«Either I give birth this year, or my mom will find me another wife! The mother-in-law was crying, not knowing that I signed up to see a lawyer, not a doctor
— Stop being silly! — Oleg flew into the hallway with a look as if a dog was chasing him. — Three years married, three! So what?
Svetlana stood at the mirror, just fastened an earring. Small, silver, with turquoise — a gift from grandma. My fingers are frozen.
— What the — what ? — she asked calmly, although everything was already tense inside.
— No child, that’s it! Mother called again today. She says — either this year or she will find me a normal woman. Who wants a family!
Earring is finally in place. Svetlana looked at her reflection — an equal gaze, no extra emotion. During these three years, she learned well to hide everything deeply.
«»It’s clear,»» she said and took the bag from the chair.
— Is that all you can say?!
— Oleg, I have to go. I have a record.
He looked at her with such a confused face, as if he was waiting for tears, a scandal, a slammed door. Anything — but not this calm.
Svetlana had a recording and it was true. Just not where the husband thought.
The legal consultation was located in a gray building not far from the center — a modest signboard, plastic chairs in the hallway, the smell of old paper and other people’s problems. Svetlana sat and flipped through some magazine without seeing a word. Oleg’s face stood in front of my eyes in the hallway. And — more importantly — the face of his mother, Tamara Vasilievna, who at that moment, was, of course, here as here.
She called half an hour before the scandal. Svetlana heard this conversation through the wall — her mother-in-law spoke loudly, almost intentionally. «»Son, I found one girl, she works in our clinic, young, wants children, serious… » Tamara Vasilievna’s voice was such — honey on the outside, iron on the inside. As if he’s not discussing snohu, but a broken refrigerator, which is long overdue for repair.
For three years this woman came on Sundays. I sat in the kitchen, drank tea and dropped words — carefully as drops of acid. «»Svetochka, haven’t you tried to see another doctor? Marina from our house has a twin, can you imagine? Or: «»I read that stress has a great impact. Maybe you should work less? » Svetlana worked as a financial analyst in a small company — figures, reports, deadlines. Tamara Vasilievna never called this assignment serious. To be continued in the comments.
«“Stop playing dumb already!” Oleg stormed into the entryway looking as if a dog were chasing him. “Three years married—three! And what?”
Svetlana was standing by the mirror, fastening an earring. Small, silver, with turquoise—a gift from her grandmother. Her fingers froze.
“And what exactly?” she asked calmly, though inside everything had already tightened.
“No child, that’s what! My mother called again today. She says either it happens this year, or she’ll find me a normal woman herself. One who actually wants a family!”
The earring finally clicked into place. Svetlana looked at her reflection—steady gaze, not a single extra emotion. Over those three years, she had learned very well how to hide everything deep inside.
“I see,” she said, and picked up her bag from the chair.
“That’s all you have to say?!”
“Oleg, I have to go. I have an appointment.”
He stared after her with such a bewildered expression, as if he had been expecting tears, a scene, a slammed door. Anything—but not this calm.
Svetlana really did have an appointment. Just not the kind her husband thought.
The law office was in a gray building not far from the city center—a modest sign, plastic chairs in the hallway, the smell of old paper and other people’s problems. Svetlana sat there flipping through some magazine without seeing a single word. Before her eyes stood Oleg’s face in the entryway. And—more importantly—his mother’s face, Tamara Vasilyevna’s, who had of course been right there behind it all.
She had called half an hour before the fight. Svetlana had heard the conversation through the wall—her mother-in-law spoke loudly, almost deliberately. “Son, I found a girl for you, she works at our clinic, she’s young, wants children, serious…” Tamara Vasilyevna’s voice was like that—honey on the outside, iron underneath. As if she weren’t discussing her daughter-in-law, but a broken refrigerator long overdue for repair.
For three years that woman had come over on Sundays. She would sit in the kitchen, drink tea, and let words drop—carefully, like droplets of acid. “Svetochka, have you tried seeing another doctor? Marina from our building had twins, can you imagine?” Or: “I read that stress has a huge effect. Maybe you should work less?” Svetlana worked as a financial analyst at a small company—numbers, reports, deadlines. Tamara Vasilyevna had never once called that a serious job. “She sits at a computer,” was the full extent of her commentary.
