— Are you leaving garbage in the hallway again? — Artem stood in his coat, with a bag in his hand. — I’ve been at work all day, then I went to the store, and now I still have to clean up your mess?
— The bin was full, I tied it up and put the bag there. Then I was with Sanya, he had a fever… — Olya adjusted the elastic on her sleeve and sighed tiredly. — I didn’t have time.
— You never have time. It’s been years now. Three kids, right? But you can at least try to think sometimes.
— I think. It’s just that some people don’t want to notice.
— Oh, sure. You’re busy. Mashed potatoes, pots, kindergarten, school… That’s so hard. But I don’t get tired, huh?
— I’m not saying you don’t get tired, — she spoke softly, calmly. — It’s just… maybe you don’t understand what it’s like to not sleep properly for a year. And then still smile in the morning.
— You chose this. You wanted to stay at home. You dreamed about having kids.
— And so?
— Well. You wanted it, so now you have it. I can’t do this anymore.
— What do you mean, “can’t do this”?
— Everything. I’m leaving.
— Are you joking?
— No, Olya. I’m serious. I rented an apartment, tomorrow I’ll move the rest of my things. That’s it. We’re adults, let’s not make a scene. I want to start living normally.
— And what was this, then? Not life?
— This… is some kind of swamp. I’m tired. You’re tired. It’s over. We need to get out of here.
— And the kids?
— I’m not leaving because of the kids. I’m leaving because of… this. From the constant tiredness, from the whining, maybe from myself. I don’t know. I just can’t do this anymore.
Olya was silent for a long time. A child’s cough sounded in the room.
— You’re leaving three kids because you’re bored?
— Don’t twist it. I love them. I’ll visit, pay child support. Everything as it should be.
— Child support? Are you serious?
— What do you expect? I’m not a millionaire. But I’ll do what’s needed. But we’ll live separately now.
— Live separately… — she repeated, as if testing the taste of a new word. — And you think that’s easy? Me, alone with three kids?
— Millions live like that. You’ll manage. You’re a strong woman.
— Artem…
— That’s it, Olya. I’m leaving. I don’t want a scene. The faster, the easier. For everyone.
He left. Just turned around and walked out. No tears. No hugs with the kids. No looking back.
After the door closed behind him, Olya didn’t cry. She went to the kitchen and took out a pot to cook pasta. The oldest, Ilya, was standing in the doorway.
— Mom, did dad leave?
— He left.
— Is he coming back?
— I don’t know, Ilyush. Not for now.
— Why?
— Because sometimes adults do stupid things. Even when they think they’re doing the right thing.
— Does he not love us anymore?
— He loves us. But that doesn’t mean he knows how to be with us. It’s hard to explain.
— I don’t want him to leave.
— I don’t want that either. But he left.
The middle one, Katya, ran into the room barefoot.
— Will dad come soon?
— Not soon.
— Why?
— Because he decided to live alone.
— Can I live with him?
Olya covered her face with her hand. Then she gathered herself.
— No, honey. For now, you’re staying with us. At home. We have your toothbrush and your teddy bear here.
Sanka coughed. She went to him, tucked him under the blanket, and checked his forehead.
— He’s running a fever. — Ilya peered from behind. — Will you give him syrup?
— I’ll give it. Please bring the strawberry syrup from the kitchen table.
While the kids ate pasta and argued about who the strongest character in the cartoon was, Olya looked out the window. The snow fell quietly, lazily. Tomorrow will be hard. But yesterday was hard too. And the day before.
The next day, her mom came. She brought soup and socks.
— Why didn’t you tell me yesterday? — she looked at her sternly.
— Tell you what? That I was left?
— He didn’t leave. He just ran away like a puppy.
— Don’t, Mom.
— And what? Are you going to stay silent? You’ve put up with all this. You cooked, he ate. He frowned, you stayed silent. And now he’s a free man, and you’re a single mother?
— Looks like it.
— What are you going to do?
— Live. Work. Maybe I’ll rent out a room; we don’t need much space. I’ll find a remote job. Sasha’s going on maternity leave, so there’s an opening. I’ll try.
— You haven’t worked since you gave birth to Katya.
