“It’s just unnatural, Polina. Your salary is way too high for a woman who spends all day at home in stretched-out sweatpants.”
Tamara Ilinichna took a sip of tea from a delicate porcelain cup and looked at her daughter-in-law with clear disapproval. The mother-in-law sat at the kitchen table with perfect posture, dressed in a strict wool suit—even though it was a warm May day outside. For her, any outing, even just visiting her son across town, was nothing less than an official event.
Polina slowly set the coffee pot on the table. She was thirty-four years old and had spent the last six years working as a UI/UX designer, creating interfaces for major mobile apps. Her workday might start at 10 a.m. and go on late into the night. She knew how to keep users from getting lost in banking app menus, how to find just the right button colors, and how to build a site architecture that could generate millions. For all this knowledge and sleepless nights, she earned a great fee. But to Tamara Ilinichna, all of that boiled down to a sneering verdict: “She just draws pictures on the computer.”
“Tamara Ilinichna,” Polina tried to smile, even though she could already feel her irritation boiling inside, “my sweatpants have nothing to do with the quality of my work. Companies pay me for results, not for sitting out hours in an office chair.”
“Oh please, don’t make me laugh,” her mother-in-law waved a hand adorned with a massive gold ring. “You call that work? Real work is when someone heads to the factory at seven in the morning, when your back aches from the strain, when you wait for the bus in the cold. Remember in ‘Moscow Does Not Believe in Tears’? There, Katerina worked in production, managed people, did something real! And you? You sit in a cozy house, clicking buttons and sipping coffee. And for that, they pay you all that money. It’s unfair. Money should be earned with sweat and hard labor—that’s when you know their true value.”
Polina took a deep breath. Arguing with her mother-in-law, who had spent thirty-five years working at the local registrar’s office—and who was used to paper archives, strict rules, and official stamps—was a totally pointless task.
Polina just silently slid a plate of freshly baked cookies over to her mother-in-law. Right then, a key turned in the lock and Kirill came bursting into the hallway.
Polina’s husband worked as a veterinary surgeon at a private clinic. He was a solid, kind-hearted man, totally dedicated to his work. He often smelled of medicine, alcohol, and other people’s anxiety, but Polina loved that scent because it meant Kirill had saved another life.
“Whew, what a day,” Kirill shrugged off his jacket, hung it on a hook, and walked into the kitchen as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. “Hi, Mom! Polinka, what smells so good? I could eat a horse. Three surgeries in a row today—I had to pull a kid’s sock out of a poodle.”
Kirill kissed his wife on the top of her head and sat down at the table. Immediately, Tamara Ilinichna’s stern face shifted to one of dramatic concern.
“Hello, son. Look at you, you’re looking so worn out. You’re working yourself to the bone. And then there are some people,” she shot a significant glance at Polina’s laptop sitting on the windowsill, “who never hold anything heavier than a mouse, yet earn three times as much as you do.”
Kirill frowned and gave his mother a stern look.
“Mom, we’ve talked about this before. Polina works with her mind. And I’m proud of how talented she is at her job. Let’s not start this again. Why don’t you tell me about Denis? Is he still searching for himself?”
At the mention of her younger son, Tamara Ilyinichna’s face took on a tragic expression. Denis had just turned thirty. Unlike his older brother, who had known since school that he wanted to care for animals, Denis was creative and restless by nature. He had tried studying economics, then philosophy, then dropped everything and decided to become an entrepreneur. Over the past five years, he’d opened a shop selling premium teas, tried to launch a brand of artisanal wooden bow ties, and even dabbled in reselling sneakers. Tamara Ilyinichna had financed all these ventures from her own savings, but every single one ended in failure and debt.
“Denisochka is on the verge of a big breakthrough now,” his mother said breathlessly. “He’s come up with a brilliant idea. He wants to open a virtual reality arena in a shopping mall. Says it’s the latest trend. The youth will be flocking there!”
Polina barely managed to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Kirill sighed heavily as he helped himself to stewed beef and potatoes.