“Svetlana Igorevna?” the receptionist called from the doorway.
The lawyer turned out to be unexpectedly young. About thirty-five, glasses with thin frames, a laptop and a stack of folders on his desk. His name was Artyom Sergeyevich. He listened attentively—didn’t interrupt, didn’t put on a sympathetic face, just wrote in his notebook.
Svetlana spoke evenly, almost in a businesslike tone. Three years of marriage. Jointly acquired property—a flat bought with her money and her parents’ money, plus a contribution from her mother-in-law. A car registered in her husband’s name. An account into which she transferred half her salary every month.
“Any children?” the lawyer asked.
“No.”
“That makes things simpler.”
She almost laughed. Simpler. All her life, people had told her that not having children was a tragedy, a problem, a reason for pity and pressure. And suddenly—it made things simpler.
“Have you already made a decision?” Artyom Sergeyevich asked. “Or are you still considering your options?”
Svetlana was silent for a moment. Outside the window, the city roared, somewhere a car honked, and a pigeon crept across the glass.
“I’ve been considering my options for two years,” she said at last. “I think it’s time.”
She got home just before seven. Oleg was in the kitchen, eating something reheated and staring at his phone. He didn’t ask where she had been. He didn’t ask how her day went. It was so familiar that it barely hurt anymore.
Tamara Vasilyevna had gone home—thank God. On Sundays she usually arrived in the morning and stayed until evening, but today was Thursday, and the visit had clearly been unplanned, arranged specifically for that conversation.
Svetlana went into the room and changed clothes. She took out a sheet of paper from her bag—the lawyer had given her a list of documents she would need to gather. Quietly she folded it into quarters and slipped it into a book. Dostoevsky, The Idiot—no one in that house had ever opened it.
Over dinner, Oleg suddenly said:
“Mom wants us to come by on Saturday. To talk.”
“About what?”
He shrugged. In their family, “to talk” was what they called it when Tamara Vasilyevna was about to announce something. Svetlana remembered the previous such talk—two years earlier. Then her mother-in-law had solemnly informed her that she had found “a good specialist” in women’s health and had already made an appointment for Svetlana. She hadn’t asked—she had scheduled it. Svetlana had said nothing then. Smiled, nodded, and of course never went.
“All right,” she said now. “We’ll go.”
Oleg was clearly surprised. Usually she found excuses—work, fatigue, plans. And here she agreed immediately. He looked at her a little longer than usual, but said nothing.
Let him think whatever he wants, Svetlana thought. On Saturday I’ll have time to check something. Because there was one thing that had been bothering her for several weeks now. One conversation she had overheard by chance—Oleg was talking on the phone in the car, thinking she was asleep. A name he had said. That same voice—quieter than usual, almost gentle.
Svetlana wasn’t sure. But after Saturday—she would be sure.
Tamara Vasilyevna lived in an old part of town—a five-story walk-up, no elevator, the smell of fried onions and someone’s cat on the third floor. As Svetlana climbed the stairs, she thought about how, in three years, she had still never gotten used to this building. Something about it always pressed on her—the narrow walls, the dim bulb on the second floor that seemed not to have been changed since the last century.
Oleg walked ahead. Quickly, without looking back.
The door opened before he even had time to ring the bell—Tamara Vasilyevna had clearly been waiting at the peephole.
“My son!” And she immediately hugged him, tightly, possessively. Then she looked at Svetlana. “Sveta. Come in.”
Not “how nice that you came.” Just come in. The way you speak to a neighbor who stopped by to return some salt.
The apartment was densely furnished—old furniture, but well kept, photographs on the walls, porcelain figurines lined up on a shelf. Above the sofa hung a large portrait of Oleg at about ten years old, in a school uniform, serious. Every time she saw that portrait, Svetlana thought: so that’s where the habit comes from—looking down on everyone.
They sat at the table. Tamara Vasilyevna brought tea, a dish of cookies, a saucer with lemon—everything proper, everything correct. She herself settled across from Svetlana and folded her hands on the table.
