—Did you buy just one ticket?—Alina’s voice sounded strangely calm, as though she were asking about the price of bread rather than the fate of their family vacation.
—Yeah. How many was I supposed to buy?—Roman didn’t even turn away from the computer screen, where turquoise water shimmered across the booking website.—It clearly says, “Single occupancy, all-inclusive.”
—We agreed that we were going to visit your mother in the village. All of us. You, me, Misha, and Polina. You nodded. You said it was a great idea.
—Alina, come on. What village?—Only then did he finally swivel around in his chair, looking at her with the indulgent expression one might give an unreasonable child.—I’ve worked myself to death all season. Do you have any idea what it’s like operating agricultural drones in thirty-degree heat? By evening, my eyes feel like they’re falling out of my head. I need a reset. A complete reboot. No mosquitoes, no vegetable beds, and, sorry, no screaming kids.
—And what about me?—Alina shifted two-year-old Polina more comfortably on her hip as the little girl began to squirm. She gently stroked her back, trying to calm both the child and herself.—Don’t I need a reset too?
—You?—Roman’s eyes widened with genuine surprise. There was nothing theatrical about it. He truly believed every word he was saying.—Sweetheart, you stay at home. You’re on maternity leave. Your whole day is basically one long vacation. You sleep, eat, go for walks with the stroller. I honestly don’t understand what you’re tired from. Watching TV shows?
Alina froze.
The words did not merely hurt. They seemed to burn all the air out of the room.
She thought about the last three years. The mosaic panels she assembled at night in the bathroom so she wouldn’t lose her professional skills and could earn at least a little money while Roman slept. Misha’s endless colic. Then her pregnancy with Polina, which had flowed almost seamlessly into another round of sleepless nights and crying.
Laundry. Cooking. Cleaning. Doctors. More laundry.
Again and again.
She looked at her husband, still hoping to see some hint of a joke on his face.
But Roman had already turned back toward the screen and was entering his card details.
—How about this?—Alina suggested, forcing down the anger rising inside her.—You go away for a week first. We’ll manage here. Then you come back, take care of the children, and I’ll go stay with my mother for five days. I just want to sleep.
Roman chuckled without looking up from the keyboard.
—Alina, don’t start. Who’s going to watch the kids? Me? I work. I’ll need time to recover from my vacation before the next season starts. That’s it. Discussion over. I earned this.
The week before his departure passed in a strange vacuum.
Alina moved through the apartment like a machine. She cooked his meals, washed the clothes he wanted to take with him to the resort, and barely spoke.
Inside her, the place where love and patience had once lived was slowly being replaced by a vast, dark emptiness.
Roman packed cheerfully.
He whistled while trying on new swimming trunks and debated which sunscreen would best protect his “working man’s skin.”
Not once did he ask how Alina would cope alone with two small children—one of whom had only recently begun potty training, while the other was teething and waking constantly at night.
—Well, don’t miss me too much!—he called from the hallway, lifting his suitcase.—I’ll probably call. If the signal is good.
The door slammed shut.
Alina remained standing in the hallway.
Polina immediately began whining for attention, while Misha tugged at his mother’s trouser leg and asked her to put cartoons on.
—Everything’s fine,—Alina said aloud, though she seemed to be speaking more to the walls than to her children.—Everything is absolutely wonderful.
That evening, Valentina Semyonovna came over.
She didn’t ask unnecessary questions. She simply looked at her daughter’s face, noticed the absence of Roman’s shoes in the hallway, and silently went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
Valentina Semyonovna had spent most of her life working with archived voice recordings. She knew how to hear the things people didn’t say.
—He left?—she asked briefly as she poured the tea.
—He left. To “recover,”—Alina replied bitterly.
—And you’re made of steel, apparently,—her mother said with a nod.—All right. We’ll manage. I took a few days off work. I’ll come every morning at eight.
Roman did not call.
His social media accounts, however, were very active.
Alina saw everything.
Plates piled with lobster. Frosted glasses filled with exotic cocktails. Tanned women in the background. Videos from foam parties.
Roman looked happy.
Completely, almost offensively happy without them.
One evening, Alina sat on the floor in the children’s room while the kids slept and scrolled through his posts.
The anger inside her, thick and burning, gradually began to replace the hurt.
She looked at her hands. They were rough from household chemicals and from working with pieces of smalt glass. Somehow, she still managed to accept small mosaic commissions whenever she could.
These hands held their home together.
These hands cared for their children.
These hands carried the entire weight of their daily life.
And Roman had dismissed all of it as though it were an irrelevant line on a budget sheet.
On the fifth day, Alina pulled out a large notebook.
She began writing things down.
Not expenses.
His words.
“You stay at home.”
“What could you possibly need a vacation from?”
