The blue car parked at the familiar entrance with usual confidence. Vladimir Nikolaevich turned off the engine and looked back at his wife.
“Lyudochka, don’t forget the jam for the grandchildren,” reminded the father-in-law, pulling heavy bags of groceries from the trunk.
Lyudmila Ivanovna nodded, adjusting her summer dress. The July sun was mercilessly scorching, but the mood was uplifted. The children’s weekend was always a joy. They could help Tamara around the house, spend time with the grandchildren, and at the same time check on how the family of their only son was doing.
“Look at these tomatoes we brought!” the mother-in-law showed her husband the contents of the bags. “From our own garden. Tamara will be glad.”
Vladimir Nikolaevich grunted in agreement, dragging the bags toward the entrance. After thirty years of living with his son, he was used to such sudden visits. Children should know that parents are always nearby, ready to help and support.
At the familiar door, the mother-in-law took a bunch of keys from her purse. Oleg had once given a spare set to his parents in case of emergencies. Since then, the keys had become a pass for regular visits.
“We’re here!” Lyudmila Ivanovna announced loudly, unlocking the door. “Olezhek, Tamaročka, where are you?”
The apartment greeted them with silence. In the hallway hung several summer bags and a light jacket clearly cut for a woman. Children’s sandals were neatly lined up against the wall. But no men’s shoes were visible.
“Probably went to the dacha,” Vladimir Nikolaevich guessed, inspecting the empty hallway.
“On a Saturday morning?” the mother-in-law doubted. “Oleg works late, he should be sleeping in.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna went into the living room, placing the groceries on the table. The room looked lived-in but somehow… feminine. Flowers in vases, magazines neatly laid out, children’s toys in the corner. But not a single masculine detail—no newspapers, no ashtrays, no fishing gear that Oleg usually kept in plain sight.
“Kind of strange,” muttered the father-in-law, peeking into the bedroom.
The double bed was made with a floral-patterned bedspread. On the bedside table—women’s cream and a book on child psychology. The other nightstand stood empty, as if unused for a long time.
Lyudmila Ivanovna frowned, examining the setting. Something was wrong. Over twenty years of Oleg and Tamara’s marriage, she was used to a certain order in the house. Her son always left his things in obvious places—a leather briefcase by the door, a newspaper on the table, cufflinks on the dresser. Now, nothing like that was seen.
The sound of the door opening made the parents turn around. Tamara came out of the bathroom with a towel in her hands, her wet hair gathered in a messy bun. Seeing her mother-in-law, she froze in the doorway.
“Vladimir Nikolaevich, Lyudmila Ivanovna,” Tamara said nervously. “I wasn’t expecting…”
“Tamarochka, dear!” the mother-in-law exclaimed, rushing to embrace her daughter-in-law. “We decided to visit, brought some groceries from the dacha. Where’s our Olezhek?”
Tamara visibly tensed, pulling away from the embrace. Her gaze darted around the room as if seeking support from familiar objects.
“Oleg…” the daughter-in-law began, then stopped.
“What’s wrong with him?” Vladimir Nikolaevich worried. “Is he sick? Held up at work?”
“He’s fine,” Tamara quickly replied. “He’s just… not home right now.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna looked closely at her daughter-in-law. Something about Tamara’s behavior was unsettling. Usually, she greeted them warmly, offered tea, asked about their affairs. Now she kept her distance, answering tersely.
“When will he be back?” the mother-in-law asked. “We specifically came for the weekend.”
Tamara dried her hands with the towel, clearly stalling. Voices sounded from the children’s room—the grandchildren had woken up.
“Mom, can we watch cartoons?” seven-year-old Katya shouted.
“Later, dear,” Tamara called back.
“Did grandpa arrive?” asked five-year-old Dima.
The children ran out of the room, saw their grandparents, and happily rushed to hug them. Vladimir Nikolaevich picked up his grandson, Lyudmila Ivanovna kissed her granddaughter.
“How you’ve grown!” the grandmother admired. “And where’s your dad?”
The children glanced at each other, then looked at their mother. Their eyes showed a kind of adult caution unusual for their age.