“I want to speak honestly,” she began. “No hard feelings.”
Whenever people say “no hard feelings,” you can expect hard feelings, Svetlana noted to herself, and picked up her cup.
“My son wants children. He always has. I want grandchildren—that’s normal, I have a right to that. And I can see that something is wrong between you two. Maybe you can’t, maybe you don’t want to—I don’t know. But time is passing.”
Oleg sat beside her in silence. Svetlana glanced at him—he was looking down at the table, turning a spoon in his fingers. He didn’t defend her. He didn’t interrupt his mother. He simply sat there in silence.
“Tamara Vasilyevna,” Svetlana said evenly, “you’re right. Let’s be honest.”
Her mother-in-law lifted an eyebrow slightly—she hadn’t expected that.
“I’m thinking about divorce.”
The room went very quiet. Oleg raised his head. Tamara Vasilyevna stopped breathing for a second—you could literally see how she froze.
“What?” she said at last.
“I’m thinking about divorce,” Svetlana repeated calmly. “So I suppose talking about children isn’t very relevant right now.”
They drove back in silence. Oleg was behind the wheel—rigid, tense, his hands on the steering wheel as if glued there. Svetlana looked out the window. The city drifted by—a shopping center, a car wash, a playground with brightly colored slides.
“Are you serious?” he finally asked when they stopped at a red light.
“Yes.”
“And how long have you been… thinking this?”
“A long time.”
He didn’t ask why. He didn’t ask what happened, what he had done wrong, whether it could be fixed. He just fell silent again. And that silence told Svetlana more than any words could have.
At home she went into the room and opened her laptop. She found what she had been looking for since Friday evening—a social media page, an open profile. A young woman who worked at the front desk of the city clinic. Blonde hair, a smile in her profile picture. And on her friends list—Oleg. Added four months earlier.
Svetlana closed the laptop.
She felt no anger. No pain—the sharp kind that usually comes in moments like that. It was something else—almost relief. As if she had known it for a long time and had simply been waiting for confirmation.
On Monday she called Artyom Sergeyevich.
“I’m ready,” she said briefly. “I’ve gathered the documents. Can we meet this week?”
“Wednesday at two, would that work for you?”
“Yes.”
She hung up and looked out the window of her office—from the fourth floor she could see the intersection, the flow of cars, people hurrying along with coffee in hand. An ordinary Monday, an ordinary city, an ordinary life. Only inside, something was changing quietly and irreversibly.
Her colleague Rita stuck her head into the office.
“Sveta, lunch? We’re going to that new place on Pushkinskaya.”
“I’m coming,” Svetlana said, getting to her feet.
Life went on. And for the first time in a long while, that seemed like good news.
Wednesday was packed—from morning, three calls, then the quarterly report, then an unexpected revision from the director. Svetlana made it to the law office just in time, without even managing to have coffee.
Artyom Sergeyevich was already waiting. He laid out the folders and flipped through her documents—methodically, without unnecessary words. Then he looked up.
“The flat is registered in both your names?”
“Yes. But the down payment came from me and my parents. I have transfers, bank statements, everything was saved.”
“Good. That’s important.” He made a note. “A joint account?”
“Yes. I transferred money there regularly. He didn’t. I have proof of that too.”
The lawyer nodded as if she had solved a problem correctly. Svetlana suddenly realized that she had been preparing for this conversation without even noticing it—for the last two years she had carefully saved every receipt, every transfer, every document. Not out of calculation—simply out of the habit of someone used to having proof for everything.
“Shall we file?” Artyom Sergeyevich asked.
“Let’s file.”
Oleg found out that same evening—she told him herself, directly, over dinner. No preamble, no long lead-in.
He looked at her for a long time. Then he said:
“Because of my mother?”
“No, Oleg. Because of us.”
“But if I tell her not to interfere…”
“That’s not the point.”
He stood up, paced around the kitchen, stopped by the window. It was already getting dark beyond the glass, and the avenue below hummed. Svetlana looked at his back and thought that he was handsome—objectively, from the outside. Tall, broad shoulders. It was just that from the outside was exactly how she had been looking at him for the last year and a half, at least.