— Now I have to.
Her mother came up and hugged her. Tightly.
A week later, a girl named Marina appeared in the house. Young, with a green backpack. She rented a room from Olya. She was studying at the pedagogical university and worked as a tutor.
— Do you need help with Sanya? I’m good with little ones. I even worked at a camp.
— If you want, go ahead. I won’t refuse.
Marina put the youngest to bed, played lotto with Katya, and brought bread on her way. For the first time in a long while, Olya went to the store alone, took a shower, and even drank coffee at the table without hearing the kids shout, “Mom, he pushed me!”
One evening, the phone rang.
— Hello?
— Hi.
— Who’s this?
— Artem.
Silence.
— I just wanted to check how you’re doing. How the kids are.
— We’re managing. Thanks for asking.
— Can I call them?
— You can. Just not at night, like last time. They were already asleep.
— Okay. Sorry.
— Goodbye, Artem.
Olya hung up. Katya came up, pulling at her sleeve.
— Mom, can I go to ballet? A girl in our class goes.
— We’ll see, honey. If we can, we definitely will.
— Wait. I’ll change Sanka now, and then we’ll see.
In the box were toys, soft blankets, and a set of chocolates with a note:
‘To my beloved children. I miss you. Dad.’
Olya sighed. There was nothing particularly bad, but it felt a bit sticky, as if he was trying to buy his way out.
After lunch, she put the youngest to bed, sat Katya down to draw, and, while it was quiet, sat down at the laptop.
Remote work—proofreading texts, simple translations. A friend suggested a couple of jobs.
— A hundred rubles per thousand characters. Not much. But at least something. — she muttered to herself.
A knock on the door. Marina, in a coat with a shopping bag.
— Hi. I’m going to the store, they had eggs on sale — should I get some for you? I still have bonus points left.
— Sure, thank you so much.
— I’ll go to the pharmacy later, maybe Sanka needs something?
— Not yet. The fever’s gone down. He slept almost peacefully last night.
— Well, that’s good. — Marina left.
— Of course.
When the girl left, Katya looked at her mom with a serious face.
— Mom, is Marina like a nanny?
— No. She lives with us and just helps.
— I like her.
— Me too. She’s kind.
A couple of days later, her friend Sasha called.
— So, how’s it going?
— Well. Working a little. Getting tired. The kids are fighting.
— You’re a hero. And you know what? They’re looking for an editor in my office. It’s not full-time, you can do two hours a day remotely. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s steady.
— Where is it?
— The same place as me. I’m leaving, so the position is open. Write a resume. But be honest: three kids, freelance, stress resistance — write it all.
— I’ll write it. Thanks.
— Oh, and… Artem was at the bar. With the guys. He didn’t look great. He was drinking beer and complaining.
— About what?
— About loneliness. About how everything at home was annoying, but now it seems like no one needs him. He said he remembers Katya in his sleep.
— Interesting, he remembered he has kids. What a miracle.
— Olya, are you angry?
— I don’t know anymore. Sometimes I get angry. Sometimes I don’t care. Sometimes I think: it’s good he left.
Artem did start writing more often. Sometimes it was just “How are you?” sometimes he asked for pictures of the kids, sometimes he complained about work.
Olya answered briefly, without hostility, but also without warmth.
One evening he called.
— Can we talk? Not to argue. Just… talk.
— Go ahead.
— How are you?
— Tired. Sanka has a runny nose. Katya tore her hat. Ilya got a C on his dictation. Other than that — nothing.
— Maybe I can help with something?
— Like what?
— Well, I don’t know. I could come, take the kids for the day so you can rest.
— You think they’ll run to you? After you left?
— I just want… to be around. Not all the time. Sometimes.
— Try. On Sunday. Only if they agree.
On Sunday he came. The first time in two months. He looked at Ilya shyly, as though he was facing a stranger’s teenager. He lifted Katya and she laughed. He was afraid to pick up Sanka, but Sanka reached for him. He took them to the park, then to the pizzeria.
When they came back, Olya opened the door and asked:
— How was it?
— Fine. I bought them a toy each. But… Ilya barely spoke.
— Well, that’s natural. He’s upset.