“Dad’s not here,” Katya said quietly.
“What do you mean, not here?” the grandfather didn’t understand. “Where is he then?”
“Kids, go have breakfast,” Tamara interrupted hastily. “I’ll prepare it now.”
The grandchildren obediently headed to the kitchen, but Vladimir Nikolaevich noticed how they furtively glanced at the adults—as if afraid to say something unnecessary.
“Tamara,” the father-in-law began carefully, “maybe you can explain what’s going on? We’re family, there’s nothing to hide.”
The daughter-in-law stopped by the kitchen table, clutching the towel tightly. Her shoulders tensed, breathing uneven. Lyudmila Ivanovna stepped closer, studying her face intently.
“My dear, what happened?” the mother-in-law asked sympathetically. “You look pale. Did you quarrel with Oleg?”
Tamara slowly raised her eyes. They reflected fatigue, pain, and something else—determination, readiness for a difficult conversation.
“We didn’t quarrel,” the daughter-in-law said softly. “It’s just… it’s over.”
“What’s over?” Lyudmila Ivanovna didn’t understand.
Tamara leaned against the wall, gathering her thoughts. This moment had been postponed for two months. Oleg promised to talk to his parents himself, to explain the situation. But time passed, and he never dared to have that frank conversation.
“Oleg no longer lives here,” Tamara said calmly, but every word was hard to say.
The air in the room seemed to thicken. Vladimir Nikolaevich and Lyudmila Ivanovna froze, trying to absorb what they’d just heard.
“What do you mean he doesn’t live here?” the mother-in-law asked, confused. “Where did he move to?”
“We divorced three months ago,” Tamara added. “Oleg moved in with… with another woman.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna grabbed the back of a chair; her legs gave way. Twenty years of marriage, two children, a shared home—and it all collapsed? How was that possible?
“It can’t be,” the mother-in-law whispered. “Oleg loves the family, the children…”
“He loved them,” Tamara agreed. “But apparently, new feelings turned out stronger.”
Vladimir Nikolaevich sank heavily onto a chair, trying to process the news. His son divorced and didn’t tell his parents? Left his wife and children for another woman? It couldn’t be.
“Do the children know?” the grandfather asked hoarsely.
“They know,” Tamara nodded. “We had to explain why dad doesn’t come home.”
Laughter sounded from the children’s room—the grandchildren were playing, unaware of the adults’ drama. Their carefree voices contrasted with the heavy atmosphere in the kitchen.
“But why didn’t he tell us?” Lyudmila Ivanovna wondered. “We’re the parents, we have the right to know!”
Tamara smiled bitterly.
“Probably afraid to upset you. Or ashamed. It’s hard to admit to your parents that you left the family for a young secretary.”
“Secretary?” the mother-in-law gasped.
“Twenty-three years old, her name is Alina,” Tamara specified without much emotion. “She works at his company. Oleg rents an apartment with her on Sadovaya Street.”
The information hit like an avalanche. Vladimir Nikolaevich felt everything inside turn upside down. They raised their son, poured their soul into him, hoped for a strong family—and he was capable of such betrayal.
“And child support?” Lyudmila Ivanovna asked practically. “The children should receive maintenance.”
“He pays,” Tamara nodded. “But not always on time. He says the new life requires expenses.”
“New life!” the mother-in-law exclaimed indignantly. “And the old one doesn’t count?”
Tamara shrugged. In three months, she had come to terms with the situation, endured the main pain. Now there were practical questions—how to raise the children alone, how to explain their father’s indifference.
“I thought Oleg would tell you himself,” the daughter-in-law admitted. “He promised to talk after New Year’s, then after Dima’s birthday, then kept making excuses. Apparently, he never dared.”
Vladimir Nikolaevich stood and paced the kitchen. Anger battled disappointment; shame for the son clashed with pity for the daughter-in-law and grandchildren.
“And this… Alina,” the father-in-law struggled to say the rival’s name, “does she know about the children?”
“She knows,” Tamara confirmed. “Oleg says she understands the situation.”
