Varvara had never considered money the main topic in life. Not because she had a lot of it — she simply knew how to earn and how to spend, and those two skills had always gone hand in hand for her, never conflicting with each other.
She worked as an interior designer at a small studio, handled two or three private projects on the side, and sometimes took urgent weekend jobs. Her income was unstable, but generally good — around one hundred and twenty thousand, sometimes one hundred and fifty if the month was packed.
Varvara did not shout about it from every corner, did not brag to her friends; she simply lived the way she knew how: she worked, saved money, and allowed herself the things she liked.
The apartment belonged to both spouses — they had taken out a mortgage together three years ago, a two-room place in a new building in the northwest of the city. Back then, Konstantin worked as a purchasing manager at a trading company and earned about eighty thousand. Together, it was enough. The mortgage was not crushing them, and there was money left for living.
Varvara remembered that time as peaceful. They did not fight over trifles, did not divide every kopeck, did not make scenes over household details. Konstantin seemed like a reasonable and kind man — that was exactly why she had chosen him once.
The problem did not appear immediately. As usually happens, it did not happen on one specific day, but gradually, in small steps that seemed insignificant on their own and only together formed something that could no longer be brushed aside.
Evgenia Pavlovna and Ilya Borisovich — Konstantin’s parents — lived in another district, about forty minutes away by car. Varvara saw them on holidays and sometimes visited them with Konstantin on weekends. Evgenia Pavlovna was a loud, self-assured woman, the kind who said what she thought and never doubted the correctness of her thoughts. Ilya Borisovich was quieter — he listened, nodded, and agreed with his wife. A couple who had lived together for thirty-eight years and had long ago developed their own system: she spoke, he supported her.
The first requests for help appeared about a year and a half after the wedding. Something small — Evgenia Pavlovna would call Konstantin and say they did not have enough money for medicine, or that the washing machine had broken down and urgently needed repairs. Konstantin would ask Varvara to help. Varvara transferred the money without thinking much about it, because the amounts were small and she genuinely did not see it as a problem. Five thousand for pills. Eight thousand to repair the machine. Three thousand for groceries at the end of the month, when the pension had already run out.
“Mom says things are hard for them right now,” Konstantin usually explained. “Dad’s having trouble with his arm, he can’t work. Shall we help?”
“Of course,” Varvara would answer, and she transferred the money.
This continued for several months. Varvara truly saw nothing terrible in it — they were elderly people, their pension was small, these things happened. She herself had grown up in a family where helping was considered normal, without bargaining. Helping a grandmother went without saying; distant relatives, too, if they asked. It was her own principle, not imposed on her, but genuine.
The problem was that Evgenia Pavlovna noticed this principle very quickly and understood exactly how it worked.
The requests began coming more often. First once a month, then twice. Then Evgenia Pavlovna started calling not only Konstantin but Varvara directly — in the voice of a person who knew she would not be refused. She talked about prices, about how everything had become more expensive, about pharmacies where nothing was free anymore. Varvara listened, asked how much was needed, and transferred the money.
One evening, Konstantin came home and sat down at the table with the look of a man who needed to say something but was still gathering his courage.
“Varya, I need to talk to you.”
“Go ahead.”
“My parents want to come over more often. On Sundays. It’s hard for them alone, they want to see us.”
“All right,” Varvara said. “Let them come.”
And they began coming. On Sundays, as agreed, and sometimes on Saturdays too — Evgenia Pavlovna would call in the morning and say they were nearby and would stop by for an hour. An hour turned into the whole day. Varvara cooked lunch, set the table, and listened to conversations about pensions, prices, neighbors, and illnesses. Ilya Borisovich was mostly silent, ate well, and sometimes thanked her. Evgenia Pavlovna spoke for both of them.
“It’s nice here,” Evgenia Pavlovna would say, looking around the apartment like someone assessing property. “The renovation is solid. Varya, did you do this?”
“I did,” Varvara said.
“Well done. You have the right kind of hands. Kostya can’t do that, he takes after his father.”
Ilya Borisovich did not react to this in any way. He ate his soup.
Varvara was not exactly offended by these conversations. They were exhausting, but not malicious. Evgenia Pavlovna was not an evil person — she was a person convinced of the correctness of her worldview, and in that worldview, the daughter-in-law existed as an element of the family system meant to perform certain functions. Varvara did not know that yet. She would learn later.
