“Do you have any idea what something like this costs?!” Faina Sergeyevna’s voice rang out as if she had just discovered the family jewels were missing. “Two hundred thousand on complete nonsense! On your little indulgences!”
Olga exhaled slowly and leaned back against the refrigerator. Friday evening was clearly going to be a long one. Her mother-in-law had arrived without warning, as usual, and had immediately thrown herself into her favorite role—supervising the family finances.
“It’s my inheritance from my father, Faina Sergeyevna,” Olga said, keeping her tone steady even though she was seething inside. “And I’ll spend it the way I see fit.”
“Oh, really?” Her mother-in-law wandered through the living room, inspecting the updated interior. “And you don’t care that your husband is working himself ragged? He could actually get some rest if you were willing to share!”
Maxim sat in an armchair by the window, buried in his phone, pretending he wasn’t part of any of it. Olga knew that strategy all too well. Whenever his mother began her attacks, he disappeared into silence. Three years of marriage had taught her better than to expect him to stand up for her.
“Maxim has one job,” Olga corrected. “And we’re handling our expenses just fine.”
“Oh yes, just fine!” Faina Sergeyevna stopped in front of a new painting on the wall. “And who pays for the internet? The utilities? I know perfectly well it’s Maxim!”
Olga clenched her jaw. The whole money issue had started six months earlier, when her father died. He had left her a small two-room apartment in an old building on the outskirts of the city. Selling it had brought in enough money to make her longtime dream possible: opening her own yoga studio. She had been saving for years on an engineer’s salary, but it had never been enough.
The inheritance had become her lifeline. She found a place in the city center, began renovations, bought equipment. For the first time in years, she felt as though her life was finally moving in the direction she wanted.
But Faina Sergeyevna saw things differently.
“My apartment needs repairs,” her mother-in-law announced, sitting down on the sofa as though preparing for a lengthy negotiation. “The pipes are ancient, the wiring is falling apart. You do understand that sooner or later it’ll be yours and Maxim’s, don’t you?”
There it was. Olga closed her eyes for a second. So this was not only about control—it was about making a demand.
“Aunt Zina and I already talked it over,” Faina Sergeyevna went on, and Olga groaned inwardly. Aunt Zina, her mother-in-law’s younger sister, was her closest ally in every family conspiracy. “You should put half of your inheritance into renovating my apartment. That’s only fair. Maxim is my son. One day that apartment will belong to the two of you.”
“Faina Sergeyevna,” Olga said, walking over to the window and looking out at the evening city. The streetlights were already glowing, turning the roads into ribbons of light. “I’ve already invested that money in my business. Renovating the space, paying a year’s rent upfront, buying equipment…”
“Then take out a loan,” her mother-in-law cut in. “Or sell something. But you owe it to the family to help. I raised Maxim, fed him, clothed him, sent him to college. Now it’s your turn to repay that debt.”
At last, Maxim looked up from his phone.
“Mom, maybe we shouldn’t—”
“Be quiet!” Faina Sergeyevna snapped, turning toward him. “You’re too soft. You let this…” she nodded at Olga with contempt, “…do whatever she wants with the money while you work till late every night!”
“I work late because I chose this job,” Maxim muttered, and dropped his gaze back to the screen.
Olga felt anger rising inside her. Not even toward her mother-in-law this time—toward her husband. Toward his endless refusal to interfere, to defend her, to tell his mother no.
“That’s enough. It’s my inheritance from my father, and I’ll spend it however I want!” The words burst out louder than she had intended. “I am not responsible for renovating your apartment!”
“Not responsible?” Faina Sergeyevna’s voice turned dangerously quiet. “We’ll see how you talk after I have a real conversation with Maxim. He’s always been an obedient boy. He listens to his mother.”
“Is that a threat?” Olga turned to face her.
“That’s reality, girl. Do you really think your studio will succeed?” Faina Sergeyevna stood, adjusting the expensive shawl on her shoulders. “Ninety percent of places like that close in the first year. And the money will be gone. Then who will be to blame? You. You should have invested in something dependable—property, family.”
The doorbell rang. Maxim sprang to his feet with visible relief, clearly grateful for any interruption. He came back a moment later with their neighbor, Liza, who was holding an envelope.
“Sorry to bother you,” Liza said with an apologetic smile. “This ended up in our mailbox by mistake. I only just noticed.”
“Thank you,” Olga said, taking the envelope—and feeling her heart sink. The bank’s logo. A notice about the loan she had taken out for the final phase of her studio renovation.
Faina Sergeyevna watched Liza leave, then narrowed her eyes.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing important,” Olga said, slipping the envelope into the pocket of her robe.
“Let me see it.” Her mother-in-law stepped closer. “Or have you already dragged yourself into debt over your little hobby?”
