I walked out of the maternity ward, awkwardly holding the hospital-issued things in a plastic bag. Finally—home, after three days in the hospital. I wanted only one thing: a hot shower and my own bed. Little Artyomka stayed in the hospital for one more day for observation—he had a mild case of jaundice. Nothing serious, but the doctors decided to play it safe.
The taxi pulled up to our building twenty minutes later. I paid and got out with difficulty, supporting my stomach. Postpartum aches reminded me of themselves with every movement.
The apartment door opened, and I saw Dmitry’s tense face. My husband stood in the entryway with his arms crossed over his chest, as if blocking my way. No joy, no flowers, not even a polite smile.
“Hi,” he said dryly.
I walked past him in my hospital slippers, not even changing. There was a strange smell in the apartment—a mix of men’s cologne and something sweet that wasn’t mine.
“Did your mom come?” I asked, peering into the living room, thinking my mother-in-law had decided to visit after her grandson was born.
“Yes. She’s been here three days. Making dinner.”
Pots clattered in the kitchen. I went in, holding my still-large belly. Valentina Petrovna stood at the stove, stirring something in a pot. She turned quickly, scanning me from head to toe.
“Discharged?” she asked instead of greeting me. “And where’s the baby?”
“Hello, Valentina Petrovna. They kept Artyomka for one more day—he has jaundice,” I answered, sinking onto a chair.
My mother-in-law pressed her lips together.
“Problems already,” she commented, then turned back to the stove. “Dima, help your mother set the table.”
Dmitry obediently fussed around her, taking out plates and cutlery. It was as if I didn’t exist. I went to the bedroom to change. In the closet I found my mother-in-law’s neatly folded clothes. My space in the wardrobe had shrunk to a single shelf.
Before bed, I decided to talk to Dmitry. He was already lying down, turned toward the wall and demonstratively scrolling on his phone.
“Dim, what’s going on?” I asked, carefully sitting on the edge of the bed. “I gave birth to your son, and you didn’t even ask how it went, you didn’t ask about Artyomka.”
Dmitry slowly put the phone aside and sat up, leaning against the pillow. He looked past me, into the corner of the room.
“We need to talk, Vera,” he began in an official tone. “Mom and I discussed everything.”
“Discussed what?” I didn’t understand.
“After you give birth, you’ll have to move out.”
I thought I’d misheard.
“What do you mean, move out? Where am I supposed to go?”
“Mom said you should be kicked out after the birth!” he blurted, finally looking me in the eyes. “You understand—it’s her apartment. She gave it to me before our wedding.”
I stared at him and didn’t recognize him. This man had been by my side for almost three years—we waited for the baby together, made plans. And now, when I had just given birth, he was throwing me out of the house?
“And the baby?” was all I could manage.
“Artyom will stay with me and Mom,” Dmitry answered confidently. “You understand you can’t manage alone. No housing, no job. And we have everything. Mom will stay on maternity leave with him.”
“On maternity leave? Your mother?” I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Yeah. She’s retired—she has plenty of time. And you need to work somewhere, earn money. Don’t count on child support—we’re helping you as it is, we’re taking the baby.”
I felt tears rising, but I didn’t want to cry in front of him. A hundred thoughts spun in my head. My whole life with Dmitry flashed before my eyes—how we met at a corporate party at the company where I worked as an accountant; how beautifully he courted me, brought flowers, took me to restaurants; how he proposed on the embankment, down on one knee. I remembered his words: “We’ll have our own place, don’t worry. Mom gave me an apartment.” And I believed it was our shared home.
Valentina Petrovna had disliked me from day one. She nitpicked everything: how I cooked, how I cleaned, how I dressed. She showed up without warning, checked for dust, looked inside the fridge. I put up with it for Dmitry’s sake—Dmitry, who always sided with his mother. “She only wants what’s best for us,” he’d say. And like an idiot, I believed things would get better with time.
When I got pregnant, my mother-in-law appeared even more often. She said I ate wrong, didn’t walk enough, worked too much. I quit in my fifth month because of complications—my doctor put me on bed rest. And now they were simply putting me out on the street.
“Don’t worry, we’ve got it all planned,” Dmitry continued, not noticing my state. “You can visit Artyom on weekends. Mom says that will be best for everyone.”
Silently, I stood up and left the bedroom. In the living room, on the couch made up with bedding, Valentina Petrovna sat watching TV.
“Did Dima explain everything?” she asked without taking her eyes off the screen.
I didn’t answer. I went to the kitchen, poured myself water, and sat at the table. My hands were shaking; my head swam.
I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I lay on the edge of our bed while Dmitry slept facing the wall as if nothing had happened. In the morning I got up before everyone else, took a shower, and called my friend Natasha.
“Come over,” she said after listening to my broken, breathless story. “You’ll stay with me until you figure things out.”
I started packing. Not much—just the essentials. Makeup, documents, a bit of clothing. When Dmitry woke up, I was already ready to go.
“Where are you going?” he asked, eyeing my bag.
“Leaving—like you wanted.”
“But Artyom hasn’t been discharged yet. You need to pick him up, and then we’ll decide when you’ll move out.”