Meanwhile, Konstantin was gradually changing in conversations about money. Before, he had simply passed along requests — neutrally, a little embarrassed. Now he began adding things of his own: family was family, his parents had given their whole lives for him, and now the debt had to be repaid. Varvara listened to these words and did not argue — in principle, they were not untrue. They just sounded more and more insistent.
“Varya, they’re completely in the red this month. Dad needs procedures, the waiting list is long, it’s easier to pay.”
“How much?”
“Twelve thousand.”
Varvara transferred twelve thousand. That same month — another five for groceries. The next month — eight for some urgent need that Evgenia Pavlovna explained over the phone, though Varvara could no longer remember exactly what it was for.
Her friend Oksana, whom Varvara had known since university, once asked directly:
“Varya, have you counted how much you’ve already given them altogether?”
“Well… no. I haven’t counted.”
“You should. Count it.”
Varvara counted that same evening, sitting at her work desk. She opened the transfers in her banking app and filtered them by recipients. The number was unexpected — over a year and a half, the total came to about two hundred and forty thousand rubles. Not a catastrophe, but not a trifle either. Varvara looked at the screen, closed the app, and went to bed. She said nothing to Konstantin.
Around that time, Evgenia Pavlovna and Ilya Borisovich retired — both of them, almost simultaneously. Before that, Evgenia Pavlovna had worked as an accountant at a city clinic, and Ilya Borisovich as a foreman at a small production facility. Their pensions were not large — about thirty-five thousand altogether for the two of them. In principle, it was enough to live on if they did not indulge themselves — they owned their apartment, had no mortgage, and utilities were paid. But Evgenia Pavlovna considered thirty-five thousand for two people a humiliation and spoke about it at every opportunity.
The Sunday visits became longer and more substantial. Now Evgenia Pavlovna did not merely complain about prices — she analyzed them. She spread receipts across the table, counted aloud, and explained that this had risen by such-and-such a percentage, while that was now completely unaffordable. Ilya Borisovich nodded. Konstantin listened with a serious expression and sometimes agreed. Varvara drank tea and looked out the window.
Then came one Sunday evening that turned out unlike the others.
Varvara had been working since morning — finishing a project for a client that had to be submitted by Monday. Konstantin had warned her early in the day that his parents would come by for lunch. Varvara nodded, cooked, and set the table. Evgenia Pavlovna and Ilya Borisovich arrived around one in the afternoon — both dressed up, which was somewhat unusual. Evgenia Pavlovna was wearing a smart blouse, Ilya Borisovich a collared shirt. Varvara noticed this out of the corner of her eye when she opened the door but paid no attention to it.
They sat at the table. They ate. Then Evgenia Pavlovna pushed her plate away, folded her hands in front of her, and said:
“Varya, we want to talk about something important.”
“I’m listening,” Varvara said.
“Ilya and I have calculated everything. Our pensions aren’t enough for us to live normally. You understand yourself what prices are like. Medicine, groceries. Utilities are rising. We need stable help.”
“Stable — how?”
“Well, every month. A fixed amount.”
Varvara looked at Konstantin. Her husband was sitting next to his mother, staring at the table.
“What amount do you have in mind?” Varvara asked slowly.
“We were thinking thirty thousand a month. That’s not much for you, Varya. You earn well.”
Varvara set her mug aside. Thirty thousand a month. Three hundred and sixty thousand a year. On top of the two hundred and forty thousand that had already gone to them.
“Konstantin,” Varvara addressed her husband, “did you know about this conversation?”
A pause. About three seconds.
“We discussed it,” Konstantin said.
“And you agree?”
“Varya, they’re my parents. I can’t abandon them without help.”
“I’m not talking about abandoning them. I’m asking whether you agree that I should give them thirty thousand every month.”
“Well, our money is shared.”
“No, Konstantin. Our money is not shared. We have a shared mortgage payment and shared apartment expenses. The rest is mine.”
Evgenia Pavlovna frowned.
“Varya, it’s somehow ugly to divide things within a family.”
“Evgenia Pavlovna, I’m not dividing anything. I’m simply saying how it is.”
“You earn well. We know that. Thirty thousand is not a problem for you.”