“Mom, enough,” Maxim finally said, standing up from the chair. “Let’s stop for today.”
“No, we will not stop!” Faina Sergeyevna was fully worked up now. “I have every right to know what’s happening in my son’s family! If she’s taken out loans, that concerns Maxim too! If you two divorce, the debt could fall on him!”
Olga laughed—a sharp, bitter, nervous laugh.
“Divorce? So that’s where we are now?”
“And why not?” her mother-in-law said, crossing her arms. “Maxim could find himself a proper wife—someone practical, someone who values family instead of her own whims.”
The room fell so silent that the ticking of the wall clock became almost unbearable. Maxim said nothing. He just stood there, staring at the floor. Olga looked at him, waiting for even a single word, even the smallest sign that he might defend her.
But he stayed silent.
“I’m going out,” she said at last. “I need some air.”
She grabbed her coat and rushed out of the apartment without waiting for a response. The stairwell smelled of bleach and something sour. She hurried downstairs and stepped outside, gulping in the cold night air.
Her phone vibrated. A message from Aunt Zina: Olya, we need to talk. Can you come by tomorrow?
Olga tightened her grip on the phone.
So it begins.
She wandered the city for over an hour until the cold finally started cutting through her coat. When she came home, her mother-in-law was already gone. Maxim was still in the same chair, but now he was looking out the window instead of at his phone.
“I’m sorry,” he said without turning around. “Mom crosses the line sometimes.”
“Sometimes?” Olga hung up her coat. “Maxim, she demanded half of my inheritance. And you said nothing.”
He turned at last. His face looked tired, drained. In three years of marriage, Olga had learned to read his expressions. This one was guilt mixed with that familiar urge to find a compromise that would make everyone happy—except her.
“Listen,” Maxim said, getting up and coming closer. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe Mom has a point. Not about everything, obviously. But the apartment really does need repairs. The pipes leak, there’s mold in the bathroom. Sooner or later it’ll be ours…”
“In many years, Maxim. Your mother is fifty-three.”
“But it’s still our future,” he said, taking her hands. “Let’s find some middle ground. Not half, of course. But maybe a hundred thousand? We could freshen the place up a bit, Mom would calm down, and everybody would be happy.”
Olga pulled her hands away. Something inside her snapped—a thin thread of trust that had still been holding the marriage together.
“I do not have a hundred thousand, Maxim. I put everything into the studio. Don’t you understand? It’s my work. My dream.”
“Then take out a loan,” he said quickly, nervously. “A small one. I’ll help pay it back, I swear. I’m just tired of Mom’s constant pressure. She calls every day, every single day: your wife this, your wife that…”
Olga looked at him and suddenly understood: he had given in. Not tonight. Not today. A long time ago. אולי maybe even before they met. Maxim had always been the kind of son who nodded, agreed, did whatever his mother wanted. And now he wanted the same from his wife.
“I’ll think about it,” Olga said.
That night she couldn’t sleep. She lay staring at the ceiling, running through the numbers again and again. The studio was opening in a month. Final payments to contractors. Salary for the administrator for the first three months. Advertising. If she took out one more loan…
It was madness.
She was already buried in debt.
The next morning Maxim acted unusually attentive. He made coffee, brought breakfast to bed. Olga watched him with a strange detachment, as if she were watching someone else’s life unfold on a screen.
“I spoke to Mom,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “She agreed to a hundred thousand. That’s not so much, right? Then everyone can calm down.”
“All right,” Olga said quietly. “But I need time. Two weeks.”
Maxim lit up.
“Really? Olya, you’re amazing! I knew you’d understand!”
He kissed her on the cheek and rushed off to work, whistling something cheerful. Olga finished her now-cold coffee and picked up her phone. Aunt Zina’s message was still sitting there unread.
Should she go? Should she not?
In the end, what difference did it make?
She typed back: All right. Today at three?
Aunt Zina lived across town in a drab nine-story apartment block. Her one-room flat was tiny but tidy. She greeted Olga with a strained smile and led her straight into the kitchen.
“Sit down, sit down. Want some tea?”
“No, thank you,” Olga said, lowering herself onto a hard chair. “What did you want to talk about?”
Aunt Zina sat down heavily across from her and folded her hands on the table.
“Listen, Olya. I’m a straightforward person. Faina is my sister, and I love her. But sometimes she… goes too far. You understand? I tell her not to interfere, to let you young people sort things out on your own. But she doesn’t listen.”
Olga nodded silently. What was the point of this preamble?
“To put it simply, here’s what I’m going to say. Your money is your money. An inheritance from your father is sacred. But Maxim is a good man. He loves his mother, and he can’t say no to her. And if you want to keep your family together…”
“I have to hand over the money,” Olga finished for her. “Is that it?”
