— If you don’t take your son to his father tomorrow, I will throw both of you out of the house! I don’t want to deal with your snot and tears at night! Do you understand me?
The words struck Veronika like a slap, stinging her cheeks more painfully than a smack. She was sitting on the edge of their shared bed, her back to Stanislav, rocking the feverish, restless Kirill who was asleep. The three-year-old boy was breathing heavily, sweat covered his forehead, and from his chest came occasional plaintive, strained sobs — not a tantrum, but the agonizing cry of a sick child. The fever didn’t go down despite the medicine given an hour ago. Veronika felt with her hand how hot his little body was, and her own heart clenched with helplessness and anxiety. Behind her, on his half of the bed, her husband was tossing and turning, grinding his teeth.
She knew he wasn’t asleep. She heard his irritated snorting, sharp turns from side to side, demonstratively shaking the mattress. This had been going on for a good hour since Kirill’s temperature rose again and he began crying in his sleep. Stanislav was silent, but the air in the bedroom literally crackled with his restrained rage. Veronika instinctively tried to muffle the sounds, holding her son tighter, whispering some incoherent consolations in his ear, but the fever and pain did their work — Kirill could not calm down.
And then — an explosion. He didn’t just say it — he growled it, jumping out of bed so sharply that the springs creaked in protest. Veronika flinched and turned around. Stanislav stood in the middle of the room, lit by the dim nightlight — tall, tense like a stretched string. His usually handsome face was now distorted with anger. His eyes flashed like lightning. In his hand, he clenched a pillow — his pillow, which he apparently had just torn off the bed.
Veronika hadn’t even managed to say a word when he threw the pillow forcefully against the opposite wall. A dull thud — and the pillow slid down in a shapeless heap on the floor. The gesture was so unexpected, so wild in this quiet night room filled only with a child’s cry and her own anxious breathing, that Veronika froze for a moment. Was this the same Stas who six months ago carried Kirill on his shoulders in the park, laughed at his clumsy attempts to throw the ball into the hoop, patiently read the same tractor book to him ten times in a row? The same one who promised her before the wedding that Kirill was like his own son, that he had always dreamed of a boy and was ready to become a real father to him? Three months of official marriage had erased that idyllic picture completely, as if it had never existed. The mask of the perfect stepfather and loving husband had fallen off, revealing an ugly, selfish core.
Stanislav stepped toward the bed, looming over her. His shadow fell on her and the child — large, threatening.
— I asked you, do you understand me? — he hissed, lowering his voice to a dangerous whisper that sent chills down Veronika’s spine. — I’ve had enough of these nightly concerts! I work, I need to rest, not listen to this howling! Tomorrow! And I don’t want to see his face here! Take him to his daddy, let him babysit!
Veronika slowly lifted her eyes to him. The shock began to fade, giving way to cold, ringing indignation. She hugged her son tighter, as if trying to protect him not only from illness but also from this wave of hatred coming from the man who had recently sworn love to both of them.
— Stas, are you out of your mind? — she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. — What father? You know perfectly well that Igor lives a thousand kilometers away, he saw Kirill only once in his life, when he was a month old. He pays alimony irregularly, after scandals. He doesn’t care about his son, you know that well! Where would I take him? Especially now, when he’s sick!
She said what was obvious, what they had discussed many times before the wedding. Stanislav always agreed, nodded sympathetically, sighed, called Igor an irresponsible bastard, and promised that he, Stas, would never be like that, that Kirill was his son. Where did all that go?
— That’s not my problem! — Stanislav cut her off, with no sympathy in his voice, only icy irritation. — I don’t care where his daddy lives or what he wants or doesn’t want there. I only care that I can’t sleep in my own house because of your child! You’re the mother — so solve the problem. If you want to live here — get rid of him. Out of sight, out of mind. Tomorrow morning pack his things — and off you go. To daddy, grandma, boarding school — anywhere! But no more of him here!
He looked down on her, his jaws clenched tight, his eyes showing that same expression of disdainful superiority she had begun noticing more and more in recent weeks whenever he was displeased. And now the object of that displeasure, of that disdain, was her sick, helpless son. And herself.
