— Are you picking out a gift?
— No, for myself.
— You mean?
— Yes, for myself.
— Congratulations! How far along are you?
— Only three weeks.
— Oh, you have so much ahead of you. These onesies are very good, 100% cotton, they don’t fade. You should get several, they get dirty quickly.
Olga bought three onesies and a pack of newborn diapers. The smallest one, just to try. The saleswoman packed everything in a bag and congratulated her again. Olga left the store, clutching the bag, and suddenly felt her eyes well up. She was really going to be a mother. Soon.
In the evening, when she got home, Kirill wasn’t there yet. Olga took the money and the bag of baby things out of her purse. She brought a boot box from the hallway — tall, sturdy, with a lid. She put the bills inside, carefully smoothing them out. On top, the onesies and diapers. She paused. Then she took a piece of paper and wrote in large block letters: “WE’RE THREE MONTHS OLD. HI, DAD.” She placed the note on top. She closed the box lid. She climbed onto a chair, opened the top shelf of the closet, and pushed the box to the far corner, behind old blankets and pillows. She climbed down, dusting off her hands. There. No one will find it. Even if Kirill looks up there, he won’t pay attention. It’s just a box, an old shoebox.
She sat on the sofa and opened her phone. She scheduled an ultrasound for two weeks from now. She read forums for new moms: what to pack for the hospital, how to choose a doctor, what tests to take. There was a sea of information, her head was spinning. Olga jotted down the main points in a notebook. First screening at 12 weeks, second at 20, third at 30. Monthly tests. Birthing classes, partner-assisted birth — she had to arrange it with the hospital in advance.
Kirill came home at nine, tired, in a dusty work uniform. He took off his clothes and went into the bathroom. Olga heated up dinner: buckwheat with meatballs. She set the table and sat across from him. Kirill ate in silence, ravenously. She watched him and thought: Should I tell him? Should I not?
— How was your day? — she asked.
— Tiring. The site is on the other side of town, I got stuck in traffic. The foreman promised we’ll be working here, nearby, tomorrow.
— That’s good.
A pause. Kirill looked up at her.
— Why are you so pensive?
— Just tired, too.
He nodded and continued eating. Olga clasped her hands under the table. Not now. It’s too early. I need to wait until the box of money is fuller. Then I’ll tell him.
The next day, Saturday, Olga decided to visit her mother-in-law. To bring her some groceries and, at the same time, check if the refrigerator was really new. In the morning, she packed a bag: milk, cottage cheese, bread, sausage, vegetables. She got in the car and drove. Lyudmila Fyodorovna lived in an old five-story building on the outskirts: a small one-room apartment, cramped and cluttered with furniture.
Olga rang the doorbell. Her mother-in-law opened it, surprised.
— Olenka, come in, come in. Did something happen?
— No. Just decided to visit. I brought some groceries.
— Oh, you’re a dear! Come in, I’ll put the kettle on.
Olga came in, took off her boots. She went into the kitchen and put the bag on the table. She looked around. In the corner stood a refrigerator. Big, white, with two doors. New. So, she really did buy it.
Lyudmila Fyodorovna bustled around, getting cups, making tea. Olga sat down and unpacked the groceries.
— What a nice refrigerator, — she said, — so spacious.
— Yes, I finally bought it. The old one completely died, the repairman wouldn’t even look at it. Said to just throw it out. I got this one on an installment plan. I pay five thousand a month.
— Was the down payment large?
— Thirty thousand. You remember, I asked you for it.
Olga nodded. So, she hadn’t lied. She really bought the refrigerator. But a bad feeling lingered. For some reason, it seemed like her mother-in-law had spent the money on something else.
They drank tea, and Lyudmila Fyodorovna asked about work, about Kirill. Olga answered briefly. Then her mother-in-law leaned in and lowered her voice:
— Listen, Olenka, I was thinking about that tax deduction. Maybe you could show me the statement after all? I really want to help, maybe they’ll actually give something back.
— Lyudmila Fyodorovna, I already told you, that’s not how deductions work. You don’t need a statement.
— Why are you so stubborn? I just want what’s best for you.
— Thank you, but no thanks.
Her mother-in-law’s face darkened. She put down her cup and folded her hands on the table.
— Are you hiding something?
— What? — Olga frowned.
— Well, if you don’t want to show the statement, you must be hiding something. Maybe you’re spending money on something? On yourself? On something Kirill shouldn’t know about?
Olga felt anger boiling inside her. She grabbed her bag and stood up.
— I’m not hiding anything. I just don’t feel the need to discuss my finances. Goodbye.
— Olenka, where are you going? I didn’t mean to offend you!
But Olga was already heading for the door. She got dressed, left, and slammed the door. She went down the stairs and got into her car. Her hands were shaking. She sat behind the wheel and took a deep breath. Calm down, everything is fine. Her mother-in-law was just meddling.
In the evening, Kirill came home looking gloomy. He threw his phone on the table. He gave Olga a heavy look.
— Mom called. She said you visited her and were rude.
— I wasn’t rude. I just refused to discuss my finances.
— Why? She’s my mother. My mother.
— So what? Does that mean she has the right to control how I spend my salary?
— She’s not controlling. She’s just worried.
— Kirill, — Olga stood up and went to him. — Why does your mother need to know how much money I have on my card?
— I don’t know. Maybe there really is some deduction. Or she’s worried we’re in debt.
— We’re not in debt. We’re doing fine.
— Then why can’t you just show her the statement? What’s the big deal?
Olga pressed her lips together. It was useless to explain. He wouldn’t understand. Or wouldn’t want to.
— Because it’s my personal information. And I’m not obligated to share it with anyone.
Kirill waved his hand and turned away.
— Do what you want. Just don’t offend my mother.
He went into the other room. Olga stayed in the kitchen, feeling a deep resentment growing inside her. Why was he always on her side? Why couldn’t he take his wife’s side for once?
The next few days passed in tense silence. Kirill left for work early and came back late. Olga also tried to stay late at the office to spend less time at home. They barely spoke — only when necessary. Lyudmila Fyodorovna didn’t call anymore. But Olga felt it: this was the calm before the storm. Her mother-in-law was not one to simply back down.
A week later, on a Friday evening, Olga came home to find that someone had been in the apartment. Nothing was missing, but things had been moved. The books on the shelf were out of place. The clothes in the closet were arranged differently. Olga walked through the rooms, checking. In the bedroom, the dresser was slightly ajar. She distinctly remembered closing it that morning. Her heart sank. Someone had been rummaging through their things. Who? Kirill? No, he was at work all day. Then who?
She took out her phone and called Kirill.
— Were you home during the day?
— No, at the site. Why?
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