Taissia turned off the engine but didn’t hurry to step out of the car. A fine, dust-like drizzle from an October evening blanketed the windshield. The wipers were at a standstill. She faced her usual ‘second shift’ ahead: reviewing work estimates, making dinner for three, loading the washing machine, and trying to get her seven-year-old Tyoma to sit down and do homework. She closed her eyes, massaging her temples, when the interior lit up with the cold glow from her phone screen.
A quick bank push notification. Minus 18,500 rubles.
Taissia blinked. The withdrawal went through on that very credit card that had been lying dormant for months in the bottom dresser drawer. This was their family emergency fund—the card left with her unemployed husband strictly for emergencies, like if their son spiked a fever at night, or a pipe burst while Taia was unreachable at a site.
The payment recipient left no doubt: ‘Genetica-Plus’ Clinic.
Taisiya typed the clinic’s name into her phone. Just three clicks, and she was at the “Price List” section. There at the very top, listed to the ruble, was the most popular service for that exact amount: “Informational DNA Paternity Test.”
The car fell silent. Only the steady rhythm of raindrops tapped on the roof. Taisiya stared at her screen, refusing to accept what she was seeing. Her husband, who had spent the last three years in a so-called “creative pursuit” without bringing a single ruble into their home, had just decided to check if he was truly the father. And, most importantly, he’d paid for it with her money.
Evgeny wasn’t your typical gigolo. He was an unrecognized genius. Back at the start of their marriage, he’d worked as an editor, full of ideas and passion. But then the industry hit a crisis, he argued with management, and Evgeny went off to “freelance.” That voyage kept dragging on. While Taisiya juggled the mortgage, paid for their son’s speech therapist, and kept the fridge full, Evgeny wrote screenplays for festival films that nobody wanted to buy.
His day started at eleven. He’d make himself a quality coffee, sit at his laptop, and sigh deeply, complaining about burnout and lack of inspiration. Household chores didn’t concern him. Caring about such things, to him, was bourgeois. Evgeny lived only for the realm of high art.
But this “art” came with its costs: subscriptions to foreign streaming services for “broadening his horizons,” paid masterclasses from screenwriting gurus, and an orthopedic chair for his aching back. And Taya paid for all of it.
Yet there was a shadowy figure behind this art. Evgeny’s mother, Natalia Petrovna.
Taisiya knew exactly where today’s withdrawal had originated. Her mother-in-law had a knack for poisoning the atmosphere bit by bit. She never started a fight openly. Her tactics were always more subtle.
Taya remembered vividly the year when Tyomka was conceived. It was when she was up for a promotion—crazy schedule, endless project meetings, late-night briefings, and two long business trips to Kazan with the CEO. Then, once Tyomka was born, the quiet, insinuating visits from her mother-in-law began.
Natalia Petrovna would lean over the crib, adjust her glasses, and say in her trademark sweet, syrupy tone:
“Zhenya, just look at the shape of that ear. And the cheekbones… There’s never been anyone in our family with features like that. We all have round faces.”
“Mom, he’ll grow out of it,” Zhenya would wave her off at the time.
“Of course he’ll grow out of it,” Natalia Petrovna would sigh, casting a meaningful glance at Taisiya, asleep after another exhausting night of feeding. “Your wife’s quite the career woman. Always off somewhere with the boss, staying late at the office… And you’re sitting at home, waiting for something. Trust, son, but verify. Life’s complicated.”
A seed of doubt had found fertile ground. For Zhenya, who’d spent three years living off his wife, this idea was all too appealing. It was easier to think of himself as a tragically deceived husband than just another couch potato with an empty bank account. He started looking for clues, hunting for anything suspicious. And apparently, today, the tension had reached its peak.
Taisiya got out of the car, slamming the door so hard the sound echoed off the apartment building’s concrete walls as she headed for the entrance.
The apartment smelled of dirty dishes and cold coffee. Tyomka was sitting on the living room carpet, glued to his tablet with cartoons blaring at full volume. The stovetop was completely empty. Evgeny was found in the kitchen, wearing huge headphones and intensely pressing buttons on his gamepad while staring at a monitor. Clearly, his film festival script was still stuck in the idea stage.
“Hi,” Taisia said as she took off her coat and tossed her keys onto the table.
Evgeny shifted one of his headphones off his ear.
“Oh, you’re home early. Look, we’re both hungry and delivery is taking forever. Can you whip up something quick?”
“I will,” she replied evenly. “But let me get Tyomka to bed first. It’s nine already.”
Forty minutes later, the apartment was quiet. The child was asleep. Taisia walked into the kitchen and switched on the kettle without a word.