— I understand.
— Understanding and feeling are different things.
— I’m working on it.
He stood there for a while, then went to the door. He turned around at the threshold.
— You look good.
— It’s because I don’t cry in the bathroom anymore.
That night Olya lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The kids were asleep. Her back hurt, but inside there was a strange feeling — as if she had made it through. Not won, not become a strong woman in fashionable boots, but just… stayed in place and didn’t break.
A message from Artem:
“Thank you for letting me meet the kids. I really miss them.”
She didn’t reply.
— Mom, I have reading class tomorrow at kindergarten! — Katya jumped up and down, holding a worn-out book with a huge bunny on the cover.
— Great. We’ll practice tonight, after dinner.
— What’s for dinner?
— Buckwheat and chicken cutlets.
— Again? — Ilya sighed without lifting his head from the tablet.
— Not again, but once more. Money doesn’t fall from the sky.
— And if dad lived with us, would it fall?
— No, Ilyush. Then there’d just be someone to take out the trash.
— Mom, is that a joke?
— Well… almost.
Olya was frying cutlets, Katya was drawing a crocodile at the table, which had seven legs. The house smelled of fried onions and something cozy, like an old blanket.
Marina returned from university with a bag in her hands.
— I stopped by the store. There were cream on sale. Will you need them?
— Marinka, really, you don’t have to…
— I live here, after all. And cream is an investment in my morning mood.
Olya smiled:
— You’ve convinced me.
In the evening, they sat at the table, eating. Sanka was smearing buckwheat across his chair, Ilya was trying to talk with his mouth full, and Katya was reading aloud:
— “And then the rabbit said: ‘I’m not afraid of the wolf or the fox, because I have… friends!’” — She looked triumphantly at her mom.
— Well done. Expressively.
— Can I wear the dress tomorrow?
— The blue one? It’s in the wash.
— Please, I’ll wash it myself!
— Alright. Just don’t forget to take the locket off. Remember, it got stuck in the machine last time.
Later, when the kids fell asleep, Olya sat in the room, turned on the laptop, and started editing another text. It was boring, but peaceful. She didn’t feel happy — but she felt like herself. Whole. New.
The phone vibrated.
Artem:
“Can I call? Two minutes.”
She thought for a moment, then replied briefly:
“Call.”
— Hi.
— Hi.
— I just wanted… to ask how your day went.
— Like usual. Work, kids, buckwheat, bunnies. And you?
— Well… I think I’m going crazy. You know, I come to the apartment — and it’s quiet. The kettle’s boiling — and no one needs it. No one calls. No one asks to watch a cartoon. It even annoys me that no one’s annoying.
— Well, that’s what you wanted.
— Yeah. But not like this.
— Artem, you didn’t just leave the apartment. You left the lives of three kids.
— I didn’t think it would be like this.
— And I didn’t think I’d manage. But here I am — the buckwheat didn’t burn, the kids are reading, I’m working. See, it didn’t fall apart.
— I’m proud of you. Really.
— Proud? Now? That’s… don’t.
He was silent.
— You’ve become beautiful. You smile. You speak calmly. I watched you that day, when you came to pick up the kids — you were glowing.
— I’m just getting more than three hours of sleep a night. And I don’t listen to “you’re doing nothing.”
— I was a fool.
— Were?
He sighed. Then said quietly:
— Can I come over on the weekend? Just to be near. Help. No conditions.
— Come over. But no “heroic returns.” Just as a guest. With the kids.
On Saturday, Artem came with a bag of groceries.
— I bought cookies, tea, fruit. And… here’s a new toy for Sanka. I hope I didn’t overdo it.
— Put it on the table. We’ll have lunch soon.
Katya rushed over first.
— Dad, are you staying long?
— For now — just today.
— Can I show you how I read? Mom says I’m like an actress.
— Of course, show me.
At lunch, he served the plates, swept up crumbs, and even washed the dishes himself. Olya watched from the side. Without anger, without hope. Just calmly.
After lunch, they all played a board game. Ilya was silent but peeked at the rules, Sanka laughed when a piece fell off the table.
At some point, Olya caught herself thinking — she was smiling. Just like that. Without tension. Without expectations.