I gave a bitter smile. Of course—they needed me to take the baby from the hospital. My mother-in-law couldn’t do it without the proper documents.
“Don’t worry. I’ll pick up my son. And not only from the hospital.”
Dmitry frowned.
“What do you mean—not only from the hospital? We agreed.”
“We didn’t agree on anything. Your mother decided everything for us.”
Valentina Petrovna appeared in the bedroom doorway as if she’d been eavesdropping.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she started immediately. “You should be grateful we’ll take care of your child! You don’t have a penny to your name, no job, no place to live! How will you support the baby?”
“Don’t worry, Valentina Petrovna,” I answered calmly. “Artyomka and I will manage.”
“You’re not going anywhere with the baby!” my mother-in-law raised her voice. “Dima, tell her! She has no right to take the child!”
Dmitry looked back and forth between his mother and me, confused.
“Vera, let’s talk it through,” he tried to soften it. “Maybe you’ll stay a little longer until you find a place? Mom’s just worried about her grandson.”
“No, thanks,” I said firmly. “I’m leaving today. And don’t worry—I won’t claim your precious apartment.”
I left the bedroom, walked past my stunned mother-in-law, and headed for the door. Dmitry caught up with me in the entryway.
“Vera, you can’t do this! What about Artyom? You’re going to leave him without a father?”
“Without a father?” I turned to him. “Are you sure you’ll be a father—and not your mother? And anyway—did you know I bought an apartment before our marriage?”
Dmitry froze with his mouth open.
“What apartment?” he asked.
“I bought a one-room flat before our wedding. I just rented it out and didn’t tell you, because you were so proud of your mom’s ‘gift’,” I explained. “I wanted to surprise you when the baby was born. I thought we could trade our apartments for something bigger.”
Valentina Petrovna, standing in the hallway, turned crimson.
“You’re lying! Where would you get money for an apartment?”
“From selling my grandmother’s apartment downtown. She left it to me in her will before I even met Dima. I didn’t brag about it—unlike some people.”
Dmitry stared at me as if he were seeing me for the first time.
“Why did you keep quiet?” he asked softly.
“Why wouldn’t I? You were my husband. I thought we had a shared future, shared plans. Turns out I was wrong.”
I opened the front door and looked back at them one last time.
“If you want to see your son, call me. And I forbid your mother to come near Artyom. And don’t you dare make a circus at the maternity hospital—I already warned the doctors.”
I closed the door behind me and exhaled. Outside, bright spring sunshine was pouring down. I called a taxi to Natasha’s, and on the way I called my tenants to warn them they’d need to move out in a month.
When I picked up Artyomka from the maternity hospital the next day, Dmitry didn’t come. My mom did—she flew in from Voronezh as soon as she heard what happened. She helped me with the stroller and the bags.
“Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell me?” she kept asking. “I would’ve come right away.”
“I didn’t want to worry you, Mom. I thought I could handle it on my own.”
“Now we’ll handle it together,” she said, hugging my shoulders.
We went to Natasha’s, where I planned to stay until my apartment was free. A week later Dmitry called.
“Vera, we need to talk,” he said uncertainly.
“About what?” I asked coldly.
“I want to see my son. And… and you too.”
“Come to Natasha’s on Saturday. You can meet your son—if you haven’t changed your mind about being a father.”
On Saturday Dmitry arrived with a huge bouquet and a bag of baby things. He stood over the crib where Artyomka was sleeping for a long time, and then suddenly started crying.
“Forgive me,” he said, wiping his tears. “I understand everything now. Mom went back home. I told her I won’t let her interfere in our life.”
“You understood too late,” I said. “She’s already destroyed everything.”
“I want to fix it. Come back to me. Or rather—to us. We’re a family: me, you, and Artyom.”
I shook my head.
“No, Dima. Not anymore. You chose your mother’s side when I was at my most vulnerable. You betrayed me and our son. I won’t forget that.”
“But I’ve changed! I swear I’ve realized everything!”
People don’t change that fast. You can see Artyomka—it’s your right. But we’ll live separately.”
Dmitry came every weekend. He played with his son, helped with groceries, tried to mend things with me. When the tenants moved out, my mom, Artyomka, and I moved into my apartment. It was small, but cozy—and most importantly, it was mine. Mom stayed with me for two more months to help with the baby, then went back to Voronezh. I returned to work earlier than planned—I found a remote accountant position.
Half a year later Dmitry proposed again.
“Vera, I’ve really changed during this time. I realized I was selfish, that I let my mother control me. Give me a chance to make it right.”
I looked at him and saw he had truly changed—more independent, more decisive. He sold his apartment and bought another one, farther away from his mother. But the wound he’d caused was too deep.
“I’m sorry, Dima, but I can’t. We can be Artyom’s parents, but not husband and wife.”
He accepted my decision with dignity. And I was grateful for that—because it gave me a chance to live my own life, without looking over my shoulder at someone else’s opinion, without trying to please my mother-in-law, and without fearing that one day I’d be betrayed again.
Sometimes the best lesson is bitter experience. And I knew for sure: I would never again let anyone decide my fate for me