“Understands!” Lyudmila Ivanovna snorted. “Easy to understand when you don’t have to raise children.”
Their conversation was interrupted by footsteps in the hallway. Katya and Dima peeked out from the children’s room, wary of the adults’ serious voices.
“Grandma, are you crying?” the granddaughter asked worriedly.
Lyudmila Ivanovna quickly wiped her eyes, trying to smile.
“No, sweetheart, just some dust in my eyes.”
The children exchanged doubtful glances but didn’t argue. Adults had lately often explained their tears away as dust, allergies, or tiredness.
“When will dad come?” Dima asked grandpa. “We planned to go fishing.”
Vladimir Nikolaevich looked at Tamara, confused. How to explain to the child that dad wouldn’t come anymore? That fishing trips were canceled forever?
“Dad’s very busy at work,” the mother answered cautiously. “Maybe another time.”
Dima nodded, but disappointment flashed in the boy’s eyes. Dad had been busy too often lately, and promised meetings were postponed indefinitely.
Vladimir Nikolaevich and Lyudmila Ivanovna exchanged looks, now realizing the scale of what had happened. The grandchildren lived without a father, and the parents knew nothing. How was that possible?
“Kids, go play in your room,” Tamara gently asked. “Adults need to talk.”
Katya and Dima obediently left, used to such requests. Since their father left, the house was full of serious conversations from which the children were shielded.
“Tamarochka,” Lyudmila Ivanovna began in a trembling voice, “it can’t be that simple. Maybe you misunderstood something? Boys sometimes drink, it’s normal. Maybe you should have been more patient?”
Tamara slowly turned to her mother-in-law. Old pain flickered in her eyes, the kind they tried to forget.
“More patient?” Tamara repeated. “Lyudmila Ivanovna, I was patient for three years. Drunken brawls, broken dishes, scared children. When Oleg came home drunk again and raised his hand at Katya, I realized—it was enough.”
“He raised his hand at his granddaughter?” the grandfather gasped.
“Not hit, but he raised his hand,” Tamara clarified. “The girl cried all night. And in the morning asked why dad was so angry.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna shook her head, refusing to believe.
“That can’t be. Oleg never hurt the children. He loves them!”
“He loved them when he was sober,” Tamara agreed. “But last year, he was rarely sober. Then Alina appeared, and the family stopped mattering to him.”
Vladimir Nikolaevich walked around the kitchen, trying to reconcile the image of a loving son with what the daughter-in-law said.
“And we noticed nothing,” muttered the father-in-law. “How could that be?”
“Oleg knew how to hide it,” Tamara explained. “He was always a model family man when you were around. Problems started when the parents were away.”
“But why didn’t you tell us?” the mother-in-law reproached. “We would have talked to our son, reasoned with him.”
Tamara smiled bitterly.
“I tried. I called you in winter, asked you to influence Oleg. Do you remember what you said?”
Lyudmila Ivanovna strained to recall. Indeed, the daughter-in-law had once called, complaining about her husband. But could one take domestic quarrels seriously?
“You said families have difficulties, and wives should be wiser,” Tamara reminded. “That Oleg works, is tired, and household problems are women’s business.”
The mother-in-law blushed, recalling that conversation. Back then, the daughter-in-law’s words seemed just normal female dissatisfaction. Who knew a real drama was hiding behind them?
“We didn’t know,” Lyudmila Ivanovna excused herself. “If only we had understood the seriousness…”
“Now it doesn’t matter,” Tamara interrupted. “Oleg made his choice. Alina turned out to be more important than the family.”
“Where does he live now?” Vladimir Nikolaevich asked. “Maybe we should talk to him?”
“On Sadovaya, house twelve, apartment forty-three,” Tamara said clearly. “If you want to meet your son, call him directly.”
The parents exchanged looks. So, they had to arrange meetings with their own son? As if he was a stranger?
“But we came to visit you!” the mother-in-law said confused. “We’re tired from the trip. Where will we sleep now?”