“Evgenia Pavlovna, this isn’t about the amount. This is about the fact that I’m being presented with a decision as if it’s already settled.”
“No one is presenting you with anything,” Ilya Borisovich suddenly interrupted, which was unexpected, because he usually stayed silent. “Family should help the elders. That’s normal.”
“I helped,” Varvara said. “For a year and a half, I helped. Every time I was asked.”
“So keep doing it,” Evgenia Pavlovna said in the tone of a person who considered the conversation finished.
“Keep doing it, but now regularly and in a fixed amount,” Konstantin clarified. “Varya, why are you acting like a stranger? These are the people who raised me.”
“I understand,” Varvara said. “And I respect that. But what you are proposing right now is not a request for help. It is a demand for a mandatory monthly payment.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” Evgenia Pavlovna shrugged. “Many daughters-in-law help. It’s normal.”
“Maybe those daughters-in-law decided that themselves. No one asked me.”
“What’s there to ask?” Evgenia Pavlovna said, irritation appearing in her voice. “You live in a family. Family helps each other.”
Varvara opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked at Konstantin — her husband sat silently with an expression Varvara had learned to read over the past three years: he was on his mother’s side, he simply had not said it out loud yet.
“Konstantin,” Varvara said, “tell me directly: do you think I am obligated to do this?”
“I think we need to help.”
“That is not an answer to my question.”
“Varya, don’t turn this into a scandal.”
“I’m not creating a scandal. I’m asking you to answer.”
“Varya,” Evgenia Pavlovna cut in again, and now her voice was sharper, “we didn’t come here to listen to you count our money. We said what we need. Are you part of the family or not?”
“I am Konstantin’s wife,” Varvara said evenly. “That is not the same as being your financial source.”
“Oh!” Evgenia Pavlovna threw up her hands. “Financial source! Do you hear how she talks, Ilya?”
“I hear,” Ilya Borisovich said.
“Varya,” Konstantin finally turned fully toward his wife, and there was a hardness in his voice that Varvara had almost never heard from him before, “stop putting money above family. It’s ugly.”
“Konstantin, I’m not putting money above family. I believe I should be asked, not confronted with a decision that was made without me.”
“It’s already been discussed, already decided,” Evgenia Pavlovna took control of the conversation again. “Thirty thousand is fair. You earn well. It will be enough for us, and you will still have some left.”
“Evgenia Pavlovna…”
“Varya, don’t be childish. We’re not strangers.”
“Why did you decide that I am obligated to support you?!” Varvara’s voice broke — not loudly, not in a shout, but sharply, the way it happens when you have been holding something in your hands for a long time and at some point simply can no longer keep your grip. “I helped voluntarily. For a year and a half. Every time you asked. Without reminders, without reproaches. And now I’m being told that I’m obligated? That the decision has already been made? That it is my family duty to give away part of my salary every month?”
The room went quiet. Evgenia Pavlovna looked at her daughter-in-law with the expression of a person who had just been insulted.
“So that’s how it is,” Evgenia Pavlovna said after a pause. “That is how we’re going to talk.”
“Varvara,” Konstantin stood up, “apologize to my mother.”
“For what?”
“For being rude.”
“Konstantin, I asked a question. That is not rudeness.”
“You yelled at an elderly person.”
“I did not yell. I said what I think.”
“That’s the same thing,” Konstantin cut her off.
Evgenia Pavlovna pressed her lips together.
“You know, Varya,” her mother-in-law said in a voice that suddenly became cold and clear, “if you feel sorry to give money to your husband’s family, then good riddance. No one is holding you here.”
Varvara looked at her.
“Evgenia Pavlovna, are you serious?”
“Absolutely,” Evgenia Pavlovna said. “Why do we need a daughter-in-law who counts money and only grabs everything for herself?”
“Mom,” Konstantin tried to soften the tone, “why say that…”
“No, Kostya, let her hear it. We didn’t come here for a scandal. We came here to come to an agreement like decent people. And she arranged an interrogation.”
“I asked one question,” Varvara said.
“One question said in a tone that made us sound like beggars.”
“I never said that.”
“Varya,” Konstantin spoke again, and his voice was conciliatory, but the reconciliation in it was directed not at his wife, but at his mother — so that she would calm down, “why don’t you just agree? Not thirty — twenty-five. That’s tolerable. You earn more than a hundred thousand. Twenty-five is a quarter. What’s the big deal?”
