— A deduction? What does a deduction have to do with it? You get a tax deduction if you bought an apartment or paid for medical treatment, — she answered slowly. — You don’t get one just from a bank statement.
— Really? — Lyudmila Fyodorovna tilted her head, feigning surprise. — But I was told you could. Maybe you could show me your statement, and I’ll go see my friend? She works at the tax office, she’ll figure it out.
There it was. Olga felt something clench inside her. Her mother-in-law wanted to see the statement. She wanted to know how much money was on the card, where it was going, how much was left. This wasn’t a request anymore, it was an inspection.
— Lyudmila Fyodorovna! — Olga put her cup on the table. — I don’t think that’s necessary. Deductions are processed through your employer, not through friends. If you want, I can look into it myself and tell you how to do it correctly.
Her mother-in-law’s face froze for a moment. The smile remained, but her eyes turned hard.
— Well, as you wish. I just wanted to help. I thought maybe you could use the extra money.
— Thank you, but I’ll figure it out.
A pause hung in the air. Kirill shifted in his chair, clearly feeling the tension. Lyudmila Fyodorovna finished her tea and stood up.
— Alright, I should go. Finish the pie, I worked hard on it for you.
She picked up her bag and headed for the exit. At the door, she turned around and gave Olga a long, appraising look.
— Kirillushka, see your mother out.
Kirill jumped up and followed her. Olga stayed in the kitchen, listening to their muffled voices in the hallway. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was disgruntled, that was for sure. A minute later, the door slammed. Kirill returned and sat down across from her.
— Why did you have to offend her? — he asked quietly.
— I didn’t offend her. I just refused to show her my bank statement.
— She just wanted to help.
— Kirill, — Olga looked him in the eyes, — why does your mother need my bank statement? What deduction? That’s nonsense.
— I don’t know, maybe she really heard something. — He looked away. — You could have at least been nicer about it, not so blunt.
— And you could have, for once, asked why I don’t want to show my finances to outsiders.
— She’s not an outsider, she’s my mother.
Olga stood up and gathered the plates. She didn’t want to argue anymore. Kirill went into the other room, slamming the door. She remained in the kitchen, methodically washing the dishes and thinking. Thinking about being pregnant. About a baby coming to this house in a few months. About Lyudmila Fyodorovna already trying to control their money, and how it would only get worse. About Kirill not seeing the problem. Not understanding that his mother was manipulating him. Or maybe he understood but didn’t want to admit it.
In the evening, Olga sat in the bedroom, browsing online stores for baby products. Strollers, cribs, clothes. The prices were steep. A good stroller was at least thirty thousand. A crib, twenty. Clothes, diapers, bottles, pacifiers — another thirty thousand. Plus the birth: if it was at a private clinic, that was another fifty. A minimum of one hundred and fifty thousand in total, and two hundred would be better, to have a buffer. Olga had about fifty thousand left on her card after her salary. The same money that hadn’t gone to utilities and groceries. If she saved twenty thousand a month, by September, when the baby was due, she’d have about one hundred and twenty thousand. Not enough. She needed more.
She opened the calculator on her phone and started crunching the numbers. If she withdrew those fifty thousand now and hid it, and then added at least fifteen thousand each month, she would have enough by the fall. But for that to happen, Lyudmila Fyodorovna had to stop asking for money. Or she had to not know there was money.
Olga thought. Withdraw it in cash. Hide it at home. Don’t tell anyone — not her mother-in-law, not Kirill. Don’t tell him yet, because as soon as she did, he’d be overjoyed, tell his mother, and then it would start: “Son, since you’re having a baby, help me with repairs, my pipes are leaking. Olenka, lend me some money. I’ll pay you back quickly. When the grandchild is born, I’ll give it all back.” And there would be no money for the baby.
She picked up her phone, opened the banking app, and found the nearest ATM. Tomorrow, during her lunch break, she would go and withdraw fifty thousand in cash. Hide it at home. In a shoebox, on the top shelf of the closet. Nobody ever looks there. And she’d show Kirill the card if he asked: look, the salary came in, part for utilities, part for groceries, the rest for household expenses. All above board.
Kirill came into the bedroom and lay down next to her. Olga closed her phone and put it on the nightstand.
— Are you upset? — he asked quietly.
— No.
— I didn’t want to fight. It’s just Mom…
— I know. Your mother. It’s fine.
He hugged her, pulling her close. Olga closed her eyes, wanting to say, “I’m pregnant.” She wanted to share her joy, to hear his excitement. But she didn’t. Not now. First, she had to secure the money. First, she had to make sure there was enough for the baby. Then she would tell him. She definitely would. But not now. She fell asleep, feeling his warmth and thinking that tomorrow everything would change. Tomorrow she would start protecting her child. While he was still tiny, unseen, but already hers. Theirs. And no one would take his future away from him.
The next morning, Olga woke up with a heaviness in her stomach. Not pain — more of an unusual feeling of fullness. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the fact that someone was now inside her. Tiny, the size of a grain of rice, but already existing. Her baby.
Kirill had already left for work, leaving an empty cup and a note on the table: “I’ll be home late tonight, the foreman sent me to a distant site. Don’t be bored.” Olga crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash. She got ready, had some tea with crackers. Coffee suddenly made her nauseous, though she used to drink it by the liter. Her body was already changing.
The day at the office dragged on slowly. Olga checked invoices, processed payments, and answered emails from suppliers. At lunchtime, she asked for an hour off, got in her car, and drove to an ATM. She found a quiet one in a shopping center on the outskirts of town, where she wouldn’t run into anyone she knew. She inserted her card, entered the amount — fifty thousand. The ATM whirred. It dispensed a stack of bills, each worth five thousand. New, crisp. Olga stuffed them into her purse and zipped it shut. She looked around — no one. She quickly returned to her car and placed her purse on the passenger seat. Her heart was pounding as if she had just robbed a bank.
On the way back to the office, she stopped at a children’s store. Just to look, to get a feel for things. She went in and walked down the aisles. Strollers — huge, complex, with a multitude of fasteners and adjustments. Cribs — white, beige, with canopies and without. Clothes — tiny onesies, sleepers, hats. Olga picked up a onesie, white, with embroidered bears. Soft, warm. She imagined putting it on her baby.
A saleswoman approached and smiled:
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