— “I know,” — the investigator nodded. — “Your husband is contradicting himself. First, he said you didn’t know about the withdrawal, then that you were aware but simply forgot. In short, their story is full of holes. The call records and the testimony of the bank employees are against them. I think the case will go to court.” — He paused, then added: — “As for his application to the guardianship authorities—that’s just a way to pressure you. It has no legal force. You have excellent references. The child is well-cared for. Don’t worry about it.”
I left the police station with a strange sense of relief. I saw their fear. They were afraid. They understood that I wasn’t joking, that I would go all the way.
And in the evening, the thing I feared most happened. I got a call from Kyiv.
— “Mom!” — I shouted.
— “Marinochka! Dad had his surgery.”
— “How is he?” — I held my breath.
— “The surgery was successful,” — my mother’s voice was filled with tears. — “But he’s… he’s in a coma. The doctors say we have to wait.”
My world collapsed again. A coma. That terrible word echoed in my head. I sat in Lena’s kitchen, staring out the dark window, and realized that the most terrifying battle—the battle for my father’s life—had just begun. And its outcome did not depend on me or the doctors. Only on God and my father’s will to live.
The news that my father was in a coma hit me with the force of a freight train. All my problems: my husband’s betrayal, the war with my mother-in-law, the court case—all of it suddenly seemed so petty, so insignificant compared to this new, terrifying reality. My dad, my strong, reliable dad, was now lying unconscious thousands of kilometers away from me, and his life was hanging by a thread.
— “Marina, what happened?” — Lena entered the kitchen, drawn by my long silence. She saw my face and understood everything without words. She just came over, hugged me, and let me cry.
I cried for a long time, silently. Tears streamed down my cheeks, dripping onto my robe. They were tears of fear, helplessness, and a kind of childish resentment at the injustice of the world. Why him? Why now, when I needed his support so much?
The next few days blurred into a single, continuous fog. I hardly slept, constantly on the phone with my mother. She told me that my father’s condition remained critical but stable; the doctors weren’t giving any prognoses. “We just have to wait and believe,” she repeated. I could hear how hard those words were for her.
Mishenka sensed my state. He became quiet, thoughtful. He would often come up to me, hug me with his little arms, and say, “Mommy, don’t cry.” His childish love and care were the only things keeping me afloat.
Igor and his mother seemed to have vanished. After the interrogation, they didn’t make any contact. Apparently, their lawyer had advised them to lie low. But their silence brought no relief; I knew it was just a temporary respite.
A week after my father’s surgery, when I was beginning to lose all hope, a call came from Kyiv.
— “Mom,” — I grabbed the phone, afraid to hear the worst.
— “Marina! He’s awake!” — her voice broke with sobs, but they were tears of joy. — “He’s regained consciousness!”
I shouted with happiness, scooped Mishenka up in my arms, and spun around the room with him. He laughed, not understanding the reason for my joy, but catching it from me. My father was slowly recovering. He was still very weak, but the worst was over. The doctors spoke of good progress and were making optimistic forecasts. I could breathe again.
And with the relief, my former resolve returned. Now that the threat to my father’s life had passed, I could focus again on my war. And I was more ready for it than ever. The pain and fear for my father had tempered me, made me tougher. I no longer doubted or hesitated. I knew I had to see this through to the end.
The investigator informed me that the case was being sent to court. The preliminary hearing was scheduled for the end of the month. My lawyer, Mikhail Borisovich, was optimistic.
— “We have a strong position, Marina Viktorovna,” — he told me over the phone. — “Their story about a loan and assistance falls apart at first glance. The main thing is to remain calm and confident in court.”
I prepared for the trial as if it were the most important exam of my life. My lawyer and I spent hours working on our strategy, rehearsing answers to possible questions. I re-read the case materials, recalling every detail, every word.
Igor made another attempt to pressure me. He sent me an official notice that he had filed for divorce and for the determination of the child’s residence. In the lawsuit, he demanded that Mishenka live with him, and I would be allowed to see my son twice a month in his presence. As grounds for this, he cited my “unstable emotional state” and “tendency for baseless accusations,” which was proven by my police report.
— “This is desperation,” — said Mikhail Borisovich, after reviewing the lawsuit. — “He knows he’s losing and is trying to hit you where it hurts most. Don’t worry, no court will separate a three-year-old child from a mother who has no alcohol or drug addiction. It’s an empty threat.”
But it still hurt. It hurt to see the depths of his depravity. The man I loved, the father of my child, was willing to do anything to break me.
The court date was approaching. I tried to be strong, but the tension was mounting. Lena, seeing my state, supported me as best she could: she cooked for me, made me go for walks.
— “You’ll get through this,” — she would say. — “You’re strong. You’ve always been strong.”
And then the day came. I stood in front of the courthouse, my knees trembling. Mikhail Borisovich was by my side, his calmness somewhat transferring to me.
— “Ready?” — he asked.
— “Ready,” — I exhaled.
We went inside. In the hallway, I saw them. Igor, Lyudmila Anatolyevna, and their lawyer—a young, self-confident man in an expensive suit. Igor didn’t look my way. But my mother-in-law gave me a long, hateful stare. I saw no remorse or fear in her eyes—only anger and a conviction of her own righteousness. At that moment, I knew there could be no reconciliation. We were enemies, and today, one of us had to lose. And I would do everything to make sure it wasn’t me. The emotional breakdown I had experienced was over. I no longer felt like a victim. I felt like a warrior who had entered the battlefield. And I was ready to fight.
The courtroom was small and stuffy. Heavy burgundy curtains on the windows barely let in any daylight, making the atmosphere feel even more oppressive. We sat on the plaintiff’s bench. Opposite, a few meters away, sat Igor and Lyudmila Anatolyevna with their defender. I tried not to look in their direction, but I felt my mother-in-law’s heavy gaze on me. Igor, however, stubbornly stared at the floor. He had none of the self-assurance he had shown before. Now he just looked pathetic.
The judge, an elderly woman with a tired, impassive face, entered the room, and the session began. The first half-hour was dedicated to formalities. Then the questioning of witnesses began. The first to be called was the bank teller, the same girl who had witnessed my argument with Igor. She confirmed that I was shocked to learn about the missing money and that my husband couldn’t clearly explain what had happened…
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