“Konstantin,” Varvara said slowly and very clearly, “you have just suggested that I give a quarter of my salary to your parents. Every month. Without asking whether I agree. You simply presented it as a given.”
“Well, basically, yes.”
“And you don’t see anything strange about that.”
“This is family, Varya.”
“I see.”
Varvara stood up from the table. She gathered the plates — calmly, without making a show of it, simply clearing the table and carrying them to the kitchen. Then she came back and took the mugs. Evgenia Pavlovna and Ilya Borisovich sat and watched her. Konstantin stood by the wall.
“I’m going to work,” Varvara said. “I have a project due tomorrow morning.”
“Varya, we haven’t finished this conversation,” Evgenia Pavlovna said.
“I have,” Varvara said, and went into the bedroom.
She closed the door, sat at the desk, and opened her laptop. Voices came through the door — Evgenia Pavlovna was saying something, Konstantin was answering, Ilya Borisovich was silent. Varvara put on headphones. She sat and looked at the screen but did not see it.
She was thinking about what had just happened. Not about the money — the money was only the occasion. She was thinking about how Konstantin had sat beside his mother and remained silent while she spoke. About how he had then stood up and asked her to apologize. About how, when she asked a direct question — whether she was obligated — he answered: this is family. As if the word family was an answer to everything and at the same time freed everyone from the need to think any further.
About forty minutes later, the voices behind the door quieted. The front door slammed once. Varvara removed her headphones.
She went out into the hallway. Konstantin was standing there, looking at her.
“They left?” Varvara asked.
“They left. They’re offended.”
“Good.”
“Varya, that’s not good.”
“Konstantin,” Varvara said and went into the kitchen, “I am not going to discuss this right now. I’ll tell you one thing: what they asked for will not happen. Not thirty thousand, not twenty-five. No fixed amount every month. If they need one-time help, we can look at the situation. But what they wanted to establish today — no.”
Konstantin leaned against the doorframe.
“Varya, they’re elderly people. It’s hard for them.”
“I understand that it’s hard. And I helped. I helped for a year and a half. But one thing is helping. Another is paying tribute.”
“You call it tribute?”
“What else should I call it? A fixed sum that I am obligated to give every month regardless of my wishes? Yes, Konstantin. That is tribute.”
Her husband fell silent. Varvara poured water and put the kettle on.
“Think about it,” Varvara said without turning around. “Think about exactly what you defended today. No one asked me. They didn’t really ask you either, as far as I understand — they simply presented it as a fact, and you agreed. And then you sat beside your mother and suggested I apologize to her. Think about that.”
Konstantin went into the room and closed the door.
The next few days passed in a special kind of silence — not angry, but thick and sticky, the kind that appears when people live side by side and both know the conversation is not finished, yet neither begins it. Varvara worked, cooked, and did everything she usually did. Konstantin came home from work, ate, watched television. They spoke about household things — who would pay for the internet, whether they needed to stop by the store.
On the fourth day, Evgenia Pavlovna called. Varvara saw the incoming call on Konstantin’s phone — he answered, went out onto the balcony, and spoke for about fifteen minutes. Varvara sat in the room and heard the intonations through the glass, but not the words.
When Konstantin returned, he sat down across from her.
“Mother is asking you to call her back. She wants to talk.”
“About what?”
“Well, about what happened. She wants to explain.”
“Konstantin, I have nothing to discuss with her on this matter. My position has not changed.”
“Varya, she didn’t mean any harm. She just doesn’t know how to ask differently.”
“She asked exactly the way she wanted to. And you know that.”
“You could meet them halfway.”
“In what way exactly?”
“Well, at least with a smaller amount. Fifteen thousand a month.”
Varvara set her book aside.
“Konstantin, are you serious?”
“Well, fifteen isn’t thirty.”
“Konstantin. You have just again suggested that I pay monthly. Only less.”
“Varya…”
“No,” Varvara said. “No, Konstantin. Not fifteen, not ten, not five. No mandatory amount. If you want to help them, help them from your own money. They are your parents.”
“I have less left over, you know that.”
“I know. But they are not my obligations. They are yours.”
Konstantin looked at her like a person who felt he had been unfairly backed against a wall.
“So you don’t care about them.”