“You decided this a long time ago,” he said. Not a question—a statement.
“Yes.”
“And you stayed silent.”
“Did you ever ask?”
He didn’t answer. He turned around, sat down again at the table, and picked up his phone. Svetlana stood, cleared the plates, washed her hands. Everything was ordinary, calm, as if nothing special had happened. Though of course it had. It’s just that at some point, you stop expecting a person to give what they cannot give. And then it becomes quiet. Not painful—quiet.
Tamara Vasilyevna called the next morning. Svetlana saw the number and answered—deliberately, calmly.
“Sveta, I want to talk,” her mother-in-law’s voice was different. Not honeyed and not iron—bewildered. For the first time in three years. “Oleg told me… I didn’t think it was all this serious.”
“Tamara Vasilyevna, it’s all right. It just turned out this way.”
“But surely you can…” She faltered. “Surely there’s some other way to try. Maybe I said too much. About children, about all of it.”
Svetlana stopped in front of the window of a flower shop—she was walking to work, since it was close enough. In the display stood tulips, yellow and white.
“You said what you thought,” she replied. “That’s honest. It’s just that Oleg and I want different things. It isn’t your fault.”
A pause.
“You’re a good woman,” Tamara Vasilyevna said quietly. “I suppose I didn’t appreciate you.”
Svetlana didn’t answer. She said goodbye and put her phone away. She stood for another second in front of the window, looking at the tulips. Then she went in and bought five of them—white ones. Just because. Because she felt like it.
Two months later, everything was finalized. The flat remained Svetlana’s—the court took into account the documents proving the down payment. They divided the value of the car in cash. They closed the joint account and split the remaining balance equally, even though the lawyer had said she could have gotten more.
“Equally,” Svetlana said. “It’s easier for me that way.”
Artyom Sergeyevich shook his head, but didn’t argue.
Oleg moved in with his mother. Svetlana learned that from a neighbor—the woman had seen him loading things into his car. Svetlana herself had been at work that day. She came back in the evening to an empty flat and walked through the rooms. Almost none of his things were left—just a forgotten book on the history of football on a shelf and an old mug with the word “Best” on it. She threw the mug away. She kept the book—let him come back for it later.
Strangely, the emptiness didn’t weigh on her. If anything—it was easier to breathe.
She opened the balcony door and stepped outside. The city rumbled below, and somewhere far away a tram bell clanged. Svetlana leaned on the railing and thought about how long it had been since she remembered what it felt like to simply stand still and think about nothing. Without other people’s expectations behind her, without someone else’s words in her head.
Her phone vibrated—a message from Rita: “Tomorrow after work we’re going to that new restaurant on the embankment, are you coming?”
Svetlana typed: “Yes.”
And smiled—for the first time in a long while, genuinely.
She found out about Oleg by accident, about three months later. Rita mentioned it in passing, without any special intent—she had simply seen him in a café. Sitting with a girl, blonde. Laughing.
“How are you?” Rita asked carefully.
“I’m fine,” Svetlana answered. And it was true.
Let him laugh. Let everything work out for him. She wished him no harm—she had simply stopped wishing anything at all that had to do with him. That turned out to be unexpectedly easy.
What was harder was something else. One evening, while sorting through a desk drawer, she found an old photograph—she and Oleg at the sea, their first year after the wedding. Both suntanned, both laughing. She looked at that photograph for a long time.
They had been happy. Truly, without pretending. It’s just that happiness doesn’t know how to stand still. It either grows or it leaves. And they failed to notice when exactly it had begun to go. They were too busy—he with his silence, she with her patience, Tamara Vasilyevna with her plans for other people’s lives.
She put the photograph away in a box. She didn’t throw it out. She just put it away.
Life isn’t the kind of story where one person is entirely to blame. More often, everyone is a little at fault. And strangely enough, that is easier to accept than trying to find a single culprit.
Svetlana closed the drawer, put the kettle on, and opened her laptop. There was a report ahead of her, then a call to her parents, then—Friday, the embankment, the restaurant with Rita.
Life was moving on. Her own life. At last—her own.
