Marina adjusted the blanket over the sleeping Dima’s face and slowly climbed the stairs. The key turned with difficulty in the lock. The hallway was dim, with an unfamiliar woman’s jacket hanging on the coat rack and women’s boots on the floor. From the bedroom came muffled voices — her husband Denis’s voice and an unfamiliar woman’s.
“My marriage was a mistake,” Denis said irritably. “I was with Marina out of pity. Now it’s going to be different with you.”
The woman giggled — a high, broken sound, like a bird’s trill.
Marina slowly sat down on a chair in the hallway. Dima stirred, sensing his mother’s tension. At her feet was a bag with baby things — shirts, diapers, tiny socks. Six days ago she had given birth to a child, and today she returned to a stranger’s home.
Three years ago, life had seemed completely different. The school where she taught Russian had become her second home. It was there she met Denis three years ago — he had come to teach math and lead preparation courses for the Unified State Exam. Tall, with attentive eyes, he always carried a book. “I read on the subway,” he explained, and it seemed so right.
She couldn’t take her eyes off his — attentive eyes with little wrinkles at the corners. Everyone in the teachers’ lounge immediately noticed their attraction. Lilya, the history teacher and her best friend, teased:
“Our new math teacher is checking you out!” Marina blushed, feeling shy. She had always been a “good girl.” After her parents’ divorce, her grandmother raised her with strictness and respect for traditions. “The most important thing for a woman is family,” she repeated. And Marina believed. So sincerely that even at thirty-two, her dreams were simple: a little house, a husband, a child.
Denis courted her beautifully. He picked her up after work, brought coffee during breaks, read Brodsky’s poems to her. At their first kiss under the school streetlight, she felt — this was the very happiness she had dreamed of. “You’re special,” he said. And she believed.
“Marry me,” he said six months later, offering a simple gold ring. “I know we’ll be happy.” The wedding was modest, at a café near the park. They rented a small apartment. A tiny kitchen where they drank tea in the evenings, a couch where they fell asleep holding each other, shelves with their shared books — Marina felt like nothing else was needed for happiness.
When the pregnancy test showed two lines, she couldn’t wait for the evening to tell her husband. Denis spun her around the room, gently laid her on the couch:
“Now you’re the main treasure,” he said seriously, stroking her belly. “Our champion must grow up in peace.”
But a week later, he started insisting:
“Quit your job. You need to focus on yourself. I’ll provide for everything.”
Marina hesitated. A teacher’s salary was small but gave stability and independence. But Denis was adamant. “I’m a man, I must take care of you,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.
And she believed. She wrote her resignation, cleared her desk in the teachers’ lounge, said goodbye to colleagues. Director Valentina Sergeevna just shook her head: “The door is always open if you change your mind.”
The first months of pregnancy felt like a fairy tale. Denis came home with bags of fruit, massaged her tired feet, kissed her growing belly. He called their future son “our champion,” made plans. Marina melted with happiness and didn’t notice how every day she depended more on her husband — financially, emotionally, completely.
At the seventh month, everything began to change. At first subtly, then increasingly obvious. Denis started staying late at work.
“You need to rest more,” Denis kissed Marina on the forehead and adjusted the pillow behind her back. “I bought peaches, your favorite.”
“You’re late today,” Marina rubbed her huge belly. “The baby already went to sleep, didn’t wait for daddy.”
“Olympiad kids,” sighed Denis, arranging fruit in a bowl. “Regional round is coming up. The principal asked to help the laggards.”
Marina nodded. The seventh month was hard — swelling, back pain, constant fatigue. Days dragged slowly in the empty apartment. TV, books, social media, cooking — that was her whole world now.
At first, she didn’t notice the changes. So what if he didn’t kiss her in the morning, didn’t ask how she felt, forgot to buy milk… Fatigue, work, stress — it happens to everyone. She tried to be the perfect wife — cooked his favorite dishes, complained less about morning sickness, smiled more.
But when coming home late — sometimes past ten p.m. — became the norm, something inside her warned.
“Maybe I should come to your work?” Marina suggested at breakfast. “I miss the school.”
Denis choked on his coffee:
“Why? You can’t overexert yourself. And the subway, the crowd… No, Marina, don’t even think about it.”
She remembered that evening in minute detail. Denis went to the shower, leaving his laptop on the kitchen table. The screen blinked — a message arrived. Marina glanced at the notification out of habit. Inna: “I miss you, my dear.”