“No. That’s not true. I do care. I care about elderly people who are having a hard time. But I also care about myself. And I am not going to choose between those two things just because someone decided I was obligated.”
“You talk like a stranger.”
“No, Kostya. I talk like a person who has the right to make her own decision.”
Her husband stood up and left again. Varvara picked up the book, but she did not read. She stared at the page and thought that they had already had this conversation — four days earlier, in another version. And nothing had changed then, and nothing would change now. Because the problem was not the amount. And it was not whether Konstantin’s parents would understand her position. The problem was that Konstantin himself did not understand why she was right. Or he understood, but did not want to choose between understanding and convenience.
That was the worst part.
Calls from Evgenia Pavlovna began a few days later. At first through Konstantin — requests to call back, to talk, to make peace. Then her mother-in-law wrote to Varvara directly in a messenger: a long message about family, about how a daughter-in-law should understand how life works for elderly people, about how Varvara would one day grow old herself and understand.
Varvara read it. She did not reply.
Then Ilya Borisovich called — which was unexpected, because he usually did not call on his own. His voice was calm, without the pressure Evgenia Pavlovna had.
“Varya,” Ilya Borisovich said, “I wanted to talk. Without Zhenya.”
“I’m listening.”
“She got carried away that day. Well, it happened the way it happened. Don’t be offended by her.”
“Ilya Borisovich, I’m not offended. I simply don’t agree.”
“Well, maybe we phrased the matter incorrectly.”
“Maybe,” Varvara agreed. “But the way the question was phrased does not change the essence. I am being asked to take on an obligation I never accepted. I am not ready to do that.”
“I understand,” Ilya Borisovich said, and was silent for a moment. “You’re a good woman, Varya. It’s just that we think differently.”
“I understood that.”
“All right. Hang in there.”
He hung up. Varvara held the phone in her hands for a moment, then set it aside. Ilya Borisovich was perhaps the only person in this whole story who had spoken to her normally. It was a pity that it changed nothing.
Konstantin called in the evening — Varvara was at Oksana’s, and they were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. Varvara answered.
“Where are you?” Konstantin asked.
“At my friend’s.”
“When will you be home?”
“I don’t know. Probably late.”
“Varya, we need to talk.”
“I know. We’ll talk.”
“When?”
“When I get back.”
She returned at eleven. Konstantin was sitting in the living room waiting — not angry, not aggressive, just tired. Varvara took off her shoes, went into the kitchen, and poured herself some water. Konstantin followed her.
“Varya, I’ve been thinking about this the whole time.”
“And?”
“I understand that we approached it the wrong way. Mom went too far with her tone.”
“Konstantin, it’s not about the tone.”
“Well, partly it is.”
“No. It’s about the fact that you sat beside your mother and supported her. It’s about the fact that when I asked you directly, you answered: this is family. That’s not an answer. That’s avoidance.”
“Varya, they’re my parents. I can’t be against them.”
“I’m not asking you to be against them. I’m asking you to be with me.”
Konstantin was silent.
“Do you understand the difference?” Varvara asked.
“I do.”
“And?”
A pause. A long one.
“Varya, I don’t know how to do that,” Konstantin finally said. “They are my parents. If my mother says they need help, I can’t tell her: no, I won’t give it. That’s how I am. I can’t be different.”
“I know,” Varvara said.
“Then why can’t you just accept it?”
“Because accepting it means agreeing that my money will be spent on decisions you and your mother make. Without me. Konstantin, I work a lot. A great deal. This is not easy money. And when I am told that I must now give away a quarter of it — without my consent, as if it goes without saying — that is not about family. It is about my opinion not mattering.”
Konstantin lowered his gaze.
“I didn’t want it that way.”
“But that is how it turned out.”
They stood in the kitchen. It was almost midnight, and outside the window was the quiet winter city. Varvara looked at her husband and thought that perhaps he truly had not wanted this. That he had simply found himself between a mother who knew how to insist and a wife who knew how to say no — and had chosen what was more familiar. That did not make him a bad person. It made them incompatible in one very specific matter, which had turned out to be more important than it might have seemed at first.
“Konstantin,” Varvara said, “I want you to understand one thing. I am not leaving because of money. I am leaving because in this conversation I saw where your place is and where mine is. And I don’t like it there.”
“You’re leaving?” Konstantin raised his head.