Stanislav’s words — “boarding school — anywhere!” — hung in the stale bedroom air like a poisonous fog. Veronika looked at him, and there was no more confusion in her eyes. Deep inside, a cold, furious fire was burning. Boarding school. Her son. Her sick, little Kirill. This man, her husband, had just suggested sending her child to a boarding school because he disturbed his sleep. Realizing this didn’t just hit her — it scorched her through and through, burning the last remnants of illusions, the last grains of hope that this was just a moment of weakness, bad mood, fatigue. No. This was his true face, and it was disgusting.
— You… — she began, and to her own surprise, her voice sounded even, without a tremble, only with icy notes that made Stanislav twitch his shoulder slightly. — Did you really say that? About boarding school?
He hesitated for a moment, possibly not expecting such a calm, almost steely reaction. But he quickly recovered, putting on the mask of righteous anger again.
— So what? — he snorted, crossing his arms defiantly. — I’m just offering options. If you can’t handle your child yourself, maybe there are people who can do it professionally? I’m not obligated to put up with this every night! I married you, not your problems with your… offspring.
“Offspring.” The word cut Veronika to the core. He had never spoken like that before. Always “Kiryusha,” “sonny,” “our boy.” Now — “offspring.” She slowly, very carefully so as not to disturb the sleeping Kirill, began to get up from the bed. Every movement was deliberate, full of inner resolve.
— You know, Stas, — she said, now standing in front of him, looking him straight in the eyes, now almost on the same level, — I think I made the biggest mistake of my life believing you. When I decided you could become part of our family with Kirill.
She stepped aside toward the dresser where her things and some children’s clothes lay. Stanislav watched her, his face tensed.
— What are you planning? — he asked, a worried note creeping into his voice. He apparently expected tears, pleas, excuses, but not this cold calmness and action.
— I’m planning to do what I should have done much earlier, — Veronika replied without turning around. She pulled out a drawer and took out her travel bag, which she hadn’t used for a long time. — We’re leaving. Right now.
Stanislav let out a short, angry laugh.
— Where do you think you’re going in the middle of the night with a sick child? Running to mommy to complain? She’ll throw you out herself when she finds out you left your husband because of a child’s crying.
Veronika turned, the bag in her hand looked unexpectedly heavy.
— It’s none of your business where I go, — she cut him off. — The main thing is to get as far away from you as possible. I won’t let you humiliate me or my son anymore. You’ve shown your true face, Stas. And it disgusts me.
She moved toward the crib standing in the corner, intending to take Kirill’s warm jumpsuit. Then Stanislav lunged at her, grabbing her arm above the elbow. His fingers dug into her skin like a vice.
— I said, you’re not going anywhere! — he growled in her face, his eyes narrowing with rage again. — You’re my wife! And you’ll do what I say!
For a moment, Veronika was scared. His face was too close, twisted with anger, his grip painful. But the fear was quickly replaced by a flash of fury. She jerked her arm sharply, and to his surprise, he didn’t hold her. The strength born of desperation and maternal instinct was unexpected.
— Don’t you dare touch me! — her voice broke into a scream, but it was a scream not of fear, but of rage and warning. — If you touch me or my son again — you’ll regret it badly, Stas! Very badly! I’m not that defenseless sheep you apparently thought I was!
Stanislav stepped back, stunned. He looked at her like a stranger. This woman, who had always been so soft, so compliant, now stood before him like a fury, ready to protect her child at any cost. Her eyes burned with such fire that he involuntarily felt uncomfortable. He realized he’d gone too far, that direct aggression wouldn’t work now. And he instantly changed tactics.
A suffering grimace appeared on his face. He ran a hand through his hair, sighed as if carrying all the burdens of the world on his shoulders.
— Nika, what are you saying? — his voice suddenly became coaxing, almost pitiful. — I’m not doing this out of spite. I’m just tired, my nerves are shot. Work is hard, I don’t get enough sleep… And Kirill crying on top of that… I love you both, you know that. Didn’t I take care of you? Didn’t I try to be a good husband and father? Remember how good we were before… before all this.
