Marina woke to Varya’s crying at six in the morning. A dim January light leaked through a crack in the curtains, and for a heartbeat she let herself lie there, staring at the ceiling. Beside her, Kostya was breathing evenly, turned toward the wall, not reacting to the baby’s wail at all. Marina gave a humorless little smile—he had a real gift for not hearing whatever was inconvenient to hear.
She sat up and pulled her robe around her shoulders. Her reflection in the mirror across the room startled her, the way it always had these past months. A rounder face, a soft second chin, her body blurred under flannel. Eight months after giving birth, and she still looked like she was ready to deliver again. Twenty-three extra kilos. The doctor had said gently, “Don’t rush. Your body is recovering. You’re breastfeeding—the weight will come off gradually.” Marina hadn’t rushed. Varya mattered more than any diet.
In the nursery her daughter was already worked up, little fists waving. Marina lifted her, pressed her close, and the world narrowed to that warm bundle—the tiny snuffle by her ear, the trusting eyes fixed on her as if she were the center of the universe.
“My sweet one,” Marina whispered, rocking her. “My girl.”
Kostya showed up in the kitchen around eight, fresh from the shower in an ironed shirt. Marina had already fed Varya, changed her, settled her into the bouncer, and now she was trying to eat breakfast standing up—sandwich clenched between her teeth while she pulled clean plates out of the dishwasher.
“Is there coffee?” Kostya asked, sitting down at the table.
“In the cezve,” Marina replied, nodding toward the stove.
He got up, poured himself some, sat back down. Varya cooed happily, kicking her legs. Kostya glanced at her and smiled.
“How’s our princess?”
“Fine. She woke up twice at night.”
“Mmm,” he murmured, already buried in his phone, scrolling the news. “Hey—do you remember that Andrey and Lena are coming over on Saturday?”
Marina froze with her cup in her hand.
“This Saturday? I thought it was next week.”
“No, this one. I already confirmed with them. You’ll cook something?”
She set the cup down a little harder than she meant to.
“Of course.”
Kostya looked up, catching the edge in her voice.
“Marish, I didn’t know you’d forgotten. They’re our friends—we’ll have a normal evening.”
“Your friends,” she corrected quietly.
“They’re yours too. Lena studied with you at university.”
Marina didn’t respond. Lena was the kind of woman who, after school, built a career in a major company, wore expensive suits, and talked about traveling through Asia. Marina, after Varya was born, had quit her small design studio—staying home with a baby hadn’t turned into a short pause, but into a new life-state that swallowed her whole.
Kostya finished his coffee, stood, and kissed Marina on the crown of her head.
“Alright, I’m off. I’ll try to come home earlier tonight.”
He left, and she remained in the apartment with Varya, with a mountain of unwashed dishes in the sink, and with the hallway mirror—an image she was increasingly desperate not to see.
The jokes started quietly, almost without warning. One evening they were watching a series, Kostya was scrolling his feed, and suddenly he laughed.
“Look—there’s a meme about how everyone storms the gym after New Year’s. ‘Before’ and ‘After the holidays’—and the second photo is just… a ball.”
He showed her the screen. Marina glanced at it and nodded without smiling.
“Yeah. Funny.”
“We put on a bit after the holidays too,” he added, patting his stomach. “We should probably go to the gym.”
“Up to you,” Marina replied without taking her eyes off the TV.
Kostya either didn’t notice the dryness in her voice or chose not to. A few days later, while they were waiting for the elevator, he watched an elderly neighbor climbing the stairs with heavy bags and said:
“I wish I had that kind of willpower. She takes the stairs and people just ride the elevator everywhere and complain about their weight.”
Marina stayed silent, but something stabbed inside her. He knew she wasn’t supposed to exercise hard yet—the doctor had said to wait. Her body was still recovering from childbirth.
And then there was the photo. They were sorting through old pictures, and Kostya found their wedding shot—Marina in a white dress, slim, laughing, bouquet in hand.