Evgeny finally set his gamepad aside and stretched, his neck cracking.
“Tired? I had a tough day too. The plot just isn’t coming together, the main character’s arc is totally sagging…”
Taisia sat down across from him and pulled her phone out of her pocket. She turned the screen so her husband could see.
“What are these lab results, Zhenya?”
Evgeny glanced sideways at the screen. His face twitched for a second, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. He reflexively rubbed his neck.
“Oh… that. Yeah, I just wanted to check my stomach. The gastroenterologist ordered it.”
Helicobacter, that kind of stuff… The clinic didn’t offer the test, so I had to go to a private one.
“Genetika-Plus Clinic?” Taisia tilted her head slightly. “For eighteen and a half thousand? Did they check your stomach by DNA probe? That’s a paternity test, I’ve already checked. Don’t bother making up stories.”
A heavy, sticky silence filled the air. Evgeny realized he was cornered. And, like anyone without a backbone, he immediately switched from pathetic lies to aggressive defense. He straightened up, pressed his palms to the table, and raised his voice.
“Yes! Yes, I took that test!” he blurted out, his voice suddenly echoing painfully familiar, foreign, maternal tones. “Because he doesn’t look anything like me! My mother saw it from day one—he hasn’t got a single one of our features! And think back to that year, will you? Remember when you were chasing that promotion? You spent days in the office, traveling everywhere with your director! I have the right to know who I’m actually raising!”
He expected Taisia to blush, to swear that Tyomka was his son. That she would justify those business trips and try to prove her innocence. But Taisia stayed silent. She looked at him with a mix of disgust and curiosity.
“Who are you raising, Zhenya?” she finally said quietly, enunciating each word.
“What?”
“You said you have the right to know who you’re raising. Let me answer: you’re raising an 80th level elf on your game console. As for my son—I’m the one raising and supporting him.”
Evgeny opened his mouth to object, but Taya spoke first.
“Don’t interrupt me, just listen. You know what’s really funny about all this? Just three days ago, you threw a ridiculous fit because I refused to pay for yet another screenwriting course from some so-called ‘guru.’ Remember how you yelled? ‘You’re destroying my potential over a measly thirty thousand!’ You accused me of being small-minded and materialistic. And now, today, you grab my credit card—the one you even called our ‘rainy day’ fund—and blow nearly twenty thousand just to see if I was unfaithful while you slept in till noon.”
“I didn’t steal anything!” Evgeny shot back. “I’m your husband! I’m the head of this family!”
“Head of the family?” Taisia gave a short, humorless laugh. “Zhenya, a real head of the family actually provides for it. But all that mattered to you was digging up some dirt on me. And with the money you stole today for your little show, I was supposed to pay for Tyomka’s dentist appointment next week.”
Her words hit him right where it hurt, shattering that tough, wronged man persona he’d built up. But he couldn’t back down now.
“If you’re so worked up, it means you’ve got something to hide!” he snapped, leaning back in the chair. “Afraid of the truth? The results will be in next week and then we’ll see who starts pointing fingers! We’ll see who’s paying whom then!”
He folded his arms triumphantly across his chest. Checkmate. Surely, she’d break now.
Taisia didn’t flinch—she picked up her phone.
“What are you doing?” her husband frowned.
“Checking my accounts. Not to send you a bill—to close them.”
Her finger quickly scrolled across the screen.
“The credit card is blocked. You don’t have access to my money anymore. I’m changing the Wi-Fi password, too. And you’ll never know it.”
Evgeny stared in shock as she did all this. His bravado vanished instantly, replaced with pure confusion.
“Taya… what are you doing? Are you out of your mind? This is ridiculous!”
“Ridiculous, Zhenya,” Taisia stood up from the table, “is trying to buy yourself some manhood.”
She headed to the hallway and grabbed a large sports bag from the closet. Then she went to the living room, shut his laptop, pulled the plug, and carried it out with her. Next, his designer jacket went flying after it.
Evgeny rushed after her, nervously shifting from foot to foot. His voice broke into a panicky falsetto.
“Taya, stop this hysteria! I’m not going anywhere! This is my apartment too—we’re married!”
“The apartment was bought before the marriage, I’m paying the mortgage, and you’re not even officially living here,” Taisia cut him off coldly, tossing his sweaters into the bag. “Your share here is zero.”
“What are you doing in front of our child?! You have no right to take his father away just because of your pride!”
“Don’t worry about your son. You’re not losing him. As a father—go ahead, come see him, take him on weekends, go for walks, take him to the zoo, pay child support. No one will ever stop you from seeing Tyomka. But as a husband—you’re finished. You have two hours to pack your things. Call a taxi while your phone still has mobile data left. Say hi to your mom.”
