Ten years. Ten long, exhausting years full of hope, tears, failures, and harsh trials passed for Ulyana and Evgeny Dmitriev before they heard the first cry of their son. That sound was like a revelation to them — it filled the emptiness in their hearts, brought life to the walls of their modest apartment in an old five-story building, where before it had been too quiet, too empty, and too lonely. The room, which had seemed huge and foreign without a child, now breathed anew — with every breath, every squeak, every incoherent babble. This was not just a child. It was a victory. Their small but so significant victory over pain, infertility, and time that seemed to give them no chance to become parents.
After being discharged from the maternity hospital, they felt like they were on cloud nine — as if the world around had become brighter, and the air tastier. They were happy. But with that happiness came anxiety: who would help them cope with this new life? How to be the parents they were supposed to be? It was then, as if sensing the moment, that Natalia Romanovna — Evgeny’s mother, a woman for whom “being close” always meant “taking full control” — burst into their home.
“Well, show me my prince!” she exclaimed, barely crossing the threshold. In her hands was a bag with baby things, and in her eyes was the certainty that only she knew how to properly raise children. “Grandma has come to babysit!”
Ulyana, pale and exhausted after childbirth but glowing with inner happiness, gently but firmly blocked her way. She knew what would follow — advice, remarks, criticism. And now she needed to be with Alyosha. Only with him.
“Natalia Romanovna, thank you, of course, but… I need to do this myself. It’s important now. Please, give us time to settle in.”
Displeasure flickered across her mother-in-law’s face. Not that she expected anything else — from the start, the daughter-in-law seemed too sensitive, too emotional. But such clear distancing? That was disrespect.
“What do you mean, ‘yourself’?” Natalia Romanovna snorted sarcastically. “You’re trembling all over, Ulya. You have no strength. I’m experienced, I raised Zhenya! Give me my grandson, I’ll rock him, sing a song…”
“No,” Ulyana’s voice trembled but remained firm. A mother’s intuition, sharpened by years of waiting, screamed at her: “Only you. Only you can be near him.” Instinctively, she shielded the crib where her son was sleeping.
Evgeny, standing a little aside, watched the scene with the look of a man wanting to run away. He understood his wife but also remembered how his mother always decided everything herself, and opposing her was nearly impossible.
“Mom, let Ulya get used to it. She just came home. Once she gains strength, then… Here, maybe help sort the diapers?”
Natalia Romanovna snorted contemptuously, glanced at her husband with bewilderment, and turned away. Resentment hung in the air like a dense fog. She did help — washing dishes, hanging laundry, making broth. But she did it coldly, dryly, with the air of a martyr unappreciated. Every glance she cast toward Alyosha triggered a wave of anxiety in Ulyana. Her maternal instinct was sharp as a blade. “This is my child. Only mine.”
A month passed. During this time, Ulyana had grown a little stronger, although sleepless nights and constant tension didn’t leave her. She decided to visit the doctor, Marina Sergeyevna — the woman who had restored her hope when other doctors only shook their heads. Ulyana wanted to thank her personally. She gathered a bouquet of white roses, a box of chocolates, checked Alyosha’s clothes, and said to her husband:
“I’ll go quickly. I’ll take Alyosha with me — let him breathe some fresh air.”
Natalia Romanovna, drinking tea in the kitchen, immediately intervened:
“Why drag the baby out in the cold? Leave him. I’ll watch him.”
“No-no!” Ulyana sharply replied, already putting on her hat. “We’re together. I won’t be long.”
She couldn’t logically explain why she needed to be with Alyosha today, why even a minute without him felt dangerous. But she felt: he needed to be nearby. She felt: this day would be important.
The clinic was only a ten-minute walk away. The bright winter sun dazzled her eyes, the snow sparkled like diamonds. Ulyana wheeled the stroller to the entrance. Alyosha slept peacefully, wrapped in a down envelope. His face was so calm that Ulyana’s heart overflowed with gratitude. She hesitated: bring the stroller inside or leave it here?
Inside it was stuffy, crowded, with queues. She wouldn’t linger — literally five minutes. She adjusted the blanket, kissed her son’s forehead, and whispered:
“Alyoshenka, dear, mommy will be right back. You’re sleeping, little angel…”
She left the stroller at the entrance, wedging a small stone under a wheel so it wouldn’t roll away. Taking the flowers and chocolates, she quickly entered the clinic.
