Nastya laid out another one of Danila’s shirts on the bed and carefully hung it in the wardrobe. He had more clothes than she’d expected, but there was still enough space.
“Where should I put your books?” she asked, holding a stack of technical manuals.
“Top shelf, if you don’t mind,” Danila replied, folding socks into the dresser. “Sunny, can you believe how great it is that we’re living together now?”
Nastya smiled and nodded. Just yesterday, he had proposed to her, and today they were already setting up their shared home. The three months until the wedding would fly by.
“Danya, you don’t regret deciding so quickly, do you?” Nastya stroked his cheek.
“Not for a second,” Danila said, wrapping his arms around her waist. “You’re the best girl in the world. A beauty like you should be cherished and never let go.”
Nastya nestled against him, basking in his warmth. She could hardly believe her happiness.
Three months later, the big day finally arrived. Music played softly, guests danced and laughed. In a snow-white gown, Nastya twirled with her husband in the center of the hall. Danila whispered compliments in her ear, making her blush with pleasure.
“Dear newlyweds!” his mother, Yelena Viktorovna, stood with a glass in her hand. “I want to say a few warm words about this wonderful couple.”
The guests fell silent, focusing on the elegant, middle-aged woman.
“Nastenka, my dear, you’ve given my son true happiness. Danila, son, cherish this lovely girl. May your love grow stronger every day!”
Nastya was touched by the heartfelt speech. Her mother-in-law had always been kind and welcoming.
“Thank you so much,” Nastya whispered when Yelena Viktorovna came to congratulate them in person.
“What for, dear? We’re family now.”
Three months of married life passed quickly. Nastya still hadn’t fully gotten used to her new last name and sometimes forgot to respond when called by it.
The doorbell rang.
“Yelena Viktorovna!” Nastya greeted her mother-in-law with a smile. “Come in, we’ve been expecting you.”
“Nastenka, dear,” the older woman said warmly. “How are you, my daughter?”
They walked into the kitchen where Danila was already sitting at the set table. Yelena Viktorovna sat beside her son, and the two chatted cheerfully about family news.
“How’s work, son?” she asked, serving herself some salad.
“Great, Mom, we’ve just launched a new project,” Danila replied, pouring tea. “And you?”
Nastya listened, happy to see such a friendly family bond. But then Yelena Viktorovna’s face grew serious.
“Danila,” she said, setting down her fork, “it’s time to tell Nastenka something.”
A tight knot formed in Nastya’s chest. Danila avoided her eyes, rubbing his palms nervously.
“Nastya, sweetheart,” her husband began quietly, “I have a son. He’s nine years old, his name is Artyom.”
Nastya froze. The world seemed to stop. Danila kept talking, but she could barely process his words.
“I was married before, but she left right after the divorce,” his voice trembled. “Artyom has been living with his mother for the past three years.”
“Nastenka, darling,” Yelena Viktorovna added gently, “a real love isn’t hindered by a child. If you truly love Danila, this changes nothing, right?”
Nastya stared at them, unable to speak. Danila had never once mentioned a child. Not once during their entire relationship.
“You’re so pale, dear,” Yelena Viktorovna said. “Have some water.”
Nastya took the glass automatically. Her thoughts swirled—nine years old. He’d been hiding his son all this time.
“Artyom is a wonderful boy,” her mother-in-law continued softly. “Smart, well-mannered. You’ll grow to love him.”
Nastya rose from the table and murmured faintly, “I need to think.”
Danila reached for her hand, but she pulled away and left the kitchen.
Yelena Viktorovna left early, and Danila carefully avoided his wife the rest of the evening.
For three days, Nastya mulled over what she’d heard. Danila acted as if nothing had happened—joking at breakfast, talking about work—though she caught him watching her when he thought she wouldn’t notice.
“Danila,” she said one morning, setting down her coffee, “why didn’t you tell me?”
Her husband smirked and shrugged.