“Now that was a figure,” he breathed. “You were a knockout.”
“I was,” Marina echoed.
He looked up at her, as if only then realizing how it sounded.
“I mean—you’re beautiful now too, it’s just… you know. Different.”
“I know,” she said, and left the room so he wouldn’t see her lips tremble.
Kostya seemed to believe he was being casual, harmless, familiar. He didn’t see how she studied herself in the mirror each morning, how she shoved her old jeans to the back of the closet, how she avoided taking pictures with Varya so she wouldn’t have to look at herself later. He didn’t see—because he didn’t look.
Saturday started with Varya being cranky—teething, and no gel helped. Marina spent half the day with her daughter in her arms, rocking, humming, soothing. By lunchtime her back ached, and nothing was ready in the kitchen. She rushed to the stove, settled Varya into the bouncer, and turned cartoons on the tablet—let child-development experts throw stones at her, but otherwise she simply wouldn’t manage.
Kostya came out of the shower around three and looked around the kitchen in surprise.
“You haven’t started cooking yet?”
Marina was chopping vegetables for the salad so fast she almost cut herself.
“Varya’s been crying all day. I only just calmed her down.”
“You should’ve called me—I’d have watched her.”
“You slept until two.”
“I’m tired after the week,” he said evenly, like it was self-evident. “Okay, I’ll help now. What do you need?”
“Set the table.”
He nodded and started taking out plates. Marina slid meat into the oven, stirred sauce, kept an eye on the potatoes, and watched Varya from the corner of her eye. The baby had gone quiet, mesmerized by bright colors on the screen, but Marina knew it wouldn’t last.
Andrey and Lena arrived at exactly six with a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates. Lena looked flawless—gray sheath dress, heels, perfect hair. Marina greeted them in home jeans two sizes too big and a baggy sweater that hid the softness at her waist.
“Marinka!” Lena hugged her, bringing a cloud of expensive perfume with her. “It’s been ages! How are you—how’s our mama doing?”
“Fine,” Marina smiled, forcing herself not to think about how stark the contrast was between them. “Come in, come in.”
Kostya greeted Andrey, clapped him on the shoulder, and they moved into the living room. The usual bustle began—finding seats, pouring wine, exchanging the first questions. Varya sat on the rug with toys, occasionally staring at the guests with huge curious eyes.
“What a sweetheart!” Lena crouched beside her. “Like a little doll. Can I hold her?”
“Of course,” Marina said, watching as Lena carefully lifted Varya—and, surprisingly, the baby didn’t protest.
“Oh wow, she’s heavy!” Lena laughed. “A little powerhouse!”
“She eats well, doesn’t she, little Varya?” Kostya jumped in, winking at his daughter. “Takes after her mom.”
A one-second pause fell over the room. Andrey coughed awkwardly. Lena stared at Kostya, then turned her eyes to Marina. Marina went still, fork in her hand, unable to move.
“I’m joking, I’m joking,” Kostya added quickly when he realized it hadn’t landed. “Varya’s just developing great—healthy girl.”
But the words were already out, hanging in the air like something sticky and unpleasant. Marina set her fork down and stood up.
“Excuse me, I need to feed Varya. It’s time.”
She took her daughter from Lena and walked out without looking back. The nursery was quiet and dark, only the nightlight casting a soft glow on the walls. Marina sat in the chair, brought Varya to her breast, and only then allowed herself to exhale.
The tears came by themselves—silent. She wiped them away, but they kept coming. Varya nursed, snuffling softly, and Marina stroked her hair, feeling something inside her finally break all the way through.
Takes after her mom. In front of guests. In front of Lena, who already looked at her with barely concealed pity. He’d said it casually, like a harmless comment about the weather.
Marina fed Varya, changed her, and laid her in the crib. The baby fell asleep almost immediately—the day had been exhausting. Marina stayed standing over the crib, staring at her daughter’s sleeping face, and suddenly understood: the decision had already ripened. Maybe it had been ripening for a long time, and tonight was simply the last drop.