Marina Sergeyevna’s office was cozy, warm, smelling of herbs and coffee. Ulyana thanked the doctor, talked about the hardships, the years of waiting, every step of the way. Her eyes shone. She was happy.
Ten minutes later, she came out into the corridor, still smiling, and headed for the exit. That smile froze when she saw the empty stroller where she had left it just minutes ago.
“Alyosha?!” A scream tore from her chest — wild, painful, causing people around to stop. “Where is my son?! Where is my child?!”
She dashed in one direction, then back, grabbed passersby by the sleeves, cried, begged for help. Ice-cold panic constricted her throat. The world went dim. She fell to her knees in the middle of the sidewalk and sobbed, repeating:
“Stolen… Gone… Dead…”
Not feeling the cold, not hearing questions, she sat on the snow until someone helped her up. Someone called the police. They took her back to the clinic. There she sank onto a bench, clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her skin. Her dark chestnut hair seemed to be turning gray right before her eyes. Her face grew gray, her eyes empty. She didn’t cry. She was simply losing her mind.
And at that moment the phone rang. The screen showed the name: Zhenya.
“Ulyana?” her husband’s voice was strained, tense. “He… Alyosha… He’s at home.”
“What?! How?! Who?! Where?!” she shouted, unable to believe her ears.
“Mom. Mom brought him. She says…” Zhenya paused, swallowed. “…she wanted to teach you a lesson. That you don’t let anyone near the baby. She took him while you were at the clinic. Just brought him back now.”
Silence on the line was deafening. Then came a low, guttural moan turning into a growl. Ulyana dropped the phone. She didn’t remember how she ran out of the clinic, ran through the whole city, stormed into the building, flew up the stairs. Rage, fear, pain drove her — a mixture of feelings impossible to put into words.
When she burst into the apartment, the first person she saw was Natalia Romanovna. She stood in the hallway, holding the peacefully sleeping Alyosha. On her face was a mixture of self-justification and barely concealed triumph.
“Well, Ulyana,” she began, as if saying, “I was right.” “Now do you understand you can’t distrust your family like that? I just wanted…”
She didn’t finish. Ulyana, like a wild beast, snatched the child from her mother-in-law’s arms and threw him into her husband’s.
“You’re crazy!” she screamed, her voice breaking into a shriek. “You stole the baby from the stroller?! Because of your sick pride?! Do you even realize what I went through?!”
And before Natalia Romanovna could say anything, Ulyana slapped her hard across the cheek. A sharp, loud slap. The mother-in-law recoiled, clutching her face.
“Get out!” Ulyana hissed, trembling with rage and fear. “Get out of my house! And don’t you ever set foot here again! Forget our address!”
The mother-in-law looked at her with genuine horror. She didn’t expect this. Didn’t think she’d done anything wrong.
“Zhenya!” she addressed her son, her voice trembling. “You see! She’s completely lost her mind!”
“Mom…” Evgeny’s voice was quiet and deathly calm. “Leave. Please. Now. Leave.”
He didn’t look at her. He looked at his wife, at his son. And he understood: his mother had crossed a line that could never be forgiven.
Natalia Romanovna silently put on her coat and left. She didn’t raise her eyes. She didn’t say goodbye. Only the slamming door remained behind.
“Ulya…” Evgeny began, stepping toward his wife.
“Don’t come near!” she recoiled as if from a stranger. “You… your mother… how could she… he could… he could…”
Her voice broke. She sobbed again, then let out an unnatural shriek that made the man’s ears ring. But he did not judge her. He knew — she needed to release that pain, that rage, that fear.
After that day, the door to their home was forever closed to Natalia Romanovna. She came a few times, called, tried to explain that she wanted to “teach” her daughter-in-law to trust the family. But the door stayed shut.
“What’s going on, son?” she sincerely wondered over the phone. “Your wife should apologize to me, and you’re blaming me! Whose side are you on?”
But Evgeny, who had always supported his mother before, now answered coldly and firmly:
“On my wife’s side. You had no right to do that. It’s cruel and inhumane.”
He hung up. They never spoke again. Natalia Romanovna, wounded and offended, blocked her son on all social media.
She never understood what she did wrong. For her, it was a “lesson,” a “way to teach.” For Ulyana, it was the worst nightmare she had ever lived through.