“Not every girl wants a man with a child from another marriage,” he said casually. “Especially one who doesn’t live with his mother.”
Nastya frowned. The indifferent tone stung.
“But how can there be trust in a marriage if you hide something so important?”
Again, Danila shrugged and bit into his sandwich.
“I don’t see the problem. Now you know.”
Nastya realized he genuinely saw nothing wrong. That revelation shocked her more than the fact itself.
Three more weeks passed. She found herself looking at him differently. The trust that had taken months to build had collapsed overnight. Every word he said now carried doubt. What else hadn’t he told her?
Meanwhile, Danila lived as usual—coming home from work, eating dinner, watching TV—utterly unmoved by her turmoil.
One rainy evening, Nastya was soaked through by the time she reached home. Her hands trembled as she unlocked the door.
Inside, she stopped dead. The hallway was filled with boxes—at least a dozen, some still sealed with tape.
“Danila!” she called, shutting the door. “What is all this?”
Her husband emerged from the second bedroom holding a screwdriver, his hair messy, shirt smudged with dust.
“Oh, you’re back,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. “How was work?”
“What’s going on?” she repeated, pointing at the boxes.
He looked at her as though surprised by the question.
“My family is moving in,” he said simply. “Into this apartment. Mom’s already packed, and I’m getting Artyom’s room ready.”
Nastya stood frozen in the doorway, water dripping from her coat onto the floor. The world felt unreal.
“The apartment’s spacious,” he went on, as if discussing the weather. “Mom and my son will live here now. The second bedroom will be for him, and Mom will take the living room. We’ll need some more furniture, but it’ll work out.”
She walked to the second bedroom. It was completely rearranged—new shelves, her desk shoved into a corner, her bed dismantled and removed.
“And why exactly this move?” she asked.
“Mom’s getting older; she can’t look after the boy alone,” Danila said indifferently. “She needs help.”
“Help?” Nastya repeated.
“Yeah. You’ll cook and clean, Mom will watch him. And since he needs a mother’s care, you’ll be that for him.”
Nastya’s hands shook as she poured a glass of water in the kitchen. Danila leaned in the doorway.
“Why would you think I want to be a mother to your son?” she asked.
Danila raised his eyebrows.
“But he’s my child—practically ours now,” he said as if it were obvious.
That was the breaking point.
“I didn’t even know he existed!” she shouted. “I never agreed to raise someone else’s child! I don’t even want my own right now, let alone someone else’s!”
“This is my premarital apartment,” she added coldly. “And no one moves in without my consent.”
Danila’s composure cracked.
“You’re not a real woman! No maternal instinct! A normal wife would support her husband!” he snapped. “What good are you if you won’t accept my son?”
Nastya saw him for what he was—he’d hidden the truth just to trap her in marriage. He needed a mother for his son and a roof over their heads.
“And what do I need you for? To ruin my life? Get out!”
“You’re crazy! We’re married!”
“We were,” she said sharply. “Take your boxes and go.”
Soon after, she forced him out.
The door slammed. Nastya turned the key and slumped against it, sliding to the floor. His shouts continued outside for a while, then faded. She sat there until morning, realizing Danila had only ever used her.
At dawn, a locksmith replaced the locks.
“These are good, sturdy ones,” he explained. “Hard to break.”
The sound of the elevator made Nastya tense. Out stepped Yelena Viktorovna with a bouquet of flowers. She froze at the sight of the locksmith.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded, dropping the flowers. “Nastya, what are you doing? This is wrong! Danila is your husband! You’re so proud and arrogant!”
The locksmith quickly packed up, eager to escape the scene. Nastya picked up the new keys and faced her mother-in-law calmly.
“Yes, I have pride,” she said, examining the keys. “Which is why I won’t let anyone walk over me.”
“How dare you! You’re destroying a family! And the child—have you thought of him?”
“Your son should have thought of that,” Nastya replied coldly.
She stepped inside and shut the door, cutting off not only the shouting but all ties with that family.