She pulled a large travel bag from the closet and began packing—hers and Varya’s. Calmly, methodically, like she was making a shopping list. Diapers. A change of clothes. Swaddles. Her toiletry bag, documents, a phone charger.
From the living room came voices and laughter—apparently Kostya had managed to smooth things over and the evening continued as if nothing had happened. Marina heard it all as if from far away, as if it no longer belonged to her.
When she finished, the clock read 9:30. She stepped into the hallway just as Andrey and Lena were getting ready to leave.
“Thank you for coming,” Marina said, pulling a tight smile across her face.
Lena hugged her.
“Sorry we’re leaving early—tomorrow’s an early morning. It was great, wasn’t it?”
When the door closed behind the guests, Kostya turned to Marina.
“Listen, I’m sorry about that stupid thing. I didn’t think—it just slipped.”
“Mm-hm,” Marina replied, walking past him into the room and lifting the bag.
Kostya noticed and frowned.
“What is that? Where are you going?”
“To my mom’s. With Varya.”
“To your mom’s? Now? At night?”
“Now.” Marina’s voice was steady as she looked him in the eye. “And I’m filing for divorce.”
His mouth opened, then shut. Then he laughed—uncertain, like someone hoping it was a joke.
“Because of what I said? Marish, it’s just…”
“Just what?” She stopped at the door. “What were you about to say?”
“Come on, I joked in front of everyone—so what?” He spread his hands. “Why jump straight to divorce? I didn’t mean it!”
“Didn’t mean it,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Kostya, you don’t even understand what you said wrong.”
“Then explain!”
She set the bag on the floor.
“Fine. I’ll explain. I carried our child for nine months. My body changed every single day. I gave birth. I was stitched up. For two months I couldn’t even walk properly. I’m breastfeeding, so I can’t go on a strict diet. I don’t sleep at night because Varya wakes up—and you don’t hear her. I’m not working, I don’t see friends, I don’t remember the last time I went to a movie or a café. I’m home all day with the baby, and I love her more than life, but I’m exhausted.”
Her voice trembled, but she pulled herself together.
“And for months you’ve been making ‘jokes’ about fat people. You show me pictures of what I used to look like. You hint that I should ‘work on myself.’ And today, in front of guests, you said our daughter takes after me—meaning she’s fat. Do you understand what you’re doing?”
Kostya stood there pale, lost.
“I… I just wanted to encourage you a little, so you…”
“So I what?” Marina’s smile turned bitter. “Lose weight faster? Become pretty again, like at the wedding? Kostya, I had your baby. I didn’t gain weight for fun, not because I was stuffing my face with pastries day and night. These are the consequences of pregnancy and birth. The doctor says not to rush. But you don’t care. What matters to you is having a wife who’s slim and pretty.”
“No, that’s not it!” he stepped toward her. “I just wanted you to… to be happy. To like yourself.”
“I was happy,” she said softly. “Until you started breaking me down piece by piece. With every joke. Every hint. I used to look in the mirror and see my daughter’s mother—the woman who gives her life, feeds her, loves her. Now I look in the mirror and I see a fat cow who doesn’t please her husband.”
“Marisha…”
“No.” She lifted her hand to stop him. “I’m tired. Tired of feeling like I’m not good enough. Tired of waiting for you to finally look at me not as a body that’s supposed to match your expectations, but as a person. As the mother of your child, going through the hardest season of her life. And if you can’t live through this postpartum time with me—if you can’t be рядом, supportive, and all you do is rub my face in how I don’t measure up to your ideal—then I don’t need that kind of husband or father for my child.”
Kostya stood frozen, unable to say a word. Marina picked up the bag and pulled a jacket from the closet.
“I’m leaving. Tomorrow I’ll come for the rest of my things when you’re not home.”