Tamara looked carefully at Lyudmila Ivanovna. Hope was visible in the mother-in-law’s eyes—that everything would stay the same, that they could sleep in the familiar room, help with chores in the morning, play with the grandchildren.
“This is my home now,” Tamara calmly explained. “And I decide who to accept here. Next time, better call ahead.”
“Who decide who to accept?” the mother-in-law protested. “We’re family! Grandpa and grandma!”
“We were family,” the daughter-in-law corrected. “Until your son destroyed everything with his own hands.”
“But the children!” Vladimir Nikolaevich tried to insist. “We are their grandparents! We have the right to see them!”
Tamara nodded.
“Of course, you do. The children love you, and we will definitely meet. But by prior arrangement and on neutral territory.”
“On neutral territory?” the mother-in-law did not understand.
“In the park, at a café, at your friends’ houses,” Tamara listed. “But not in my home. The times of free entry are over.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna clutched her heart. How could it be? Twenty years of freely visiting the children, feeling like welcome guests—and now they were put on the same level as strangers?
“Tamara, you understand,” the mother-in-law pleaded. “We’re not to blame for Oleg’s mistakes.”
“You’re not to blame,” the daughter-in-law agreed. “But you still protect him. Make excuses instead of condemning.”
“He’s our son!” Vladimir Nikolaevich protested.
“And Katya and Dima are your grandchildren,” Tamara reminded him. “But somehow sympathy is given only to the adult man, not the children who lost their father.”
The question hung in the air. The parents truly worried more about their son than the abandoned grandchildren. They blamed the daughter-in-law for destroying the family, not the son for betrayal.
“We just wanted to help,” Lyudmila Ivanovna weakly defended.
“You can help in different ways,” Tamara answered. “You can support the victim, or you can cover for the guilty. You chose the second.”
Voices came from the children’s room. Katya was reading a story to her younger brother, trying to distract from the adults’ quarrels. The children grew up early, learning to entertain themselves while the parents argued.
“But how will the grandchildren know grandpa and grandma?” the mother-in-law tried one last time.
“They will,” Tamara assured. “I’m not going to deprive the children of relatives. But on my terms.”
“On your terms?” Lyudmila Ivanovna flared. “Who do you think you are to set the terms? Oleg supported you, paid for the apartment!”
Tamara straightened, steel flashing in her eyes.
“I am the mother of these children,” the daughter-in-law said firmly. “And I protect their interests. And by the way, the apartment is mine. I inherited it from my grandmother.”
Lyudmila Ivanovna fell silent, realizing she had gone too far with accusations. Vladimir Nikolaevich sighed heavily, realizing the futility of the argument.
“All right,” the father-in-law gave in. “We understand your position. But can we see the children?”
“Of course,” Tamara softened. “But only briefly. They need lunch and rest.”
The next half hour passed in tense interaction with the grandchildren. The children sensed something wrong, behaved cautiously. Katya talked about school, Dima showed new toys. But the joy of the meeting was overshadowed by the family drama.
“Grandpa, why doesn’t dad come?” the granddaughter asked directly.
Vladimir Nikolaevich looked helplessly at Tamara. How to explain to a child that dad chose another family?
“Dad lives separately,” the mother answered carefully. “But he loves you.”
“Can we go to him?” Dima asked.
“You can,” Tamara nodded. “When dad invites you.”
The children looked at each other but asked no more questions. Too much was unclear in the adult world.
When it was time to say goodbye, Lyudmila Ivanovna once again tried to soften her daughter-in-law.
“Tamarochka, maybe we should stay until tomorrow? I can help with the children, cook…”
“Thank you, but no need,” Tamara answered firmly. “We manage ourselves.”
At the door, the mother-in-law turned around, hoping for one last chance.
“And the keys?” Lyudmila Ivanovna asked uncertainly.
“I’ll change the locks,” Tamara said. “For security reasons.”
The door closed softly but decisively, leaving Oleg’s parents puzzled on the landing. Behind it began a new life—without uninvited guests, toxic relationships, and attempts to justify betrayal.
Tamara leaned against the door, exhaling with relief. The hardest conversation was behind. Now it was possible to build a future without looking back at the past.