“You should talk to Igor about money. You need to be saving. Your maternity leave will end soon, and who’s going to hire you now with a small child? You need to think about the future.”
She hung up, leaving me with a bitter taste in my soul. Every word she spoke was laced with poison, disguised as concern. She devalued my contribution to the family, my past job, my future. And the worst part was that Igor didn’t notice. To him, his mother was a saint—a woman who had sacrificed everything for him.
I went into the bedroom. Igor was still sleeping. I looked at his face—so familiar, so loved. I remembered how we met at a corporate party. He was from another department, so cheerful, charming, always cracking jokes. He courted me so beautifully, gave me flowers, wrote poems. He was the only one who wasn’t intimidated by my position.
— “Head of security?” — he had laughed then. — “That means my heart is in safe hands.”
We got married a year later, and I was sure I had found my person. I knew he had a complicated relationship with his mother, that she was overly protective, but Igor always assured me: “Marina, you are my wife, my family. Mom is in the past. We will live our own lives.”
How wrong I was.
I quietly closed the door and went to the nursery. Mishenka was already sitting in his crib, smiling at me. I picked him up, inhaled his sweet baby smell, and felt the anxiety recede. “This is my world, my meaning, and I won’t let anyone destroy it. No one. Even if it means fighting those my husband calls family.”
Back then, I didn’t know how literal that thought would become. I thought it was just minor domestic squabbles, the usual adjustments with a new relative. I couldn’t imagine that a real war was just beginning, and that my own husband would become the main weapon against me in it.
The first clear signs of the approaching storm appeared a couple of weeks after that morning conversation with my mother-in-law. They were like a faint ripple on the water that precedes a storm. On the surface, everything remained the same: Igor went to work, I took care of our son and the house, and Lyudmila Anatolyevna called periodically with her “valuable advice.” But something new hung in the air, a certain unspokenness that made the usual silence in the house ringing and tense.
It all started with my mother-in-law complaining more and more about her health. Her calls turned into detailed reports about blood pressure spikes, joint pain, and terrible migraines that made her vision go dark.
— “Oh, Marinochka, I’m completely bedridden today,” — she would broadcast in a tragic whisper. — “The doctor said I need a full examination, and it’s so much money… Tests, MRI, consultations with top specialists… Where would I, a pensioner, get that kind of money?”
I would sigh sympathetically, advise her to go to the clinic with her insurance, but she would just wave it off:
— “What are you talking about, sweetie, our clinics are full of quacks, they can only kill you. I need a private center, a good, proven one. I’ll tell Igor, maybe he can help his mother.”
And Igor helped. I saw him becoming more and more gloomy and preoccupied. He started staying late at work, explaining it was due to important projects. But I felt there was more to it.
One evening, as we were putting Mishenka to bed, he asked casually:
— “Marina, how much is left in our joint account? I’ve lost track.”
I tensed up. We had opened this account before the wedding. I had transferred most of my pre-marital savings there—almost a million. We agreed it would be our “safety net”—money for a rainy day or a large future purchase. Igor’s salary went to the mortgage and current expenses, and my maternity benefits went to groceries and small household items.
— “About nine hundred and fifty thousand,” — I replied. — “Why? Did something happen?”
— “No, nothing,” — he averted his gaze. — “Just for control. We need to understand our financial situation.”
This conversation left a bad taste in my mouth. Igor had never been interested in the balance of this account before. He always used to say, “It’s your money, you earned it, it’s your decision what to do with it.” What had changed?
And then real trouble came, from where I least expected it. My mother called from Zhytomyr, her voice trembling:
— “Marinochka, your father is unwell, they took him in an ambulance.”
My world swayed. My father, Viktor Pavlovich, a retired colonel, was a model of strength and unbending will for me. I had never seen him sick; he never complained about anything.
— “What’s wrong with him?” — my voice was barely audible.
— “His heart,” — my mother replied. — “The doctors say it’s a pre-infarction state. He needs tests, possibly surgery.”
I dropped everything and the very next day, leaving Misha with Igor, I went to Zhytomyr. My father was lying in a hospital bed, pale and gaunt, but trying to stay cheerful.
— “Don’t worry, daughter, we’ll pull through,” — he said, smiling weakly. — “I still have to see your Misha off to the army.”
But the doctors were not so optimistic. After several days of tests, the head of the department called me into his office.
— “Your father has serious problems with his coronary arteries,” — he said, looking at the scans. — “Conservative treatment will no longer help. He needs surgery—coronary artery bypass grafting. And the sooner, the better.”
— “How much does it cost?” — I asked, feeling my hands go cold.
— “Waiting for a state-funded spot will take a long time, several months. And we don’t have time. In a private clinic in Kyiv or Kharkiv, such an operation would cost…” — he named a sum that made my vision blur. — “Five hundred thousand.”
I sat in the hospital corridor, the ground slipping from under my feet. Five hundred thousand. My parents didn’t have that kind of money. The only hope was our savings with Igor. I called my husband.
— “Igor, Dad needs surgery urgently,” — I tried to speak calmly, but my voice was breaking. — “It costs half a million. We’ll need to withdraw money from our account.”
There was silence on the line. It lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity.
— “Yes. Yes, of course,” — he finally said. — “Don’t worry, we’ll find the money. You just stay strong. Dad needs your support right now.”
His words should have been reassuring, but somehow, I felt even more anxious. There was no confidence in his voice. There was a kind of confusion, almost panic.
Returning to Dnipro a week later, I found a strange scene at home. The apartment was spotlessly clean, smelled of pies, and Lyudmila Anatolyevna was sitting on the living room sofa with Misha on her lap, reading him a book.
— “Oh, Marinochka, you’re back?” — she beamed when she saw me. — “We’re just playing house here with my grandson. I decided to help Igor while you were away. He was getting so run down all alone.”
— “Thank you,” — I said dryly. I didn’t like that she was here, in my house, without me.
— “How’s your dad?” — Igor asked, coming out of the kitchen. He looked tired.
— “Stable. But the surgery can’t be postponed. I’ve arranged with a clinic in Kyiv; they’re expecting him in two weeks. We’ll need to go to the bank in the next few days.”
Igor nodded, but again avoided my gaze.
— “Yes, of course.”
In the evening, when we were alone, I tried to discuss the details.
— “I think it’s better to withdraw the whole amount at once and put it in a separate account to transfer to the clinic later.”
— “Marina, let’s not do this today, okay?” — he tiredly rubbed his temples. — “My head is splitting, work is a mess, and then…”
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