My husband threw his mother a lavish celebration—paid for with my money. So for the first time, he received a “gift” back from me.
“Did you take it all? Down to zero?” Lena’s voice didn’t tremble, but it turned flat and hollow, as if she were speaking into an empty barrel. She gripped her phone, where a bank alert glowed on the screen: “Balance: 120 rubles.”
Igor, sprawled on the couch like a king, didn’t even take his eyes off the television. He cracked sunflower seeds and neatly spat the shells into his palm. The room smelled of frying oil and his heavy, sweet cologne.
“Why are you winding yourself up, Lenusya?” he drawled lazily. “It’s Mom’s jubilee. Sixty. That’s a real date, you know. It has to be celebrated properly. Restaurant, guests, a host. You don’t want us looking like broke trash in front of Aunt Galya from Syzran, do you?”
“That money was for Pavlik’s braces,” Lena said softly. “And for his sanatorium trip. He has asthma, Igor. The doctor said sea air is mandatory this autumn. So you stole my son’s health for your mother’s drinking party?”
Only then did Igor bother to turn his head. His face twisted into the same look of disgust he always saved for anything involving his stepson.
“Oh, please.” He snorted. “Nothing’s going to happen to your Pavlik. He’ll breathe over boiled potatoes like we did as kids. And his teeth—so they’re crooked. Big deal. A man doesn’t need to be pretty. A mother, though—that’s sacred. She raised me. And you, like always, only think about money. You’re materialistic, Lena. Boring.”
At that moment the door to the room opened slightly. Pavlik stood in the doorway. He was eight, but looked six—thin, almost translucent, with huge frightened eyes. He held a sheet of drawing paper. On his feet were old socks, darned at the toes.
“Mom…” he whispered, glancing nervously at his stepfather. “I drew a card… for Grandma Tamara. Can I give it to her?”
Igor scoffed, wiping his hands on his pants.
“A drawing?” he said with a smirk. “Kid, the woman’s turning sixty. She needs gold, appliances, a fat envelope— not your little scribbles. Don’t embarrass me. Hide it and don’t show it to anyone.”
Pavlik flinched as if someone had hit him. He pressed the paper to his chest, and Lena saw his thin fingers turn white. On the picture he’d colored so carefully for two days, there was a giant bouquet and a crooked but heartfelt message: “Happy Birthday!” His lips began to shake, his eyes filled with tears—but he was used to harshness in this house. He made no sound. He simply turned and walked back to his room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Something snapped inside Lena. Like a tight string that had held their marriage together for the last three years finally broke. She remembered how Igor had “forgotten” to pick Pavlik up from school a month ago—how the boy stood in the rain for an hour until she bolted from work. She remembered Tamara Petrovna coming over and demonstratively moving Pavlik’s things with two fingers, grimacing: “Why does this house smell like someone else’s child?”
Lena looked at her husband—handsome, confident, the man she’d married with so much hope. Now she saw only a parasite swollen with self-importance.
“All right,” she said, unexpectedly calm. “You’re right, Igor. A jubilee is sacred. Let’s give your mother a celebration she’ll never forget.”
Igor’s face spread into a satisfied grin.
“See?” he said smugly. “You can be a normal woman when you want to. I knew you’d understand. By the way, I’ve already made a guest list—around forty people. Book ‘Imperial.’ Mom likes luxury.”
Preparations kicked into high gear. Igor floated on clouds of his own greatness. He called relatives, inviting everyone to the “grand banquet” he—the loving son—was throwing for his mommy. The part about the banquet being paid for from his wife’s account, he quietly left out.
Lena did everything he told her. She booked the most expensive hall, approved a menu with caviar and sturgeon, hired a host.
“Lena, don’t you dare be cheap,” Tamara Petrovna lectured her on the phone two days before the event. “I want Lyubka from work to burst with envy. And wear something decent, not your gray rags. And for heaven’s sake, leave your Pavlik at home. He’ll just get under the feet of grown-ups.”
“Of course, Tamara Petrovna,” Lena answered obediently. “Pavlik won’t go. He’ll stay with my mother.”
The night before the celebration, Lena sat in the kitchen rereading the civil code. Knowing the law is useful—especially for a woman preparing to start over. Under Russian family law, property acquired during marriage is joint. But there are exceptions. The money in Lena’s account came from selling a country cottage she had inherited from her grandmother before the marriage. Igor, blinded by greed and legal ignorance, hadn’t considered how easy it was to trace those funds—and how reckless it was to take them without the owner’s consent.
But suing to get money back takes time. Lena wanted something else. She wanted justice—right now.