“Not hand over. Help,” Aunt Zina corrected. “Those are not the same thing.”
Olga stood up.
“Thank you for your honesty. I’m leaving.”
On the way home, she stopped by the studio. The renovation was almost finished: the walls were painted a soft peach, new flooring had been laid, large mirrors reflected the open space. Her dream had taken shape here, inside these walls. And now everyone wanted her to tear it apart for someone else’s apartment, someone else’s peace of mind.
She got home late that evening. Maxim wasn’t there—he had texted that he’d be working late. She reheated dinner, sat in front of the television, and flipped aimlessly through channels. At ten o’clock, the front door slammed open.
“Hi!” Maxim looked flushed and excited. “Listen, I figured something out! We can borrow the money for the repairs from my friend Stepan! He’ll lend it to us at a small interest rate for six months. By then your studio will be up and running, and we’ll pay him back!”
“Maxim, I’m not sure…”
“Come on, let’s do it!” He sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulders. “Olya, please. I’m so tired of all this. I just want peace in the family.”
She looked into his eyes. Earnest. Pleading. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he really was trying to help.
“All right,” Olga said with a tired nod. “Talk to him.”
Three days later, they had the money. Stepan turned out to be a real person; the three of them met in a café and signed some kind of paper. Maxim slipped the thick envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket and smiled with satisfaction.
“Perfect. I’ll take it to Mom tomorrow and we can start the repairs.”
But the following evening, he came home pale and shaking. Olga was sorting through papers for the studio registration when he burst into the apartment.
“I was robbed,” he croaked. “Olya, I was robbed! They stole the money!”
She froze, papers still in her hands.
“What? How?”
“I came out of the metro, and two guys came up from behind. One grabbed me, the other pulled the envelope out of my pocket. I didn’t even have time to react!” He collapsed onto the sofa and covered his face with his hands. “My God, what do we do now? It was a loan! We have to repay it!”
Olga came closer slowly and studied him carefully. His trembling hands. The red blotches on his neck—they always appeared when he was nervous. But something was off. Something in his tone, in the way he was sitting.
“Did you go to the police?”
“No, I… I ran straight home. I had to tell you first!”
“Maxim,” she said, sitting down beside him and taking his hand. “Look at me.”
He raised his eyes. And in that moment Olga knew: he was lying. Absolutely lying. His eyes darted, his jaw was tight, a vein throbbed at his temple.
“We’re going to the police right now,” she said. “We’ll file a report.”
“What for? They won’t find them anyway!”
“For the record. For Stepan. He’ll need proof,” Olga said calmly, though inside, everything was turning to ice. “Maxim, this is serious. One hundred thousand rubles.”
“I… I’ll go tomorrow. It’s too late today.”
“It’s only nine o’clock.”
He jumped up and began pacing.
“Stop pressuring me! I’m in shock! Do you understand? I was just robbed!”
Olga said nothing. Then she stood, picked up her phone, and dialed Faina Sergeyevna’s number. Her mother-in-law answered after the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Good evening. It’s Olga. Did Maxim call you today?”
A pause. Long and sticky.
“Why?” her mother-in-law asked, suddenly wary.
“I’m just asking.”
Another pause. Then:
“He did. He said he’d come by tomorrow. Why? What happened?”
Olga ended the call. Maxim stood there pale, his face twisted. Their eyes met, and no more words were needed. She understood everything.
“You were going to deceive me,” Olga said, not as a question but as a fact.
Maxim flinched and tried to sound offended.
“What are you talking about? I told you, I was robbed!”
“Stop lying,” she said, stepping toward him. “You called your mother. You told her you’d come tomorrow. Why would you say that if the money had been stolen? You would have told her immediately. You’d be calling her in tears, just like you’re performing for me now.”
He opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again.
“I… I didn’t want to upset her right away. I thought I’d explain it tomorrow.”
“Maxim, enough.” Olga pulled out her phone. “Either you tell me the truth right now, or I call Stepan. Then I call the police. And they can figure out where the money went.”
Silence stretched between them like rubber pulled tight before it snaps. Maxim shifted from foot to foot, and Olga could almost see the excuses running through his head. Which version should he choose? How could he get out of this?
“The money is with me,” he finally said. “But it’s not what you think!”
“What exactly do you think I think?” Olga’s voice was flat now, almost indifferent. A strange calm had settled over her, as if she were watching herself from a distance.
“I was trying to help! Really!” The words spilled out in a rush. “Mom said the contractors needed an advance payment. In cash. And I thought… if I said I’d been robbed, then Mom and I could quietly go ahead with the repairs, and later I’d pay Stepan back little by little. Out of my salary. You would never have known!”
Olga laughed. A short, bitter laugh.
“You think I wouldn’t have known? Maxim, you were planning to siphon money out of our household budget to repay a loan that was supposedly taken for me. And I wasn’t meant to notice?”