In the evening, at the door, Artem said:
— Thank you for letting me in. I really missed you.
— No words. Just do.
— Can I come again? Next weekend?
— We’ll see how the kids want. I won’t force them.
— I understand. I really want to be in their lives. And… in yours too. Someday. If you allow it.
— Not yet. We have our own rules here. And they work.
That night, already in bed, she lay with the phone in her hands. Not writing. Just looking at the pictures: Sanka with the toy, Katya with the book, Ilya, frowning, but nearby.
A new life wasn’t heroic, wasn’t movie-like. But it was real. And there was room for both exhaustion and joy in it.
And she no longer waited for someone to come and save her. She had already saved herself.
— Mom, will dad live with us? — Katya looked from the kitchen, standing in the doorway, hugging her teddy bear.
Olya wiped her hands on the towel.
— I don’t know, Katya. He comes, helps. But living… that’s not so simple.
— Do you love him?
— Now that’s really not simple.
Katya nodded and went into the kids’ room. Sanka was jumping on the pillows, Ilya was reading. Everything seemed the same, but something hung in the air.
Olya sat on a stool.
At that moment, a message came.
Artem:
“Can we talk? Today. Not about the kids. About us.”
Olya:
“Alright. After nine. When I put them to bed.”
In the evening, they sat in the kitchen. Without the kids, without shouting, without rushing.
Artem held a cup in his hands. Didn’t drink.
— I don’t know where to start.
— Start with the truth.
— I lost you. All of you. Not because of you. Not because of the kids. But because I thought freedom meant a separate apartment and no toys on the floor. But it turns out, freedom is when you come home, and someone’s waiting for you.
— You didn’t come. You slammed the door and left. Didn’t say a word to the kids. Not to me either.
— I was a coward.
— Were?
— Am. But I’m trying to change. I don’t want to pretend to be a hero anymore. I’m not a hero. I made a mistake. I was scared. Now I just want to be with you. If I can. Slowly.
— You want to come back?
— I want to be around. I want to make dinner, even if it’s bad. I want to clean the floors on weekends. Not out of guilt, not because “it’s necessary,” but because I realized — without it, I’m empty.
— You can’t just come back and live like before.
— I don’t want to live like before. I want something different. Better. With you — if you give me a chance.
Olya looked at him for a long time. Not as a husband. As someone who had been silent for a long time, and now for the first time, was speaking honestly.
— I don’t forgive you. Not now. Maybe never.
— I understand.
— But I see that the kids need you. Even Ilya, though he’s sulking, still waits.
— I know.
— So… live with us. For now — in the room where Marina stayed. She’s moving out in a week, they finally gave her a room in the dorm.
— Really?
— Not as a husband. As a father. As a helper. Without the right to lecture or decide who’s in charge.
— Of course.
— And remember: here, it’s different now. I’m not your shadow. Not your staff. We’re family, but not on autopilot. We’ll be together only if it’s really together, not “by habit.”
He stood up, approached her.
— Can I hug you?
— You can.
He hugged her gently. Not tightly. Not with demands. Just like that — as if he were afraid she would disappear again.
Marina was leaving for the dorm.
— You hang in there, — she said, hugging Olya. — You’re awesome. And your family is real.
— Thank you, Marinka. We wouldn’t have made it without you.
— But now you’re doing it all yourselves.
They were learning to live again. Without old grudges, but with new rules.
Olya went for her evening run — and no one said, “There’s too much to do at home.”
Artem cleaned up the toys, washed the floors, signed Katya up for ballet. He didn’t become different — but he started trying.
Sometimes they laughed together. Sometimes they argued. But now it was not wars, but conversations.
One evening, sitting at the table, Ilya suddenly said:
— Dad, are you going to leave again?
Artem looked at him seriously.
— No, son. I won’t leave. Even if there’s buckwheat and shouting again.
Katya giggled. Sanka smeared jam across his cheek.
Olya watched them. It wasn’t a fairy tale. Not new love. Not magical forgiveness.
It was work. Patience. And a conscious choice.
To live together.
Not because “it’s necessary.” But because — “it’s what we want.”