Something inside broke. Her hands trembled as she opened the chat. Hundreds of messages, photos, hearts. “Sweet dreams, my dear,” “Tomorrow same time?” “Miss you to the point of shaking.” And photos — a young woman with long red hair. “You are my light,” Denis wrote. “I have never been so happy,” he admitted. “Soon we will be together,” he promised.
The bathwater was still running. Marina closed the laptop and walked to the window. Inside her, something seemed to shatter — into tiny, prickly shards piercing her heart with every breath.
She said nothing to Denis. Not that evening, not the next day. She had no strength for a scandal or to leave. Where to go with a huge belly? What money to live on? What would people say? She felt trapped — helpless and dependent.
She kept silent. Pretended nothing was happening. Cooked dinners, washed shirts, kissed him goodnight. Then the contractions began — two weeks early.
Dima was born strong and healthy. Marina looked at his tiny face and felt something change inside her. As if with the child, a new Marina was born — one who would no longer tolerate lies.
On the day of discharge, she waited for her husband all morning. The nurse had already finished the paperwork when a message arrived: “Urgently called to the college. Can’t come. Take a taxi or find someone.” No apologies, no explanations.
Marina called her friend Lilya. She arrived within the hour, with balloons and a toy for Dima.
“Is everything okay?” Lilya asked, packing Marina’s things into her old Lada.
“Everything’s fine,” Marina lied, looking out the window. “Denis is just busy today.”
Lilya’s apartment was small but cozy. Lilya gave Marina and Dima the living room sofa, taking the fold-out bed in the kitchen herself.
“Maybe you should call him?” Lilya asked while helping make the bed with clean sheets. “He’s probably worried.”
“I doubt it,” Marina carefully laid sleeping Dima in a makeshift cradle made from a large basket. “But yes, it’s time to move on.”
The next day she packed baby things, folded diapers and shirts into a bag, and a strange calm took hold of her. As if everything was happening not to her, but to someone else. Dima, as if sensing his mother’s mood, slept quietly, occasionally smacking his lips in sleep.
“I’ll give you a ride,” Lilya insisted.
When they arrived at the building, Marina suddenly asked:
“Don’t see me off. I’ll manage on my own.”
The entrance smelled of familiar dampness and cabbage from the first-floor apartment. Marina slowly climbed the stairs with the baby. Opening the door, she entered and immediately heard muffled voices from the bedroom.
“Denis?” Marina called, shifting awkwardly with the bag and child in her arms.
Her husband came out, buttoning his shirt. His face was irritated, his gaze sliding past her.
“Marina, you understand, I have a different life now. I can’t drag you and your son along!” Denis said without looking at her. “I need to think about myself.”
Her heart tightened into a lump. The air suddenly thickened, impenetrable. “Your son,” echoed in her mind. Not long ago, Denis said “our champion,” and today — “your son.”
From the room came a woman’s voice: “Honey, who’s there?”
Marina did not shout. Did not make a scene. Now it was absolutely clear. Her husband had another woman. And neither she nor the child was needed.
She simply quietly left the apartment, gently closing the door behind her. A stranger’s life. Strange people. Strange pain.
Dima woke and whimpered. Marina pressed him to her chest.
“It’s okay, baby,” she whispered, barely believing her own words. “It’s going to be okay.”
Lilya’s sofa creaked with every movement. Marina lay looking at the ceiling, listening to her son’s steady breathing. In the morning she woke up a different person.
“I’m filing for divorce,” she said at breakfast, spreading butter on bread. Her voice did not falter.
Lilya set down her cup:
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. And I’m going back to work.”
That same day, Marina filled out the court application, visited child services, found a lawyer’s contacts. Action gave her strength. Every step was like a brick in a house being rebuilt.
Then she called the school principal and arranged a meeting.
“Marina Sergeevna!” the school principal Valentina Sergeevna greeted her with open arms. “We need you so much! I just have a half-time position and sixth-grade classes.” Lilya helped find a nanny — her aunt, recently retired and adored children.
Valentina Sergeevna, learning of Marina’s situation, expedited the paperwork for a service apartment on the first floor of the school dormitory. Now she had her own registration and housing from work — small but her own. Marina wiped windows, arranged the few belongings while Dima slept in the stroller.
“For us, the most important thing is stability and independence,” she whispered, hanging diapers.
Denis didn’t show up at the divorce hearing. Of course he didn’t. Divorce, responsibility, a son — too mundane for him.