“I earned it.”
She pressed the pen so hard that the letters came out crooked and angry.
—Hey! What’s with the miserable faces?—Roman burst into the apartment deeply tanned, smelling of foreign sunshine and expensive duty-free alcohol.
The living room floor was covered with scattered building blocks.
Alina sat on the sofa folding clean laundry.
She did not get up to greet him.
—Is there anything to eat? The food on the plane was disgusting,—Roman said, dropping his suitcase in the middle of the room before collapsing into an armchair.
—There’s soup in the fridge. It’s for the children, so there’s no salt in it,—Alina replied without looking up.
—What do you mean, children’s soup? What about me? I’m the head of this family. I just came back after restoring my strength. You could’ve made an effort.
—I did make an effort,—Alina said, carefully folding a tiny T-shirt.—I made an effort not to collapse during the ten days you were gone. Misha had a fever of thirty-nine, and Polina apparently decided she didn’t need to sleep at night anymore.
Roman frowned as though she were an annoying fly interrupting something important.
—Oh, here we go. I’ve barely walked through the door and you’re already complaining. I told you, we can go to the water park tomorrow. You’ll have some fun.
—The water park?—For the first time, Alina raised her eyes to him.
The familiar softness was gone.
There was ice in her gaze.
—So I can chase two children around slippery floors while you sit in the jacuzzi? Is that what you call a vacation for me?
—What the hell is wrong with you?—Roman jumped to his feet, his face twisting with anger.—I work. I bring money into this house. I have the right to be welcomed properly! And you’re sitting there with that attitude. Fix your face.
He stepped toward her, looming over her.
Normally, this was the moment when Alina would shrink back, lower her voice, or try to smooth things over.
Not today.
Something inside her snapped.
—Do not raise your voice at me,—she said quietly.
Roman stopped, clearly startled.
—What? You’re going to tell me what to do now? You’re living off me! This apartment is mine, by the way. If you don’t like it, get out!
That was the final blow.
Alina stood.
She seemed taller somehow when she straightened her back.
—Living off you?—she repeated.
Roman jabbed a finger into her shoulder.
—Yes! You’re nothing without me. Nothing. You sit on my neck and let me carry you.
Alina slapped his hand away so sharply that his arm flew sideways.
Then, before he could react, she shoved him hard in the chest.
Caught completely off guard, Roman stumbled backward and fell into the armchair.
—I spent three years creating a home for you!—Alina shouted, her voice trembling with fury.—I don’t even remember what it feels like to sleep more than four hours! Unlike you, I don’t get to float through life. I deal with the mess every single day!
—You’re insane!—Roman hissed, rubbing his chest.
—I’m packing. I’m taking the children.
—Who do you think is going to want you with two kids hanging off you?—he shouted after her.—You’ll crawl back. And I won’t give you a single penny! You’ll starve!
Alina stopped listening.
She rushed from room to room, stuffing the children’s clothes into large garbage bags. She didn’t care how it looked. She just wanted to leave as quickly as possible.
Misha and Polina stood silently in the doorway, watching her.
—We’re going to Grandma’s,—Alina told them while packing.—She’ll have pie.
Valentina Semyonovna’s apartment welcomed them with the smell of fresh baking and a calm so profound that Alina almost burst into tears.
—Don’t ask anything, Mom,—she said as she entered the hallway with two children and several bags.
—I wasn’t planning to,—Valentina replied, taking Polina into her arms.—The bath is ready. Go. I’ll take care of them.
For the first two days, Alina simply recovered.
She had expected the world to collapse.
It didn’t.
In fact, everything became clearer.
There was no longer the constant expectation of criticism. No fear of doing something wrong. No need to serve a grown man who behaved like a spoiled child.
On the third day, her phone began ringing constantly.
Roman.
First came the threats.
“I’ll block your cards.”
“I’ll file for divorce and take the kids.”
Then came the complaints.
“Where are my blue socks?”
“There’s nothing to eat in the fridge.”
Then he tried emotional pressure.
“We’re a family, Alina. Come home. I’ll forgive your tantrum.”
She ignored him.
Instead, she unpacked her mosaic tools.
Looking at the pile of colorful glass pieces, Alina suddenly understood something.
Her life looked exactly like that glass now.
Broken into fragments.
All she had to do was create a new pattern.
A week later, someone rang the doorbell.
Standing outside was Elena Petrovna, Roman’s mother.
She was a strict, hard-edged woman who had spent years breeding rare cockatoos. She had little tolerance for pointless noise or disorder.
—May I come in?—she asked dryly.
Alina stepped aside.
Elena Petrovna entered the kitchen, glanced at her grandchildren eating pancakes, and sat down at the table.
—Tell me what happened. No tears. Just facts.
