Your mother is just an ordinary village woman, but mine is a real lady!” Anton sneered dryly, casting a contemptuous glance at his mother-in-law, who was standing by the festive table holding a plate.
Svetlana turned pale. A heavy silence fell over the room — even the background music seemed too loud compared to that phrase. Her mother blinked, pressed her lips slightly, but didn’t say a word. She just adjusted her apron and continued laying out napkins as if she hadn’t heard anything.
“Anton!” Svetlana whispered through clenched teeth. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
“What did I say wrong?” he shrugged. “Isn’t it true? Look at her: a dress from the Soviet-era wardrobe, a hairstyle like a kolkhoz woman, manners… Don’t you see the difference between her and yourself?”
Svetlana felt a boil of anger inside. Rage rose to her throat, her heart pounded fast and painfully. It wasn’t the first time, but today — in front of guests, on her fortieth birthday.
“You know, Anton,” she slowly approached her husband, speaking almost in a whisper, “my ‘village’ mother raised me alone, worked herself to exhaustion so I could study. She is a real person, with honor and dignity. And you… you’re just a man in an expensive suit with a cheap soul.”
The guests whispered among themselves. Anton flushed crimson, wanted to argue, but Svetlana had already turned away.
“Mom,” she addressed her mother-in-law, “let’s have the cake. I’ve decided today is not just my birthday. Today I realized who truly matters to me.”
With approving applause from the guests, the cake was brought into the room. Anton, without saying goodbye, put on his coat and left, leaving a bouquet of white roses on the dresser in the hallway.
After he left, the celebration unexpectedly came to life. People relaxed, laughter became natural, and for the first time in many years, Svetlana felt free. She danced with her son, laughed with her mother, hugged her relatives. No more pretending was needed.
Late at night, after the guests had left, she stayed alone with her mother in the kitchen, drinking tea.
“Sorry, Mom… I endured for so long because I was afraid to be alone.”
“Svetochka, it’s better to be alone than with someone who humiliates you every day,” her mother took her hand.
Svetlana started to cry. But not from pain — from liberation. Her life could be different.
A month passed.
Anton never called again. Svetlana filed for divorce, and he didn’t resist. He only sent one message:
“You brought this on yourself. Good luck with your ‘mama’s girl.’”
She calmly changed her phone number.
A new chapter began. Mornings started with yoga, days with work, evenings with a book and silence. No tantrums, no mockery, no constant fear of doing something wrong.
One day, Ivan — a colleague from the marketing department — approached her.
“Listen, Sveta, can I invite you for coffee? It’s just… you’ve started glowing from the inside. I’d like to know the secret.”
She smiled.
“Try to guess.”
Ivan and Svetlana started dating. He was attentive, kind-hearted. They went to the movies, walked, brewed coffee in the mornings, and laughed at the silliest things.
Then one Saturday, while they were choosing shelves in a store, a message arrived.
From Anton:
“I need to talk to you. Very urgently. I’ll stop by tonight.”
Svetlana froze after reading it.
“That’s him,” she said quietly.
Ivan’s hand rested on her shoulder.
“Want me to be there with you?”
“No. This is my business. My relationship. My mistakes. I have to close this chapter myself.”
In the evening, the doorbell rang. Anton stood on the threshold — neatly shaved, wearing an expensive coat, holding a bouquet of roses, and wearing an old, familiar half-smile.
“You look good,” he began.
“And you, as always, come with flowers when you want to make amends. What do you want?”
Anton entered without invitation, looked around the apartment: new curtains, soft lighting, warmth. No trace of the old life.
“I changed my mind… I was wrong. We can start over. Now I value you.”
Svetlana stood before him, calm and confident.
“Anton, you don’t miss me. You miss the woman who was silent and endured. But I’m not that woman anymore.”
“So, that’s it?”
“That’s it. Thanks to you, I’ve learned to value myself. And that’s the best gift you ever gave me.”
