— Olga Sergeyevna, this is from maternity hospital number three. You’re registered with us, we wanted to clarify. Are you planning a partner-assisted birth?
— Yes.
— Excellent. Then your husband needs to undergo an examination and bring in some certificates. I’ll send the list to your email.
— Okay, thank you.
Olga hung up and turned to Kirill. He was already awake, looking at her.
— The hospital called. You need to get some certificates if you want to be present at the birth.
— I want to, of course, I want to. I promised I’d be there.
He got up and stretched. Olga looked at him, at his broad back, at his confident movements, and thought: maybe it will really work out. Maybe they’ll become a normal family. Not a perfect one — perfect doesn’t exist. But a normal one, where there is respect, trust, boundaries. And Lyudmila Fyodorovna… she would remain outside those boundaries. Nearby, but outside. A grandmother who is allowed to visit by invitation. Who is shown her grandson, but not allowed to control his life. This wasn’t cruelty, it was protection. Of herself, her husband, her child. And Olga no longer felt guilty for this protection.
Three days later, on a Saturday evening, the doorbell rang again. Kirill opened it. Lyudmila Fyodorovna with a cake in her hands.
— Can I? Just for five minutes. I baked a cake, “Medovik,” your favorite.
Kirill looked at Olga. She shrugged. “Your decision.”
— Five minutes, Mom. And no talk about money, about upbringing, about anything else. Just tea and cake.
— Okay, okay.
Lyudmila Fyodorovna came in and went to the kitchen. She put the cake on the table and looked around. Olga noticed her mother-in-law’s gaze slide over the cupboards, the shelves, as if looking for something. An old habit.
They sat at the table. Kirill cut the cake and put slices on plates. Lyudmila Fyodorovna sipped her tea and smiled stiffly.
— So how are things, Olenka? How are you feeling?
— Fine.
— Has the morning sickness passed?
— Mostly.
— Is your belly big yet?
— Not yet.
A pause. Lyudmila Fyodorovna fidgeted with her cup, clearly choosing her words.
— Listen, maybe I really overreacted then? With the money. I really wanted to save it, but… it came out wrong. I’m sorry, Olenka.
Olga looked up at her mother-in-law. She looked back. There was uncertainty in her eyes, but not remorse. A perfunctory apology, just for show.
— Okay, — Olga said. — Accepted.
— Maybe things will get better now? Maybe I can come over, help out when the baby is born?
— We’ll see.
— What do you mean, “we’ll see”? I’m a grandmother.
— A grandmother who robbed her grandson, — Olga said calmly, without anger. — You can apologize all you want, but you can’t change the fact. The trust is gone. To get it back, it will take time and proper behavior.
Lyudmila Fyodorovna pursed her lips, about to say something, but Kirill stopped her.
— Mom, Olya is right. You crossed a line. We’re giving you a chance to start over now. But only if you follow the rules. Our rules.
— What rules?
— Not coming over without an invitation, not meddling in our finances, not giving unsolicited advice, not manipulating. Those kinds of rules.
His mother-in-law stood up and grabbed her bag.
— I see. So I’m not welcome here. Well, I’ll manage without you somehow.
She left, slamming the door. Kirill watched her go and sighed heavily.
— She’s offended again.
— She’ll get used to it, — Olga finished her tea. — Or she won’t. Her choice.
They finished the cake in silence. Then Kirill cleared the dishes, Olga wiped the table. Routine — a normal family life.
In the evening, they sat on the sofa, watching a series. Kirill had his arm around Olga, and she leaned her head on his shoulder. Some drama was unfolding on the screen, but Olga wasn’t listening. She was thinking her own thoughts. In six months, their son would be born. They would name him Artyom — they had already decided. Kirill would be at the birth, holding her hand, encouraging her. Then they would come home, the three of them: she, Kirill, the baby. A new life would begin: sleepless nights, diapers, feeding, first smiles, first words. And Lyudmila Fyodorovna would be somewhere nearby — outside the boundary they had set. Maybe she would accept it, learn to be respectful. Maybe not. Then she would see her grandson once a month, on neutral territory.
Olga placed a hand on her stomach and stroked it. Something stirred inside. A light, barely perceptible movement. The first kicks.
— Kirill, do you feel that?
He placed his hand next to hers and froze. Another kick.
— Yes… — he breathed out. — Is that him?
— It’s him.
Kirill pressed his forehead to her stomach and whispered:
— Hello, Artyomka. I’m your dad. See you soon.
Olga closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the sofa. For the first time in many weeks, she felt at peace. A real, deep peace. Everything would be okay. Not right away, not easily. But it would be. Because the most important things had been done: boundaries were set, the money was safe, her husband was on her side. Lyudmila Fyodorovna no longer had power over their lives. This was their family. Their rules. Their future. And let her mother-in-law call, cry, manipulate. The door now only opened from the inside. And only to those who had earned trust. And trust isn’t bought with tears and cakes. It’s earned through actions, respect, and time.
Olga stroked her belly, feeling new kicks under her palm. Her boy. Her Artyom. He would grow up in a home where he was loved, protected. Where there were boundaries and rules. Where Grandma was a guest, not a dictator. Where Mom and Dad made decisions together, not under pressure from outside.
She opened her eyes and looked at her husband. He was still sitting there, pressed against her belly. Talking to his son — quietly, gently, promising to be there, to protect, to love. And Olga believed him. Not completely, not unconditionally. But she believed.
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