“Yes.”
“Varya…”
“I’ll pack what I need tonight. The rest later.”
She went into the bedroom. She took a bag from the top shelf of the wardrobe and began packing — methodically, without hurry. Documents, chargers, clothes for several days, her work laptop. Konstantin appeared in the doorway.
“Varya, not tonight. Let’s talk properly again.”
“We talked. Just now.”
“I can talk to Mother. I’ll tell her we went too far.”
“Konstantin, that is not enough.”
“Then what do you need?”
Varvara zipped the bag shut. She looked at her husband.
“I need you to be on my side. Not against your mother — on my side. Those are different things. But judging by what I have seen, you can’t do that. Not because you don’t want to, but because you simply can’t. And that’s not your fault. It just doesn’t make things easier for us.”
“You’re leaving right now?”
“Yes. Not forever — I’ll come back for my things. But I won’t live here anymore.”
Konstantin stepped away from the door. Varvara put on her coat, took the bag, and went into the hallway. She put on her shoes. Opened the door.
“Varya,” Konstantin said quietly.
Varvara turned around.
“If I talk to Mother… if I tell her this won’t happen… will you come back?”
Varvara thought for about three seconds.
“I don’t know, Konstantin. Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe that would be a step. But right now I can’t promise that one step would be enough. Too much has already been said.”
The door closed.
Varvara called Oksana right from the elevator.
“Oksana, can I stay with you for a while?”
“Of course. What happened?”
“I’ll tell you later. I’m coming.”
Oksana lived twenty minutes away by taxi. Varvara arrived, went inside, and put her bag in the corner of the hallway. Oksana poured tea and did not ask anything — she simply sat beside her.
“How are you?” she finally asked.
“I’m fine,” Varvara said. “Tired, but fine.”
“You did the right thing.”
“We’ll see.”
Her phone vibrated — Konstantin. Varvara looked at the screen and placed the phone face down on the table. She finished her tea.
Over the following days, calls from Konstantin came regularly. Varvara did not answer every one — only when she was ready to talk. Her husband either tried to explain that he was ready to speak with his mother, or said that Varvara was going too far, or suddenly called late in the evening and stayed silent on the line for twenty seconds before saying anything. Evgenia Pavlovna wrote too — first with hurt, then with complaints, then with hurt again. Varvara read the messages and did not answer.
A week and a half later, Varvara rented a room in an apartment near the studio — small, with a window facing the courtyard and a writing desk by the wall. It was enough for work. She paid for the first month, brought the rest of her things, and arranged them on the shelves.
She filed for divorce a month later. Without scandal, without demands — the mortgage was joint, and they agreed on the division in writing, through a lawyer. Varvara took what was hers, and Konstantin remained in the apartment with the obligation to pay her half the value of her share. The terms turned out fair. At least the lawyer said they were fair.
Konstantin never called her to say that he had spoken with his mother. Maybe he had, maybe he had not — Varvara stopped thinking about it sometime in the middle of the second month.
One evening, she was sitting at the desk in her room, laying out a presentation for a new client, when she suddenly realized that for a long time now she had not been mentally calculating how much she would transfer that month and whether she would have enough left afterward. She was simply working — and the money was hers. All of it. Without deductions for someone else’s decisions.
It was simple. Ridiculously simple. And precisely because it was so simple, Varvara could not understand for a long time why it had been different before.
Then she understood: because she herself had allowed it. Not out of malice, not out of stupidity — she had simply believed that helping was good, and had not noticed where help ended and obligation began. Now she noticed. It was not the easiest way to learn, but there had been no other.
Oksana once asked whether Varvara regretted it.
“What exactly?” Varvara clarified.
“Well, in general. How it all turned out.”
Varvara thought.
“That it turned out exactly this way — probably. That I did what I did — no.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is,” Varvara said. “You can regret that the situation was what it was. And at the same time not regret your decision. Those are different things.”
Oksana nodded.
“You’ve grown,” Oksana said.
“Or I just got tired of tolerating it,” Varvara smirked.
“Sometimes that’s the same thing.”
Outside the window, evening had fallen. A desk lamp glowed in the room, and on the screen was an unfinished presentation. Varvara returned to work. There was a lot to do, the deadline was tomorrow, the client was waiting. Everything was as usual.
Only now, it was different.
