Clothes — onesies, sleepers, hats, socks. 5,000. Diapers, a large pack — 3,000.
At the register, the total came to exactly 70,000. Kirill paid with his card without blinking an eye.
They loaded the boxes into the car and drove home. At home, Kirill assembled the crib. It took a long time, with the instructions, cursing at the Chinese manufacturers. But he assembled it. He placed it in the corner of the bedroom, by the window. Olga made the bed. She hung the bumpers with the embroidered bears. She stepped back and looked. A crib. A real one. For their baby.
— It’s beautiful, — Kirill said, wiping his sweaty forehead.
— Really?
— Yes, it’s beautiful.
They stood side by side, looking at the crib. And in that moment, Olga felt: maybe it will work out. Maybe they’ll manage. Together.
That same evening, the doorbell rang. Olga opened it. Lyudmila Fyodorovna stood on the threshold. With a huge bag. With a forced smile on her face.
— Olenka, can I come in? I brought gifts. For my little grandson.
— No, you can’t.
— Just for a moment! Don’t turn me away.
Kirill appeared in the hallway. He saw his mother. His face hardened.
— Mom, why are you here?
— What do you mean? There’s going to be a grandson. I’m a grandmother. I should help.
— Mom, we agreed. You only come when invited.
— But I brought gifts!
— It doesn’t matter. You don’t come in without an invitation.
Lyudmila Fyodorovna looked at her son, then at Olga. A flicker of hurt, of anger, crossed her eyes. But it quickly changed to self-pity.
— So that’s how it is? Huh? I’m a stranger now? Because of her? — She pointed a finger at Olga.
— Not because of her. Because of you. Because you stole money from your own grandchild.
— I wanted to keep it safe!
— You wanted to control. That’s the difference.
Lyudmila Fyodorovna stood there, pursing her lips. Then she handed the bag to Kirill.
— Here, give this to them. There are some little things for the baby. I knitted them myself.
Kirill took the bag and looked inside. Small woolen socks, a hat, a little sweater. Knitted clumsily, but with effort.
— Thanks, Mom. I’ll pass them on.
— And that’s it? You’re not even going to offer me tea?
— Not today.
His mother-in-law turned and walked towards the stairs. At the railing, she stopped and turned back.
— You know, Kirillushka, I raised you all my life by myself. Your father left when you were three. I worked two jobs so you would want for nothing. I taught you, clothed you, fed you. And now you’re kicking me out. For some woman who’s brainwashed you.
— Mom, she’s not some woman. She’s my wife. The mother of my child. And yes, I choose her. Because she’s right, and you’re not.
Lyudmila Fyodorovna sniffled and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.
— You’ll regret this. When I’m dead, you’ll regret treating me this way.
— Don’t be dramatic. You’re not dying. You’re just angry that you can’t control everything anymore.
His mother-in-law slammed the apartment building door, her footsteps fading down the stairs. Kirill closed their apartment door and leaned his forehead against it. He stood like that for a minute, then turned to Olga.
— Did I do the right thing?
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