“And how much does that latest trend cost?” he asked, unenthusiastically.
“Well, the equipment is expensive… all those headsets and computers. Basically, he needs two million just to start,” Tamara Ilyinichna lowered her voice. “Son, Denis really needs your help. The banks won’t give him a loan—his credit history is ruined after that tea incident.”
“Mom, we don’t have two million,” Kirill replied firmly, pushing the bread basket aside. “We’re paying off a mortgage. And actually, Polina and I have decided to start a major renovation of the bathroom and hallway this summer. We need to change the pipes and rewire everything. We’re saving every spare penny.”
“Why bother with renovations, Kirill!” his mother exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “Everything’s decent enough! But your brother is sitting around, doing nothing, suffering! You’re family! Plus,” she cast another sharp look at Polina, “with your wife’s easy earnings, you could spare some funds for your own brother. So what if she stays home for a month clicking away, you’ll have money for the renovation back in no time.”
“Mom, the conversation is over,” Kirill said, his voice now steely. “We’re not taking out any loans for Denis. Period. If he wants to take a risk, let him get a regular job, save up an initial fund, and risk his own money—not ours.”
Tamara Ilyinichna pressed her lips together, gathered her things with an air of offense, and soon left, throwing over her shoulder that family ties mean nothing these days and that the world is ruled by selfishness and greed.
At that moment, Polina thought the incident was behind them. Kirill had always been on her side—he respected her work and never let their relatives take advantage of them. They paid their mortgage together, managed their finances as a team, pooling their income in a shared account for bills, groceries, and savings. Polina earned more, but it was never an issue in their relationship. Kirill was a self-sufficient, confident professional, and her success only made him happier.
Two weeks passed. The end of the month arrived—a time for budgeting, paying bills, and reviewing the finances. Polina sat at the kitchen table surrounded by receipts for electricity, water, and internet. Nearby, her chamomile tea was cooling.
Earlier in the day, Kirill had called to say he’d be late at work—they’d brought in a dog after an accident, and it needed a complicated pelvic surgery. Polina knew her husband would be exhausted when he got home, so she made his favorite meat solyanka soup and baked a prune roll in the oven.
Around seven in the evening, the doorbell rang. Polina figured her husband had forgotten his keys and went to open it. Instead, it was Tamara Ilyinichna standing on the doorstep, holding a bulging plastic folder.
“Hello, Polina. Is Kirill home?” her mother-in-law asked, peering over Polina’s shoulder into the hallway.
“Hello. No, he’s in surgery—something urgent, he’ll be late. Is something wrong?”
“Oh, nothing serious. I just needed him to sign a paper. Something for the tax authorities, about the dacha. It’s time-sensitive. Well, I’ll wait for him.”
Tamara Ilyinichna walked confidently into the kitchen, placed her folder right on top of Polina’s receipts at the edge of the table, and settled into a chair.
“Would you like some tea?” Polina offered out of politeness.
“I would. Black, no sugar, please.”
Polina turned to the stove to turn on the kettle. At that moment, her work phone rang in the other room—a client from a different time zone needed urgent edits to a layout.
“Excuse me, I’ll just be a couple of minutes, urgent work call,” Polina said as she headed to the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
The call with the client ended up taking fifteen minutes. She had to open her laptop, check layers in the graphics editor, and send off files. When she finished, Polina rubbed her tired eyes and went back to the kitchen.
Tamara Ilyinichna was calmly gazing out the window. The folder she’d brought was still on the table, but apparently her elbow had nudged it while pouring herself some water. The clasp had come undone, and some papers had spilled out, mixing with Polina’s apartment bills.
Polina went over to the table to gather up the papers. Her eyes automatically caught lines of printed text—it was her professional habit to notice fonts, margins, and highlighted blocks.
On the top sheet, in large bold letters, it read: “Guarantor Agreement for the Commercial Lease of Non-residential Premises.”
Polina frowned. What tax office? What dacha?