“Wait, let’s talk…”
“We already have. We should’ve talked months ago—when I tried to tell you your words hurt me and you waved it off: ‘It’s just a joke.’ Now it’s too late.”
She opened the nursery door, carefully lifted sleeping Varya, wrapped her in a warm bundle. The baby didn’t even wake—she only snuffled and pressed her nose into Marina’s shoulder.
Kostya watched them—lost, stunned—like he was only now realizing what was happening.
“Marish, don’t do this. Let me fix it—I won’t do it again…”
“You still don’t understand what the problem is,” Marina said from the doorway. “You don’t understand what you did. And I can’t live with someone who doesn’t see me.”
She left the apartment and shut the door behind her. The elevator came quickly. She went down, stepped outside. Snow fell in big soft flakes, and the world felt quiet and new. Varya snuffled on her shoulder, warm and so unmistakably hers.
Marina caught a taxi and gave her mother’s address. The driver stayed silent the whole way, and she was grateful for it. She watched the snowy city slide past the window and felt a strange relief—like a heavy weight had been lifted from her shoulders, a weight she’d been carrying for months without even realizing how much it pressed her down.
Her mother opened the door in a robe, surprise and worry in her eyes.
“Marina? What happened?”
“Can we stay here tonight?” Marina barely held back tears. “A few days—until I figure everything out.”
Her mother didn’t ask questions. She simply hugged her daughter, took the bag from her hands.
“Of course. Come in. I’ll make the bed.”
They put Varya into an old baby crib her mother had kept “just in case.” The little girl slept with her arms flung out, snuffling into the pillow. Marina stood beside her, stroking her back, and only then let her tears flow freely.
Her mother wrapped an arm around her in silence.
“Tell me in the morning,” she whispered. “For now—rest. You’re exhausted.”
Marina lay down on the couch in the living room, pulled an old blanket over herself, and closed her eyes. Her phone buzzed—a message from Kostya. She didn’t read it. She silenced the phone and set it face down.
Tomorrow would be a new day. Tomorrow she’d start dealing with lawyers, paperwork, looking for a place to rent. Tomorrow she’d have to explain everything to her mom, listen to advice, maybe even hear pleas to reconcile.
But tonight she lay in the dark, listening to her daughter’s soft breathing through the wall. And for the first time in months, she felt like she could breathe freely too.
Morning began with Varya waking in an unfamiliar place and crying. Marina sprang up, lifted her, rocked her, hummed a lullaby. The baby calmed, burying her face in her mother’s neck, and Marina felt her heart swell with love and tenderness.
Her mother appeared in the kitchen already dressed, kettle in hand.
“How did you sleep?”
“Okay,” Marina said, sitting at the table with Varya on her lap. “Mom, I’m sorry it was so sudden.”
“You’re my daughter. You can always come here.” Her mother set a cup of tea in front of her. “Do you want to tell me?”
And Marina told her everything—about the jokes, about last night, about how tired she was of feeling “wrong.” Her mother listened quietly, only sometimes shaking her head.
“He’ll call,” she said at last. “He’ll ask you to come back.”
“I know.”
“And what will you say?”
Marina looked at Varya, who was playing with a spoon, tapping it against the table.
“I’ll tell him that if he can’t stand by me in the hardest time, then I don’t need that kind of man beside me at all. I’ll manage on my own.”
“It’s hard alone with a child,” her mother said softly.
“I know. But you know what, Mom? It was already hard. With him. Because he was рядом—right there—but he didn’t see how tired I was, how much his words hurt, how hard I was trying to be a good mother and wife. He only saw that I didn’t fit his picture. And that’s even heavier than being alone.”
Her mother reached across the table and covered Marina’s hand with her own.
“You’re strong. You’ll get through it.”
Varya, lying nearby on a blanket, wriggled, and Marina settled beside her, wrapped an arm around her, and pressed her face into the baby’s soft hair. Inside her, a firm, growing certainty formed—she would be okay.
She and her daughter would handle everything.