He sent a lawyer who monotonously explained that “his client does not deny obligations but is in difficult circumstances.” The judge — a middle-aged woman with a tired face — monotonously read the decision:
“Considering the defendant’s absence… in accordance with article… dissolve the marriage… order alimony of one quarter…” The alimony was arranged, but Marina did not count on it. In the evenings, after putting her son to bed, she sat at the laptop. At first writing guides for her students, then articles for pedagogical journals and educational websites: “Effective Methods for Preparing for the Literature Unified State Exam”… “A Systematic Approach to Studying Russian Poetry”… “Text Analysis: A Step-by-Step Algorithm”…
One day she tried recording a video lesson.
“You have talent,” Lilya said after watching the recording. “Try sending it to educational platforms.”
She was noticed — invited to host webinars, develop teaching materials for an online platform. The money came — small but steady.
The first webinar fee was small but earned by her. She spent it on a new crib for Dima. The second — on winter boots for herself. The third bought a colorful bedspread to hide the worn sofa. Then followed other orders — articles, video lessons, reviews of textbooks.
“Marina Sergeevna, can I ask a question?” Katya, an honor student from 9B, stayed after class. “I saw your lessons on ‘Znayka.’ It’s so cool! How do you manage everything?”
Marina smiled:
“When you know what you work for, you find both strength and time.”
In the evening, bathing Dima in a small tub, she caught her reflection in the mirror — a thinner face, but eyes alive and shining. Nothing like three months ago.
“You know, baby,” she whispered, kissing her son’s wet crown, “I think we’re managing.”
Two years passed. That morning started with the usual bustle. Marina packed Dima’s things while he focused on assembling his new puzzle.
“Mom, look, it’s a rocket!” the boy proudly held up a piece. “It’s going to fly to space!”
“It definitely will,” Marina kissed his head. “And now we’re going to Anna Petrovna’s kindergarten. Mom has an important day today.”
The teachers’ lounge smelled of fresh coffee and pastries. Open House Day was always a little celebration.
“Nervous?” Lilya adjusted Marina’s blouse collar. “They say a commission from the education department will come. They want to include your guide in the federal program.”
Marina smiled:
“Not anymore. I like sharing what I know.”
The classroom was full — parents, colleagues, methodologists. Marina gave a lesson on Silver Age poetry. Students raised their hands, argued, quoted poems. Her blog “Living Lesson” was now known by thousands of teachers across the country.
“What unites these poems?” Marina swept her gaze over the class and froze. Denis stood in the doorway. A worn jacket, a receding hairline, a folder with documents under his arm. Their eyes met, and time seemed to stop.
She finished the lesson mechanically. Applause, congratulations, handshakes — all in a fog. Denis waited in the corridor.
“You look good,” he said instead of greeting. “I saw your webinars. Impressive.”
“Thank you,” Marina crossed her arms. “What brings you here?”
He stepped closer:
“I want to see my son.”
Marina looked at her ex-husband. Memories flashed in her mind: empty apartment, lonely evenings, his mocking “my marriage was a mistake”…
“You know,” she looked him straight in the eyes, “Dima has a family. Me. And we’re doing well.”
“You can’t forbid me from seeing my son!” Denis raised his voice. “I have rights!”
“And Dima has the right to stability and love,” Marina replied calmly.
She turned and walked down the corridor. Her back was straight, her step confident.
“Marina!” Denis called after her.
She turned:
“I have to pick up my son from kindergarten. We’re going to the planetarium today.”
A week later, messages started arriving from Denis. At first demanding: “We need to talk,” “He’s my son.” Then pleading: “I didn’t realize what I was losing,” “Let’s start over.”
Marina silently deleted them without reading to the end. Only when a long message came saying Inna had left him (“that bitch said I’m not worth her”), she smirked and showed the phone to Lilya.
“Well, well,” her friend chuckled, “finally someone smarter than you.”
“Hey!” Marina playfully nudged her elbow. “I’m not stupid either. Just trusting.” In the evening, after another flood of messages from Denis, she took out the registry office certificate and sent him a photo: Dima’s birth certificate, where the “father” field was blank, and the surname was hers.
The phone rang a minute later. Marina calmly declined the call and put it on silent. Dima played with blocks on the carpet, scrunching his forehead amusingly from concentration.
“You know, son,” Marina sat down beside him, helping build a tower, “sometimes the best answer is silence.”
The laptop screen glowed on the table — an unfinished webinar for high school students, an application for a teaching contest, a letter from a publisher offering to write a textbook.
The small apartment was filled with evening sounds: the washing machine humming, water flowing through pipes, children’s voices from the playground outside the open window. Their new life — simple but real.
“We’ll manage, won’t we?” Marina asked her son.
Dima smiled happily and handed her a block.