He tried to take her other hand, but she pulled it away as if from fire.
— Don’t, Stas, — she said tiredly but firmly. — No need for these plays. I understand everything. Your love and care were just a game while it was convenient for you. While Kirill was healthy, obedient, and didn’t cause you “inconvenience.” But as soon as he got sick, as soon as some patience and sympathy were required — all your “love” evaporated. Only naked selfishness and irritation remained.
— What are you talking about? — Stanislav started getting angry again, seeing his attempt to play on guilt failed. — You’re just a bad mother, that’s all! You can’t calm your own child! You probably do it on purpose to annoy me! To show who’s boss here! You thought I’d dance to your tune and your brat’s? No way! I’m a man, and in my house it will be the way I say!
He raised his voice again, his face beginning to flush. But Veronika was no longer afraid. She looked at him with cold contempt. Every word he said only strengthened her conviction in the rightness of her decision. She saw through him — his immaturity, his egocentrism, his inability to feel basic compassion. The mask was completely torn off. Underneath was a monster.
— Bad mother? — Veronika repeated quietly, but her voice carried such blatant, icy sarcasm that Stanislav involuntarily recoiled. She took another step toward the dresser, ignoring his attempts to resume accusations. — Am I a bad mother because my child got sick and cries? Or because I ignored for three months how you turned from a “loving stepfather” into an irritated, selfish tyrant?
She turned to face him, her gaze direct, harsh, leaving no room for his manipulations.
— Let’s remember, Stas. Who begged me to move in faster because “he couldn’t wait for us to become a real family”? Who swore to Kirill, looking him in the eyes, that he would be the best dad in the world? Who took him on weekends to the zoo and amusement rides, took pictures hugging him and posted them with captions like “my favorites”? Was all that a lie? Just a show to get me?
Stanislav curled his lips in a contemptuous sneer. The mask of a loving man slid off completely, revealing the face of a cynic tired of pretending.
— And you believed that? — he snorted. — Well, then you’re even dumber than I thought. Of course, it was a game. Men have to tell women what they want to hear, especially if a woman has… a baggage. I thought you understood that. I expected after the wedding you’d somehow calm your puppy down, keep him in check. So he wouldn’t interfere with my life.
— Keep in check? Interfere with life? — Veronika shook her head, overwhelmed by a strange, cold calmness, as if she was watching a disgusting scene from the outside.
— He’s three years old, Stas. He’s a child. And he was the perfect child — quiet, obedient. Until you started hissing at him for every fallen block, until you started grimacing demonstratively when he laughed too loud. He just got sick! His temperature is almost 40, he’s in pain, scared! And you… you suggest throwing him out or sending him to a boarding school!
— Yes, I suggest it! — Stanislav barked, losing control again. — Because I’m fed up! Fed up with your child, his snot, his toys all over the apartment, his night screams! I’ve put up with it for three months, pretending to be a dad, enough! I want a normal life! I want silence! I want my wife to belong to me, not to be forever busy with her brood!
Kirill whimpered again in the corner — softly, plaintively, as if reacting to the adults’ shouting. Stanislav threw an angry look at him.
— See! It’s starting again! Can’t stand it!
— I hear it, — Veronika answered calmly, approaching the crib and adjusting the blanket on her son. She didn’t look at Stanislav, but every word was addressed to him. — I hear my sick child crying. And I hear you too, Stas. And I finally understood what kind of person I brought into our home. What kind of monster I almost made the stepfather to my son. Thank you for this revelation. It came late, but better late than never.
She straightened and looked at him again. There was no hatred in her eyes, only cold, ice-like disgust and firm determination.
— You’re right about one thing. This can’t go on anymore. This circus really needs to end.
Stanislav looked at her, not fully understanding what was happening. He was used to women in such situations either crying, yelling, or trying to appease him. But Veronika stood before him calm, collected, as if having made a final decision. And that scared him more than any scream. He felt he was losing control, that his usual tricks — pressure, accusations, attempts to evoke pity — no longer worked. She looked at him as if he no longer existed for her as a close person, as if he was just an unpleasant obstacle in her way. And that annoyed him even more.