So Alina told her.
About the vacation.
About Roman saying that she “just stayed home.”
About the argument.
About him calling her a nobody and jabbing his finger at her.
Elena Petrovna listened without interrupting. Only her thin fingers moved, tapping an increasingly complicated rhythm against the tabletop.
—Do you still have the vacation photos?—she asked.
Alina silently handed her the phone.
Elena Petrovna scrolled through them.
In one picture, Roman had his arms around two women in bikinis while holding a cigar between his teeth.
—I see,—Elena Petrovna said as she stood up.—Get ready. We’re going to your apartment. Or rather, to his place. There are a few things we need to clarify.
—I’m not going back to him,—Alina said firmly.
—I’m not asking you to go back. I’m asking you to come and watch the show. You do want justice, don’t you?
Roman was home.
The apartment was a disaster.
Pizza boxes were scattered everywhere. Dirty clothes lay across the floor. The sink overflowed with unwashed dishes.
Roman was sitting at his computer when he heard the front door unlock.
—So, had enough of your little adventure?—he called without turning around.—I told you you’d come running back. Get some food going. I’m starving.
—STAND UP when you speak to your mother.
Elena Petrovna’s icy voice made Roman jump out of his chair.
He turned around.
His mother stood in the doorway.
Alina was behind her.
There was no guilt on Alina’s face anymore.
She looked at Roman with disgust, as though he were some unpleasant insect she had found on the floor.
—Mom? What are you doing here?—Roman suddenly became nervous, trying to kick an empty pizza box under the sofa.—Alina and I just had a little disagreement. Family stuff.
—Family stuff?—Elena Petrovna stepped into the middle of the room, surveying the mess with open disgust.—You call it family when you go off partying with women while your wife struggles alone with your children?
—What women? Those pictures are fake! Alina’s making things up!—Roman squealed.
—QUIET!—Elena Petrovna roared so loudly that even the cockatoos in her aviary would probably have fallen silent.
—I’ve seen your bank statements, Roman. I know exactly how much you spent. And I know you left your wife and children without money.
—It’s my apartment! I earn the money! I can do what I want!—Roman’s face turned crimson as he stepped toward Alina.—You snake. You ran to my mother and complained about me?
He reached toward Alina as though he intended to grab her arm.
But Alina did not retreat.
She stepped forward and gave him a short, firm shove in the shoulder while blocking his footing.
Roman, intoxicated by years of getting away with everything—and perhaps by the beer he had been drinking—lost his balance.
He crashed onto the floor, becoming tangled in a pair of jeans he had left lying there.
—Do not come near me,—Alina said, looking down at him.—Ever again.
Roman struggled to get up.
—Mom! She hit me! You saw that!
Elena Petrovna stared at her son with undisguised contempt.
—I saw.
She paused.
—She should have done it sooner.
—What?!—Roman froze on all fours.
—Tell me something, Roman. Have you forgotten whose money paid for this apartment?—his mother asked quietly.—Have you forgotten who gave you the starting capital for your drone business? And have you forgotten whose name is actually on the ownership documents because you thought it would make the taxes easier?
Roman’s face drained of color.
—Mom, come on. That was just paperwork. It was a formality.
—It was a formality. Now it’s reality.
She looked him directly in the eyes.
—You have one week to move out. I’m transferring the apartment to my grandchildren. Alina and the children will live here. You, meanwhile, can rent yourself a room somewhere. And you’ll be paying child support. Officially. I’ll personally make sure every ruble of your income is properly declared.
—You can’t do this! I’m your son!—Roman shouted.
—That is exactly why I am ashamed,—Elena Petrovna replied coldly.—I raised an egotistical coward. Apparently it’s time I corrected my mistake.
Roman made a move toward his mother, but Alina stepped between them.
She held nothing in her hands, but her gaze was stronger than any weapon.
Roman stopped.
At that moment, he understood that he had lost.
Not just the apartment.
Not just his wife.
He had lost the foundation that had allowed him to behave so arrogantly for so long.
A month later, Alina completed her first major commissioned mosaic.
It was installed in the lobby of a new business center and depicted a phoenix rising from the ashes.
The payment was excellent.
Roman’s child-support payments arrived on time. Elena Petrovna kept her word and watched her son closely. Roman was now living in a rented dormitory-style room and learning how to boil dumplings for himself.
That evening, Alina sat alone in the kitchen of her apartment—an apartment that now finally felt truly hers.
The children were asleep.
Everything was quiet.
But it was not the hollow silence of loneliness.
It was the full, peaceful silence of freedom.
Alina poured herself a cup of tea, caught her reflection in the dark window, gave herself a small wink, and smiled sincerely for the first time in years.
Her life was only beginning.