She picked up the sheet. Under the ‘Tenant’ column, it listed Denis’s sole proprietorship. In the ‘Guarantor sharing joint responsibility’ column, it had Kirill’s full name. The monthly payment for renting the site for the virtual arena was 250,000 rubles. The contract’s term—three years.
But the most interesting thing was just below. There lay an ordinary squared notebook page, covered in the neat, familiar handwriting of Tamara Ilinichna. It was a detailed budget breakdown.
Polina stopped breathing as she read through the figures.
The family’s income was listed in a column. Somehow, her mother-in-law had managed to calculate Kirill’s salary with amazing accuracy and correctly indicated Polina’s average income—most likely she’d fished it out during one of her long phone calls with Kirill, or perhaps Kirill had carelessly boasted about his wife’s success.
Below that were the calculations.
“K.’s salary — 120,000.
P.’s income — 250,000.
Total: 370,000 rubles.
Mortgage — 60,000.
Food and utilities — 50,000.
Leftover free cash per month: 260,000 rubles.”
And at the very bottom, boldly circled in red pen, was the final note:
“Polina stays at home, she doesn’t need clothes or commuting expenses. They can easily pay Denis’s rent for the first six months while the business gets off the ground. They’ll give up 250,000, with another 10,000 left over for small expenses.”
Inside, Polina felt as if the elevator cable had snapped. A cold chill ran down her back, followed by a hot, searing wave of anger rising to her throat.
They didn’t just want to ask for money. Tamara Ilinichna had brought a guarantor contract, planning to slip it under tired Kirill’s nose after his shift, disguised as ‘paperwork for the tax office.’ If Denis’s business failed—which it certainly would, since Denis couldn’t even put together a proper business plan—the landlord would come after Kirill. Legally, Polina and Kirill, from their shared family budget, would be responsible for paying off a huge debt. Her mother-in-law had counted every ruble of Polina’s earnings, deciding that since her daughter-in-law ‘sat at home,’ her money could just be taken to support the irresponsible younger son.
“What are you looking at, Polina? Those are private documents!” Tamara Ilinichna snapped, spinning around and trying to snatch the papers out of her daughter-in-law’s hands.
But Polina held the documents tight. She looked up at her mother-in-law. Just then, the front door lock clicked.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway, and there was the rustling of a coat being removed. Kirill entered the kitchen, gray with exhaustion and deep shadows under his eyes.
“Oh, mom, you’re still here? Hi,” he said, sinking into the chair, rubbing his face with his hands. “Polina, can you pour me some soup, please? I’m about to fall asleep right at the table. The dog was saved, but there was so much blood…”
“Kirill,” Polina’s voice was unexpectedly clear and cold. She laid the documents in front of her husband. “Before you eat, take a look at the tax declaration for the summer house that your mom brought you to sign.”
Kirill struggled to focus his eyes on the papers.
“What is this? A guarantor contract? For what rental? Mom, what’s going on?”
Tamara Ilinichna turned pale, her lips trembling, but she quickly collected herself and switched to the offensive.
“So what?!” she raised her voice. “Yes, it’s for Denis! They won’t give him a place without a reliable guarantor! He has no assets! But you have a stable job, an apartment! You have to help your brother! Just sign it, nothing bad will happen to you! Denis will pay everything himself!”
“Really? All by himself?” Polina placed a sheet of graph paper on top of the contract. “Kirill, take a look at this. Your mom already made a payment schedule. Using my income.”
Kirill picked up the notebook page. He read it slowly. His eyes widened as he read. Any fatigue disappeared in an instant. He glanced at the calculations, then at the guarantor agreement, and finally turned a heavy gaze toward his mother.
“You wanted to slip this in for me to sign without even looking? To take advantage of the fact that I come home from work exhausted?”
“I just wanted what’s best for the family!” Tamara Ilyinichna shouted, jumping up from her chair. “You’re living a life of luxury! You’re spoiled! Your Polina makes money out of thin air, sits in warmth, and doesn’t lift anything heavier than a cup! Why does she need so much? Why do you need so much? While Denis has nothing to live on! He needs a start!”
