The call came at three in the afternoon. Alina was standing at the reception desk, filling out patient cards, when her phone vibrated in the pocket of her white coat. Her mother-in-law’s number.
Something had happened again.
“Hello, Valentina Petrovna.”
“Where are you?!” her mother-in-law’s voice was so loud Alina pulled the phone away from her ear. “Are you out of your mind?!”
“I’m at work. What happened?”
“What happened?!” her mother-in-law was practically screaming. “You took your son out of school! Right in the middle of class! In front of everyone! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”
Alina froze. Her heart dropped.
Yes—she had taken Artyom out.
“Valentina Petrovna, I can’t talk right now.”
“How can you not?!” the woman snapped. “The whole neighborhood already knows! Zinaida from next door called—her granddaughter is in the same class. She says you showed up, made a scene at the teacher, grabbed the boy by the hand and dragged him out. Do you realize you’re not a mother—you’re a disgrace to the family?!”
The last words landed like a sentence being read aloud.
Alina shut her eyes. She wanted to scream, to explain, but she knew it was pointless. Valentina Petrovna had already decided everything—like always.
“I’ll come soon. We’ll talk at home.”
“Talk? What is there to talk about? You humiliated our family! The teacher called Igor—he’s in shock! All the parents are discussing it! And you’re saying, ‘We’ll talk.’”
Alina ended the call. Her hands were trembling. A coworker passing by glanced at her sympathetically.
“Lin… are you okay? You’re pale.”
“I’m fine. Just stuff at home.”
She finished her shift on autopilot. Patients, prescriptions, blood pressure, temperature—everything in a fog. And in her head, one phrase kept spinning: a disgrace to the family.
When Alina got home, Valentina Petrovna was already sitting in the kitchen. Igor was beside her—gloomy, wearing the kind of face people have when they’ve been summoned to the principal’s office.
“There she is,” her mother-in-law nodded toward her. “She’s here.”
Alina took off her jacket, walked into the kitchen without a word, and sat down.
“Explain,” Igor said. “What was that?”
“I took our son out of school.”
“I know that!” he exploded. “But why?! Alina, normal people don’t do that! Do you have any idea how I feel? The teacher called me at work! In front of everyone! He asked what’s wrong with my wife! ”
“And did you ask what was wrong with your son?” Alina asked quietly.
Valentina Petrovna snorted.
“Artyom is fine! He studies like all normal children! And you staged a show for the entire class!”
Alina looked at her mother-in-law. Then at her husband.
“Fine. Since you’re not asking, I’ll tell you myself.”
She put her phone on the table, opened her photo gallery, found the folder—Artyom. School—and turned the screen toward them.
“Here. Look.”
In the photo: a bruise on her son’s shoulder—large, purple, disappearing under his T-shirt.
“That was a week ago. Artyom said he fell during gym.”
The next photo: a scraped knee. Then a torn notebook. Then a textbook with pages ripped out.
“That’s all from the last month. Every day something new.”
Valentina Petrovna looked away.
“Boys fight. That’s normal.”
“Normal?!” Alina’s voice shook. “When my ten-year-old is afraid to go to school? When he doesn’t sleep at night? When he throws up in the mornings from fear?”
Igor frowned.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did. Three weeks ago. You said, ‘Let him learn to stand up for himself.’ Remember?”
He went quiet.
Alina kept going—no longer softly, no longer holding back. The words poured out as if a dam had broken.
“Denis Krasnov is tormenting him. The son of a local deputy. He hits him, calls him names, takes his things. And the teacher—Marina Viktorovna—sees it all. You know what she said when I came to her? ‘Boys bicker, it’s nothing serious. Denis is just active.’”
“Well, maybe she’s right,” the mother-in-law started.
“Active?!” Alina showed another photo. “This is Artyom coming home yesterday. See? His backpack was slashed. With a knife. And in his pencil case— a note: ‘You will die.’ Is that ‘active’ to you?!”
Valentina Petrovna went pale. Igor grabbed the phone, staring at the image.
“I went to the principal. Twice. I begged them to move Artyom to another class. Or at least talk to the Krasnov family. You know what they told me? ‘Don’t inflame the conflict. Denis has a difficult family, his father is in an important position, lots of stress. The boy is just letting out emotions.’”
“But the school has to—” the mother-in-law tried to cut in.
“The school doesn’t have to do anything!” Alina snapped. “Because Denis’s father sponsored their new gym. Because he’s on the board of trustees. Because it’s easier to shut their eyes than protect a child!”
She stood up, walked to the window, and stood there in silence for a moment, gathering herself.
“Yesterday Artyom came home and said, ‘Mom, I can’t do this anymore. I want to die.’ Ten years old. He said he wants to die. Do you understand?”
Silence dropped over the kitchen—heavy, crushing.
“And this morning I went to school. During third period. Artyom was sitting at his desk, and Denis was standing next to him. You know what he was doing? Spitting in his hair. In front of everyone. And Marina Viktorovna pretended not to see—she was writing something on the board.”
Alina turned back to her mother-in-law.
“And I walked in. Calmly. Went up to Denis and said, ‘Step away from my son.’ He laughed. Said, ‘What are you going to do to me, lady?’ Then I told the teacher: ‘Either you take action right now, or I’m taking my child. For good.’ Marina Viktorovna started making excuses—said it was all a misunderstanding, that boys were fooling around. So I took Artyom by the hand. And I left. In the middle of class. In front of everyone.”
