The night passed almost sleeplessly. My husband went to bed in silence, turning to face the wall, and it was as if an invisible partition had grown between us. I lay there, staring into the darkness, turning the same question over and over in my mind: “If it all happens again tomorrow, what will I do?” The answer gradually took shape on its own—without hysterics or rash thoughts, calm and frighteningly clear.
In the morning, he left early without waking me. A dirty mug was left on the table, like a silent reproach or a sign of things left unsaid. I pulled myself together: a shower, coffee, work emails. Work was always a refuge: everything there was simple and honest, you got paid for results, and you didn’t have to account for your emotions.
And just at that moment, the phone rang again. My mother-in-law’s name lit up the screen. I stared at it for a few seconds, and then answered.
“Hello?”
“Well?” she began without a greeting. “My son said you two talked yesterday. So, you understand everything now?”
Her voice was cold, confident, as if the decision had already been made without me.
“I’ve understood one thing,” I replied calmly. “It won’t be like this anymore.”
“What do you mean, ‘it won’t’?” She raised her voice. “Do you think you can just shut the family up?”
“I think my money is not a topic for discussion,” I said. “And you are no longer to come over uninvited.”
There was a pause on the line, and then a short, angry laugh…
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