Evgeny opened his mouth, ready to launch into another rant about jointly acquired property, but he met nothing but a cold, concrete wall in his wife’s eyes and fell silent. All his arrogance instantly vanished.
The next hour and a half passed in humiliating, fidgety silence. Taisia leaned against the hallway wall, silently overseeing the process while her husband, red-faced and huffing, stuffed his things, his orthopedic pillow, and—out of spite—even the half-finished packet of that very coffee from the shelf into his bags. He called a taxi while nervously cursing the slow internet—barely had enough mobile data left to load the app.
Two days before the lab results were due, Taisia got a call from Natalia Petrovna.
Taya happened to be stuck in a bumper-to-bumper traffic jam at that moment. Calmly, she put the call on speaker, expecting curses, blame, or the usual emotional manipulation about her grandson. But her mother-in-law came out swinging—with a thick, toxic kind of condescension.
“Hello, Taya,” crooned the syrupy, drawn-out voice on speaker. “Zhenya is sleeping. He’s so worn out these past days—nerves got the better of him… the poor boy has migraines.”
“Good afternoon, Natalia Petrovna. If you’re calling to ask for his favorite cheesecakes recipe, the internet is at your service.”
Her mother-in-law heaved a deliberately heavy sigh on the other end of the line.
“You’re so prickly, Taya. So harsh. That’s why there are problems in the family. I just wanted to have a heart-to-heart, as women do. Zhenya, of course, got carried away with this test. I told him: ‘Son, why take someone else’s money? Would’ve asked your mother instead.’ But you must understand… there’s no smoke without fire. He’s been tormented by it all. You’re a striking woman—successful, well-off, high position. Men naturally swarm around you. And he’s sensitive, a fragile soul. He needs reassurance.”
Taisia smirked as she glanced at the red brake lights of the car ahead.
“Guarantees, Natalia Petrovna, are for home appliances. In marriage, you need trust and brains. Your son managed to show neither.”
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that! If the test shows this child isn’t of our blood, we’ll drag you through court! You’ll pay us back for everything! Including moral damages and all the years my son spent raising another man’s child!”
“Wonderful,” Taisia replied coldly. “And if the test proves Tyomka is his son, will you reimburse me for three years of supporting your boy? Are we going to do this in court, or will you pay in cash?”
Natalia Petrovna gasped for air, unable to find words. Not waiting for an answer, Taisia ended the call.
A week went by.
Her husband’s call came through on Thursday, right during her lunch break. The screen read “Zhenya.” Taisia answered.
“Well, hello,” Evgeny’s voice sounded velvety, condescending, and openly triumphant. “An email just came in. From the clinic.”
“I’m listening,” Taya replied calmly.
“Ninety-nine point nine percent,” he announced with clear satisfaction. “Paternity confirmed.”
He paused dramatically, clearly expecting either a confession or tears of relief.
“Alright, Taya,” his tone suddenly took on the magnanimity of a ruler forgiving a foolish subject. “I get it, you lost your temper then. You were upset by my outburst. But we made it through that test. There’s still some resentment, of course, but I’m willing to let it go. For our son. I’ll come by this evening, and we’ll have a proper talk.”
Taisia took a sip of coffee and glanced out the window at the gray autumn city.
“There’s nothing to come back to, Zhenya,” her voice was steady, without a hint of emotion.
“What do you mean?” The triumph in his voice on the other end of the line instantly cracked. “Taya, stop it. The test proved everything!”
“The test confirmed you’re the biological father,” Taisia replied, enunciating every word. “That’s great, I never doubted that. But that test failed to prove you’re a real man.”
“Taya, I…”
“You can come see your son any day, even every day. I sent you Tyoma’s club schedule in the messenger,” she interrupted. “On Saturday, I’ll expect you to pick him up at ten in the morning. And I changed the locks, because I’m done supporting you. The belongings you didn’t manage to take, I’ll send by courier. You’ll pay on delivery.”
She hung up and locked the screen.
Can you buy masculine confidence in a lab? Maybe you can. But trying to pose as the tough head of the family, suspecting your wife of cheating, will always end in bankruptcy—both financial and moral—if you’re paying for it out of someone else’s pocket.
And if a man allows himself to doubt a woman who’s managing everything at home, he should at least have the guts to finance his own insecurities.
What would you do in this situation? Could you forgive your partner for such humiliating distrust if their suspicions turn out to be wrong? And is it worth saving a marriage ‘for the child,’ if behind your back your own money is spent on trying to catch you in a lie?
Continued in the comments.