— What?
— You heard me. I’m leaving.
— Where will you go? To your mommy? Or did that girlfriend of yours egg you on?
He stepped closer, but Tatiana did not back down.
— It doesn’t matter who. What matters is that I will no longer allow you to call our child a “snot-nose.” Or treat him like that at all. That’s it.
— Is this about yesterday? God, Tanya, have you lost your mind? I just lost my temper. Happens to everyone.
— It doesn’t happen to those who love. It doesn’t happen to those who respect.
He fell silent. Only his lips curled in a grimace.
— Are you serious about leaving?
She nodded.
— Fine, then go — he snapped. — And don’t come crawling back later.
When Olya helped pack the things, Tatiana for the first time in a long while did not feel anxiety — she felt clarity. Sudden, sharp, as if everything had become crystal clear. It wasn’t fear. It was a decision.
The boy was sleeping in the carrier. The bags were minimal: documents, a first aid kit, baby clothes, a little money. Everything else could be bought. Or they could live without it.
— You know, I’m not even sure he’ll call, — Tatiana said, tying her scarf. — He’s too proud.
Olya looked at her carefully.
— He’s not proud. He’s weak. And he tries to hide it behind shouting.
Outside it was cool, the sparse street lamps lit the wet asphalt. They left without looking back. No drama, no tears. Just quietly, with the baby in her arms and new steps into the darkness where there was no longer any yelling behind the door.
The next day Artem really didn’t call. But he wrote. Dry, brief:
“I hope you’re happy. Now support your snot-nose yourself.”
She didn’t reply.
Just put the phone on the windowsill and sat down next to her son. He tried to stand up, grabbed the edge of the sofa, fell on his bottom, and climbed back up — stubbornly, childishly serious. A little spot on his cheek, yogurt on his pants. Small, stubborn, hers. Tatiana looked at him and thought: “For him — everything. For his laughter, his tiny teeth, his sleep without twitching. For that, it was worth leaving.”
In the stranger’s apartment, everything felt foreign: floral curtains, a broken latch on the bathroom door, old tiles. But it was quiet. Silence without a taut string in the air, without footsteps behind, without waiting for an explosion. This silence was a new sound. Free.
Olya insisted they stay with her.
— You don’t have a job or options yet. Stay. I’ll rearrange my schedule, cover your shifts at work. We’ll manage, Tanya.
— I feel like a freeloader.
— Stop it. I look at you and see that you’re alive. Again. And that’s already a victory. And don’t delay the divorce!
Two weeks passed.
Artem didn’t write anymore. Not a single call. No questions about his son. He disappeared as if they had never existed. At first, it burned — not with rage, but with a dull pain, like a broken tooth. Then it got easier.
Tatiana started freelancing — editing texts, helping students with their coursework. Money was little but enough. Olya sometimes brought groceries, bought something for the child, and Tatiana, in return, ironed her blouses, cleaned, cooked.
One day they went out for a walk. It was March, the sun shone so brightly the snow on the playground melted before their eyes. The boy stomped through the wet sand and squealed with happiness as if he had never seen the outdoors before. And maybe he hadn’t. Because before, they rarely went out. And when they did, it was not a walk but running errands — fast, without stops, with the stroller and an indifferent father nearby.
That day Tatiana laughed for the first time in a long while.
The boy plopped into a puddle, and she didn’t scream or jump up, but just sat down beside him, pulled off his wet pants, and laughingly wiped him with wipes. A woman sitting nearby on a bench smiled:
— You’re a good mother.
Those words were like a warm hand on her heart. Simple. But Tatiana had never heard them. Artem always said: “You don’t know how to raise him. You spoil him. You do everything wrong.” And she believed him. And now for the first time she thought: maybe he said all that because he was afraid she could manage on her own?
A month passed.
And one day there was a call from an unknown number. Tatiana immediately knew who it was.
— Tanya, — the voice was calm, a little plaintive. — I was thinking… maybe we should try again?
— No, Artem, — she answered calmly. — I don’t want my son to grow up near someone who is ashamed of him.
He was silent.
— I was wrong. I admit it.
— No, you weren’t wrong — you were cruel. That’s different.
— I thought he wasn’t mine because he was born prematurely. But after the court, I realized I was a fool. Can I at least see him?
She wanted to say, “He doesn’t remember you.” But she held back.
— No. Not yet. Too little time has passed. You destroyed too much. First and foremost — trust. In you. And in myself. It was easier for you to be angry and get worked up than to just talk like a human. And I never gave you a reason to be jealous.
He hung up.
A couple of weeks later came a summons to court. Artem filed for visitation rights.
— Don’t be afraid, — Olya said. — We’ll do everything right. You’re not alone.
At the trial, he sat in a clean shirt, folder in hand, spoke confidently, almost as if reading a script. That he loves his son, cares, is ready. Wants to participate.
The judge, a woman around fifty, listened without interrupting. Then she turned to Tatiana:
— And what do you think?
— I’m not against it. But only if he never says again that the boy is a “nuisance.” And only in my presence. And only for short visits. He doesn’t even know what the boy likes to play with. Doesn’t know where his birthmark is. And he wants “rights” immediately.
The court allowed visits on neutral ground and only with the mother present.
The first meeting took place in a café at a children’s center. Artem sat opposite his son, confused. The boy looked at him seriously, as if trying to remember. There was no fear in his eyes. But no warmth either.
Artem handed him a toy car:
— Here. For you.
The boy took the toy, put it on the table, and reached out to Tatiana.
After the third such meeting, Artem stopped coming.
Just disappeared. No calls, no letters. And that was even easier than if he had stayed.
Six months passed.
Tatiana rented a room. She was invited to work remotely at an editorial office. Her son went to nursery school for half a day, and every morning when saying goodbye, he hugged her neck, whispering:
— Mama, I love you.
She now lived without constant tension. Cooked without haste, without fear of criticism. Fell asleep without waiting for footsteps behind her back. And no longer stayed silent when it hurt. Because she had learned.
One evening she sat with a cup, reading her son a book about an elephant and a mouse. He interrupted, laughed, clapped, hugged her. And at that moment Tatiana knew for sure: she had done everything right.