“My wife,” Kirill said quietly, but with such an edge that his mother fell silent, “works twelve hours a day. Her eyesight is getting worse from staring at a screen. She earns every single ruble she brings home with her brains. And now you and Denis think you have the right to plan our budget? You decided to steal our money by tricking me into signing a fake paper?!”
“Steal?! How dare you talk to your mother that way?!” Tamara Ilyinichna clutched her heart. It was a familiar gesture, one she had always used when Kirill was a boy to make him feel guilty.
But now, she wasn’t facing a scared little boy. She was facing a grown man who had just realized that his own mother had tried to financially destroy his family.
“Gather your papers,” Kirill swept the documents off the table, crumpled them into a messy ball and threw them toward his mother-in-law. The papers scattered across the floor. “And get out of my house.”
“Kirill!” Tamara Ilyinichna gasped.
“Out, I said!” he barked so forcefully, the glass in the kitchen trembled. “And tell Denis: if he comes at us again with his business ideas, I’ll throw him down the stairs. You are not family to me anymore. Family doesn’t try to trick their own into three million rubles of debt.”
Tamara Ilyinichna realized she’d lost. She frantically bent down, stuffed the crumpled papers into her bag, shot Polina a look full of hatred, and marched to the hallway. The sound of the front door slamming echoed like a cannon shot.
A heavy silence settled in the kitchen. Kirill sat with his head resting on his folded arms, his shoulders shaking slightly.
Polina came over to him, hugged him from behind, resting her cheek against his prickly face.
“I’m sorry, Polina,” he said in a muffled voice. “I’m sorry I brought all this into our lives. I really could have signed it without looking. I was just so used to trusting her…”
“It’s over now, Kir,” Polina answered softly, stroking his hair. “The picture is clear. Now we truly know who is who. Go wash your hands, I’ll pour you some solyanka. You need to eat.”
Five months have passed. Deep autumn has arrived.
Polina and Kirill’s apartment was filled with the scent of fresh paint and new furniture. They had just finished a stunning renovation of their bathroom and hallway, paying for everything with their savings. Polina sat at a brand-new desk, which Kirill had custom-made just for her so her back wouldn’t hurt. She was working on a concept design for a major online store, and everything was going smoothly.
Life without the constant visits and manipulations from Tamara Ilyinichna had turned out to be surprisingly peaceful.
Bits and pieces of news trickled in from distant relatives. Denis never ended up opening his virtual arena. Instead, he took out a shady microloan to buy an expensive phone, and now Tamara Ilyinichna was repaying his debt from her pension, cutting back on groceries. Kirill’s mother had called him several times, crying on the phone and complaining about the high prices at the pharmacy and the ingratitude of her younger son.
But the old tricks didn’t work anymore. Kirill now calmly sent her a strictly fixed, small amount each month—what he referred to as alimony for supporting his elderly mother. But he didn’t invite her over or let her in. Their trust was completely broken.
Polina saved her file, closed her graphic editor, and stretched in her chair. Outside, a cold November rain was falling. The key turned in the lock—Kirill was home from work.
Polina stepped into their newly renovated, bright hallway. Her husband was pulling off his soaked jacket, but his face was glowing with happiness.
“Guess what—they brought in the German Shepherd we operated on a month ago! She’s walking on all four legs, not even limping!” Kirill said excitedly as he hugged his wife from the doorway.
“You’re my hero,” Polina smiled. “And I just finished a huge project. They promised me a bonus. You know what that means?”
“Are we going on a beach vacation?” Kirill asked hopefully.
“Exactly. We’ll sit on the beach, drink cocktails, and do absolutely nothing.”
Polina looked at her husband and realized the most important thing: it doesn’t matter where you work—in an operating room, at a factory, or at your home computer in sweatpants. Real work is measured by its results and by honesty. And a real family is made up of those who protect your efforts, not those who try to take the fruits away. Now, only real things existed in their home.