Igor lowered his head.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Because there was no time to call!” Alina flared. “Because for three weeks I tried to solve it the normal way! And all you two did was say, ‘Don’t make it bigger,’ ‘He’ll handle it,’ ‘A boy has to be strong!’”
“Alina…” her mother-in-law tried again.
“Wait. Do you know what I did after I took my son?” Alina continued. “I went to the police. I filed a report—for systematic bullying, for the teacher’s inaction, for bodily injuries. I attached every photo, every note, every message with the principal.”
“Have you lost your mind?!” Valentina Petrovna jumped up. “Against a deputy?! Do you understand what this will lead to?!”
“I do,” Alina said calmly. “It will lead to other kids not suffering. To Denis not being able to push anyone else to suicide. To a teacher who covers up violence losing her job.”
Igor stayed silent, looking at his wife in a strange way—as if seeing her for the first time.
“And one more thing,” Alina added. “I filed a complaint with the Department of Education. Tomorrow, Artyom and I are going to a psychologist—we need documentation of psychological trauma. The day after tomorrow we’re submitting paperwork to a different school. And if I have to—I’ll go to court. Against the Krasnovs, against the school, against whoever.”
Her mother-in-law sank back onto the chair.
“You’ll ruin our reputation.”
“What reputation?!” Alina spun toward her. “Valentina Petrovna, your grandson wanted to kill himself. Is reputation more important?”
Silence.
Then Igor said quietly, “I’m sorry. I should have listened. Earlier.”
Alina nodded and sat back down.
“Artyom is in his room now. He’s scared. He thinks he’s still to blame—that he’s bad because they beat him. And I don’t care what the neighbors say. Or the teachers. Or whoever else. I’m his mother. And I will protect him. At any cost.”
A week passed in a blur. Alina worked, took Artyom to the psychologist, gathered documents for a new school. Igor tried—really tried. For the first time in a long time, he took time off, went with them to the appointment, sat beside his son, held his hand.
Valentina Petrovna didn’t call. She was silent. And that silence was heavier than any words.
And then—on Friday evening—they showed the news on TV.
Alina was making dinner when she heard a familiar last name. She turned. On the screen: their school building. A reporter at the entrance.
“Today it became known that an elementary school teacher from one of the city’s schools has been temporarily suspended. The reason is a parents’ complaint alleging negligence regarding the bullying of a student. According to sources, the case involves systematic ignoring of violence by one student.”
Alina froze, a vegetable knife in her hand.
“According to the prosecutor’s office, an inspection is underway. If the facts are confirmed, the teacher may be dismissed. In addition, an administrative case has been opened against the parents of the minor aggressor.”
“Igor!” she called. “Igor, come here!”
Her husband came out of the living room, looked at the screen, and went pale.
“That’s… our school?”
“Yes.”
The principal appeared—flustered, eyes darting.
“We are conducting an internal investigation. If the teacher made mistakes, we will take measures. Children’s safety is our priority.”
Alina turned off the TV and sank onto a chair. Her hands were shaking.
It worked. Oh my God—it worked.
Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number: “Thank you. My daughter also suffered because of that boy. But I was afraid to do anything.” Then another: “You’re brave. Finally someone didn’t back down.” Then another. And another.
The doorbell rang.
Alina opened the door. Valentina Petrovna stood on the threshold, head lowered—lost, visibly older after that week.
“May I come in?”
Alina stepped aside without a word.
Her mother-in-law walked into the kitchen and sat down. She was silent for a long time, then looked up.
“I saw the news.”
“Everyone did.”
“Alina…” her voice trembled. “Forgive me. Please.”
Alina said nothing. She waited.
“I thought you just snapped. That you caused a scandal over nothing. That you shamed the family. And it turns out…”
“It turns out I saved a child,” Alina finished. “And judging by the messages—not only mine.”
Valentina Petrovna wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.
“I called Igor every day. Asked about Artyom. He told me about the psychologist. About how the boy was afraid to go to school. How he cried at night. And I understood—you were right. And I blamed you without even finding out.”
“You called me a disgrace to the family,” Alina reminded her. “In front of my husband. With my son listening from his room.”
Valentina Petrovna stood up, walked over to her daughter-in-law, and hugged her.
“Forgive me. Forgive an old fool who didn’t understand right away.”
Alina didn’t return the hug at first. But then—slowly—she hugged her mother-in-law back.
On September first, Artyom went to his new school. Alina walked him to the gates, holding his hand so tightly he even laughed.
“Mom, you’re not going to let go of me anymore, are you?”
“I will. Absolutely I will.”
She watched him walk up to the steps. He looked back, waved, smiled—still a little uncertain, but smiling. And that was already a victory.
That evening he ran home with bright, excited eyes.
“Mom! Our teacher is awesome! She said I read really well! And the boys are normal—not mean. One of them even offered to play soccer together!”
Alina hugged her son. And a month later, a letter arrived—official. Marina Viktorovna had been fired. The bullying case was sent to the district commission. Denis Krasnov’s parents received a warning, and the boy was transferred to another school and assigned mandatory counseling with a psychologist.
Alina read the letter and simply filed it away. No triumph. No joy.
Just justice.
Finally.