I was standing in line at the bank when I heard my mother-in-law’s voice behind me: “Why does this fool need money? Withdraw everything from her account, son, and let’s get out of here!” My husband was already handing the cashier my card and a forged power of attorney. But suddenly, the cashier looked up, smiled, and said something that made them both freeze on the spot.
It all began on a very ordinary morning, one of hundreds just like the drops of autumn rain outside the window. It was the morning of my new life—life on maternity leave. The alarm hadn’t gone off yet, but I was already awake from the familiar soft breathing in the crib. Mishenka had recently turned three, and he slept lightly, like a little animal.
I quietly slipped out from under the blanket, trying not to wake Igor. My husband slept with his back to the wall, and his broad back seemed like a reliable shield against the whole world. At least, that’s what I thought back then.
Our three-room apartment in a new building on the outskirts of Dnipro was our little world, our fortress that we had built together. The mortgage, renovations, sleepless nights with our little son—all of this, I thought, only strengthened our bond. In the kitchen, coffee was already waiting for me. I had long made it a habit to set the coffee maker’s timer the night before. A small ritual that helped me feel human before the house filled with noise and chores. I took a sip of the bitter, aromatic drink and looked out the window.
The morning was gray, the sky low, but I felt cozy. I loved these quiet moments when I belonged only to myself. Three years ago, I was Marina Viktorovna Volkova, head of security at a major branch of “Capitalbank”. I had two dozen people under my command. I was responsible for multi-million dollar transactions and knew all the tricks of fraudsters. My workday was scheduled down to the minute, and my phone was constantly ringing. I loved my job, felt like I was in the right place: strong, competent, respected. And then Mishenka came along, and I dove headfirst into a new, completely different world—a world of diapers, baby food, and endless lullabies.
I had no regrets. Motherhood became a true happiness for me, but sometimes, in quiet morning hours like these, I missed my old self.
The phone on the table vibrated quietly. Lyudmila Anatolyevna. My heart skipped a beat unpleasantly. My mother-in-law always called early, as if checking to see if I had overslept.
— “Hello,” — I tried to make my voice sound cheerful.
— “Marinochka, good morning,” — my mother-in-law’s voice was sweet as honey, but with a barely perceptible metallic note. — “I didn’t wake you, did I? Is Mishenka still sleeping?”
— “Good morning, Lyudmila Anatolyevna. No, I’m already up. Misha is sleeping.”
— “Oh, what a good boy, just like his father. My Igor was a sleepyhead in his childhood too. And how are you, mommy, aren’t you tired of sitting at home yet? You must be bored without your important job, right?”
I gritted my teeth. Every one of her calls started something like this: caring questions that hid little barbs. She never missed an opportunity to remind me that I was now “just sitting at home,” while her son was the sole provider for the family.
— “No, I’m not bored,” — I answered evenly. — “You don’t get bored with a child.”
— “Well, yes, of course,” — she drew out the words. — “I’m just worried. It’s so hard for Igor right now, pulling the mortgage and all of you by himself. You should take care of him, feed him better. A working man needs to eat well. Otherwise, I come over and your fridge is completely empty.”
That was a blatant lie. I loved to cook, and our refrigerator was never empty. But arguing with her was useless. She would twist any word of mine as if I were making excuses.
— “I try, Lyudmila Anatolyevna.”
— “Try harder, sweetie, try harder. A man needs to be appreciated, especially one like my Igor. He’s gold, not like his traitor father. I spent my whole life on him alone, raising him with my last ounce of strength.”
This was a familiar song. Lyudmila Anatolyevna had been left alone when Igor was ten, and since then, she had made a true cult of sacrifice out of her motherhood. She had raised her son and now believed that he, and everyone connected to him, was in her eternal debt.
— “I have to go, I think Mishenka is waking up,” — I lied to end the conversation.
— “Run along, run along, of course. And also…”
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