The “Imperial” restaurant blazed with light. Tables groaned with delicacies. Tamara Petrovna sat at the head of the table in a purple, glittery dress, looking like an overripe plum. Around her neck sparkled a gold necklace—another “gift” from Igor, purchased with Lena’s credit card she’d foolishly left on the nightstand.
“A toast!” Igor announced, lifting a glass of expensive cognac. “To my beloved mother! To the woman who gave the world me! Mom, I laid everything at your feet so tonight would become a legend!”
Guests applauded. Aunt Galya from Syzran dabbed at her eyes. Tamara Petrovna beamed.
“Thank you, my son! You’re a real man. A provider! Unlike some people…” she shot a sideways glance at Lena, who sat at the edge of the table without touching her food.
The banquet was in full swing when an administrator approached Igor with a folder.
“Excuse me,” he said politely but firmly. “We’re switching the cash register shift and need to close the bill for the banquet and service. Only the booking deposit has been paid.”
Flushed from alcohol and praise, Igor waved a hand toward his wife.
“My wife will handle it. Lenusya, take care of it.”
Silence fell over the room. Every pair of eyes turned to Lena. She rose slowly. In her hands was a beautiful gift envelope tied with a scarlet ribbon.
“Igor,” Lena’s voice rang clear. “You said this celebration was your gift to your mother. You called yourself a ‘provider’ and a ‘real man.’ I wouldn’t dream of taking that honor away from you.”
She walked up to her mother-in-law and, smiling, handed her the envelope.
“Tamara Petrovna, congratulations. Your son truly gave you an unforgettable evening. And this—this is my modest contribution. Open it.”
Tamara Petrovna tore the envelope open greedily, expecting a resort voucher or a jewelry certificate. Instead, she found several folded sheets of paper.
She unfolded the first one. It was the restaurant bill—180,000 rubles.
“What is this?” she hissed, her face changing color.
“That’s the bill,” Lena said evenly. “And the second document is even more interesting. Read it out loud—Igor will appreciate it.”
Igor snatched the papers from his mother. His eyes ran over the lines, and his face began to darken to a furious crimson. It was a divorce petition—and a formal notice demanding he vacate the apartment.
“You… what are you doing?” he rasped. “What eviction? This is our apartment!”
“You’re mistaken, darling,” Lena said with icy calm, almost enjoying the moment. “The apartment was bought by my parents before the marriage. You aren’t even registered there. You lived there on borrowed wings while I put up with you. And the money you stole from a sick child to show off—consider it a loan. Believe me, my lawyer will prove it was unjust enrichment.”
“How dare you!” Tamara Petrovna shrieked, jumping to her feet. “In front of people! To shame us! Who do you think you are?!”
“I’m the owner of my life,” Lena cut her off. “Now eat, Tamara Petrovna. Eat. The sturgeon is fresh—caught yesterday, best quality. Just don’t choke when you and your guests start pooling money to pay. Igor has none—he’s been unemployed for six months, only pretending he’s ‘building a business.’”
She picked up her purse and headed for the exit.
“Lena! Stop!” Igor yelled, rushing after her. “You can’t leave us here! How are we supposed to pay?!”
Lena turned in the doorway. Forty pairs of eyes stared at her—shocked, frightened, some secretly delighted.
“Sell the necklace, Igor,” she said. “Or the watch you bought yourself last month. I don’t care.”
She stepped outside and breathed in the sharp autumn air. For the first time in three years, breathing felt easy.
At home it was quiet. Her mother had taken Pavlik—and Lena was grateful. The boy didn’t need to see his former stepfather packing his bags. She knew Igor would come crawling back. Begging. Threatening. Playing on pity.
Lena pulled out her phone and blocked Igor’s number—and then her mother-in-law’s. In her bag lay a new agreement from the clinic: her mother had borrowed money to cover Pavlik’s treatment, but now Lena knew one thing for certain—she would pay it back. On her own.
An hour later, the doorbell rang. It wasn’t Igor.
A courier stood there with flowers. The note inside had only two words:
“Thank you. Mom.”
Lena smiled. She knew there would be court dates ahead, and attempts by Igor to grab something—anything. And there would be long conversations with her son, who would need to understand why Uncle Igor was gone.
But the most important choice was already made.
She chose herself. And she chose her child.
And that “gift” for her mother-in-law? Well… people say pleasures have a price.
Let them pay it.
Lena brewed tea, sat at the kitchen table, and for the first time in a long time felt not bitterness, but a deep, ringing satisfaction. Life was only beginning—and in that new life there was no room for people who steal children’s dreams for cheap showmanship.