She saw him out to the door. The bouquet stayed on the windowsill. A minute later, the roses were in the trash bin.
Svetlana texted Ivan:
“Come over. I’ll make you coffee.”
Anton did not leave quietly.
First — silence. Then — strange coincidences: Svetlana’s car ignition lock broken, calls from unknown numbers, a sudden letter from a strange company: “We are reviewing your resume,” although she had sent nothing.
One evening Ivan appeared at her door. On his face — a fresh bruise.
“Someone hit me in the yard. Just like that. From behind. Svet… I think it’s not an accident.”
Svetlana paled. Inside, everything tightened.
“It’s Anton. Only he could do that.”
They went to the police. Filed a report, got a warning, obtained a restraining order. But Anton was cunning — there was no evidence. Not a single piece.
A week later, Svetlana noticed she was being followed. A gray car appeared near her work, then near the store. The same man in a gray jacket — always nearby, but never a word.
Ivan started staying over. Constantly.
“I thought you were exaggerating. Now I understand: he’s not right in the head. He can’t accept defeat.”
Svetlana squeezed his hand:
“I won’t go back. I’m not afraid of him anymore. I’m different now. We’re together.”
Meanwhile, Anton sat alone in his apartment, scrolling through photos of Svetlana. Photos with Ivan. Stories from a cafe, bike rides, both laughing under the sun.
He drank, mumbling into the void:
“You think this is the end? You’re mine. Always have been. And no one will have you but me.”
His finger pressed a button. An old video started playing — a secret clip where Svetlana cries in the bathroom after an argument. He kept it as a trump card. Now — a threat of public humiliation.
Svetlana looked at her phone. Opened the app. Watched the humiliating video. And instead of fear — she felt rage.
“Playtime’s over, Anton.”
The next day she went to a lawyer. She had a plan.
In the lawyer’s office, she sat quietly but held her back straight. The tremor remained, but no longer from fear — from inner tension, from determination.
“You said we have grounds?” she asked.
The lawyer nodded:
“You have video evidence, threats, Ivan’s testimony, a suspicious chain of events. Separately — coincidences. Together — a serious case. We can file charges under several articles: stalking, blackmail, invasion of privacy.”
Svetlana nodded:
“Let’s do it. I want him to never humiliate anyone again.”
While the lawyer prepared the documents, Svetlana took her next step. She recorded a video. Right in the kitchen, holding a cup of hot tea.
“My name is Svetlana. I married a man who humiliated me for years. I was silent. I was afraid. But today I speak out loud. I left. And now I won’t let him destroy my new life. No woman should endure fear. No one should feel like someone else’s property.”
She posted the video on social media. Within a day it gained hundreds of thousands of views. Women wrote: “I’ve been through this too.” Shares, interviews, media coverage. Svetlana became the voice for those who had been silent until now.
Her name became linked with a new campaign to protect women from psychological and physical abuse.
Anton was distraught. Called his lawyer, yelling into the phone:
“I didn’t do anything! I just let her know I could! It’s not a crime!”
The lawyer sighed:
“You left a digital trail. And now you’ll have to answer for it.”
A week later Svetlana was summoned to court. Police launched a criminal case on her complaint. Charges: systematic stalking, blackmail, violation of privacy.
At the trial Anton tried to keep composure. But his voice trembled.
“I just wanted to save the family… I love her…”
Svetlana stood up. The room fell silent.
“I was never your property. I am a person. And I am free.”
The court found Anton guilty. The sentence — a suspended term and a restraining order against Svetlana. The public outcry only increased the pressure.
Svetlana and Ivan flew south. To a small house by the sea, where the air smelled of salt, warmth, and new life.
On the veranda Svetlana watched the sunset, holding her beloved’s hand.
“You know,” she said quietly, “I went through hell. But now I’m home. In myself. And with someone who sees me, not controls me.”
Ivan kissed her temple:
“You didn’t just survive. You won.”