— Circus? — Stanislav shifted from foot to foot, his fists involuntarily clenched. He felt the ground slipping from under his feet. This cold, distant Veronika was unfamiliar to him and scared with her impenetrability. He expected anything — hysteria, pleas, even insults back — but not this icy statement of fact. — Do you even realize what you’re doing? You’re going to leave me, your husband, because of a child’s tantrums? Who would want you with that… baggage? You think there’s another fool like me ready to put up with someone else’s son?
He tried to put as much venom and contempt as possible into his words, wanting to hurt her, make her doubt, fear the future. He wanted to see at least a shadow of fear or a glimmer of regret on her face. But Veronika slowly walked to the wardrobe and took out a small sports bag. She opened it on the bed next to the sleeping Kirill and methodically began packing children’s things: a couple of spare bodysuits, warm pants, socks. Her movements were calm, almost mechanical.
— You know, Stas, — she said without turning her head, her voice just as even and cold, — just a few hours ago, I probably would have been scared of your words. I would have thought about how hard it would be alone, how awkward in front of my parents, what acquaintances would say. But you cured me of all those fears so quickly and efficiently. You showed me something much scarier — life with a person capable of such meanness, such cruelty towards a defenseless child. Life with you. And compared to that, everything else seems like a trifle.
She zipped up the children’s bag, then took her own bag lying on the floor, and calmly began packing the essentials for herself: change of underwear, jeans, sweater, hygiene items. Stanislav watched her, and helpless rage boiled in his chest. He didn’t know what to do. Shout? He had already shouted. Threaten? His threats no longer seemed to work. Grab her, stop her by force? Something in her icy calm, her straight back, her determined gaze told him this would be a bad idea. That she really was capable of what she warned about.
— So that’s it? — he croaked, feeling his mouth dry. — You’ll just take off? Erase everything we had? Because I just want to get some sleep in my own house?
Veronika turned, the bag in her hand. She looked him straight in the eyes, and her gaze was full of such cold, annihilating contempt that Stanislav involuntarily shrank.
— There was nothing between us, Stas, — she said clearly, each word falling like an ice drop. — There was an illusion that you so carefully created. And that I, foolishly, took at face value. And you want to sleep? Well, now no one will bother you. Sleep peacefully. Enjoy the silence. Enjoy your home, where there is no more room for “snot and tears.”
She went to the crib carefully, so as not to wake the child, picked up the sleeping Kirill. The little boy murmured something in his sleep and snuggled close. Veronika adjusted his hat.
— And about your ultimatum… — she paused, looking at his face twisted with anger. — “If tomorrow you don’t take your son to his father, I will throw both of you out of the house! I don’t want your snot and tears at night!” Remember? I understood, Stas. I understood everything perfectly. Consider your wish granted. We’re leaving. Only you’re not throwing us out. We’re leaving ourselves. From you.
She moved to the door. Stanislav watched her go, his face crimson, his jaw muscles twitching. He wanted to shout something, do something, but the words stuck in his throat. He saw her retreating back, the fragile figure with the child in her arms, and understood it was the end. Complete and unconditional. He lost. Not to her — to himself, his anger, his selfishness.
When Veronika was already in the hallway, putting on shoes and throwing on her jacket, he still found the strength to squeeze out:
— And where are you going now? Do you think someone’s waiting for you with open arms?
Veronika, already opening the front door, paused for a moment. She didn’t look back.
— That’s none of your business anymore, Stas, — her voice came calmly and detachedly, as if speaking to a stranger. — For me, you no longer exist.
The door closed behind her. It didn’t slam — the lock just clicked quietly. Stanislav was left alone in the bedroom, where a few minutes ago passions had boiled. Now there was deafening, oppressive silence, which he so longed for. But this silence brought no relief. It was empty, cold, hostile. He looked around: the disturbed bed, the pillow he threw by the wall, the empty crib. He was alone. And that realization was much scarier than any child’s cry. The rage boiling inside him began to be replaced by emptiness and a dull, muffled hatred of himself, which he would never admit. He got what he demanded. Silence. And absolute, ringing loneliness…