“Well… I would have figured something out,” he said, lowering his head. “Olya, I’m sorry. Mom insisted. She said you’d never hand the money over willingly, so we’d have to be clever.”
There it was. The key word. Not I made a mistake. Not I was wrong. But we’d have to be clever. As if lying to his wife, staging a fake robbery, and stealing money were just harmless strategy.
“Where’s the envelope?” Olga asked.
“In the car. In the glove compartment.” He looked at her hopefully. “Olya, let’s still give it to Mom. Please. I’ll pay it back, I swear!”
She walked to the closet, took out a large travel bag. Maxim watched her in confusion.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing your things,” Olga said, opening his dresser drawer and beginning to fold clothes inside. “You’re moving out. Tonight.”
“What do you mean, moving out? This is my apartment!”
“No, Maxim. It’s an apartment we rent together. And I pay half. So either you leave on your own, or I call the police and tell them about the fake robbery and the fraud.”
He went even paler.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“We’ll see,” Olga said, continuing to pack his shirts, jeans, socks with mechanical precision. Her hands moved on their own; inside there was only emptiness. Not even anger anymore—just a cold, scorched blankness. “Go downstairs, bring me the envelope, and don’t come back.”
“Olya…”
“Maxim, go. Before I change my mind and call your mother myself. Though maybe I should do that right now. Tell her what kind of plan the two of you came up with.”
That frightened him. He rushed for the door and bolted out. Olga heard the downstairs entrance slam. She sat on the sofa, fists clenched. It was hard to breathe—the air felt stuck somewhere in her throat.
He came back five minutes later and silently handed her the envelope. Olga checked inside. The money was there, all one hundred thousand. She locked it in the safe inside the wardrobe.
“Pack,” she repeated.
It took him nearly an hour to gather the rest of his things. He wandered around the apartment, picking up odds and ends, trying to say something. Olga did not listen. She sat on the sofa and stared out the window. Below, the city moved on with its own life: cars crawled down the avenue, shadows flickered in neighboring windows. An ordinary Moscow evening, indifferent to private catastrophes.
“I really am sorry,” Maxim said at the door, holding two bags. “I didn’t want it to end like this.”
“But it did,” Olga said without turning around. “Go, Maxim. And leave the keys on the shelf.”
He set the keys down, lingered for a second, and left. The door closed softly, almost without a sound.
Olga sat motionless for another twenty minutes. Then she stood up, poured herself a glass of water, and drank it in one swallow. She took out her phone, found the number of a lawyer a friend had once recommended, and wrote: Hello. I want to file for divorce. Can we meet tomorrow?
The reply came quickly: Yes, of course. Come to the office at ten.
The next few days passed in a blur. The lawyer turned out to be a capable man in his forties who explained right away: the marriage had been short, they had almost no shared assets, the divorce would be straightforward. Maxim called around twenty times and flooded her with messages. At first he made excuses. Then he threatened her. Then he begged for forgiveness again. Olga never replied.
Faina Sergeyevna showed up a week later. Olga opened the door and said immediately:
“I’ve filed for divorce. You don’t need to waste your time trying to change my mind.”
“You are destroying a family over some little misunderstanding!” her mother-in-law shouted, trying to squeeze past her into the apartment, but Olga blocked the entrance.
“Not a misunderstanding,” Olga corrected. “Deception and betrayal. Your son, with your help, tried to steal from me.”
“Maxim wanted to help me! He’s a good son!”
“Maybe,” Olga said. “But he was a terrible husband. Goodbye, Faina Sergeyevna.”
She shut the door before the woman could answer. Her mother-in-law shouted on the other side for another minute, then the elevator door slammed.
The studio opened in early March. Olga kept it simple: she invited her friends, handed out flyers to passersby, and served herbal tea to everyone who came. About thirty people showed up—not bad for a start. Twenty-five signed up for trial classes.
She stood in the middle of the bright room, looked around at the soft light, the open space, the people gathered there, and for the first time in a long while, she felt free. Not happy yet—happiness was still a long way off. But free, absolutely.
That evening, Maxim sent one more message: Congratulations on the opening. Mom told me. I wish you success.
Olga read it, deleted it, and blocked his number. The past was behind her. Ahead was her own life—the one she had chosen for herself.
She paid Stepan back four months later. The studio did unexpectedly well: word of mouth spread, clients brought their friends. By summer, Olga was already thinking about opening a second room.
The divorce was finalized in June. Maxim came to court with his mother; they sat in the hallway whispering to each other. Olga didn’t go near them. The judge asked a few formal questions, and fifteen minutes later it was over.
As Olga stepped out of the courthouse, she lifted her eyes to the sky. Bright. Endless. Full of June light.
And she smiled.