“Everything you see was bought on a credit card. For me and Yeseniya only,” Vika replied calmly, taking off her jacket. “You transferred half your salary to your mother again. So let her decide what you’ll have for dinner.”
“Are you out of your mind?” he turned around. “She’s my mother. I have to help her.”
Victoria stood by the kitchen window watching the children romp on the playground below. It had been six months since she divorced Vitaly, and only now was she beginning to truly feel like a separate person. It didn’t feel like loneliness: her eight-year-old daughter, Yeseniya, was always there. And besides that—housework, a job, responsibilities.
Yeseniya was wise beyond her years. Vika was very lucky with her. Sometimes Vika was angry at herself that her daughter had to grow up so fast. She was very grateful to her and told her every day that both Mom and Dad loved her equally, that the divorce wouldn’t affect her relationship with her father.
The apartment where Victoria and her daughter lived had been bought during the marriage. But it was bought with the money Vika received from selling an inherited apartment that had come to her from her great-grandmother.
She and her husband had renovated the place and bought some appliances. But most of the money was Victoria’s, so in court the apartment remained with her and her daughter. Her husband, however, wanted to take the refrigerator, the washing machine, and the air conditioner.
The car story was even “funnier.” When Vitaly once gave his wife a car, Vika was thrilled. A pretty, convenient, nimble red Škoda Fabia. Back then it seemed like a symbol of his love. But, as Vika later learned, the car was registered to her mother-in-law. And all the bank statements showed the money had been hers as well.
So during the divorce she was forced to return the “gift” to her husband. Vitaly’s face had glowed with inner satisfaction while his wife looked bewildered. His own car still had to be divided. Vitaly simply bought himself out by saying he would take back all the appliances he had a right to—thus “covering” half the cost of the vehicle.
Victoria closed her eyes, unable to look at a man behaving so petty toward his family. He had always been like that. Vika had just refused to see it and idealized her husband too much. She remembered the moment that became the turning point.
Six months earlier
Victoria came home exhausted. The day had been anything but calm. In the morning her boss had yelled at her over a typo in some documents and everything had to be redone in a rush. Then Vika went out to lunch and got caught in the rain, and in the evening she discovered she had missed yet another loan payment and the money had been automatically debited from her card.
And she’d so wanted to buy shrimp and have a beer after a hard day. Vika hoped her husband would buy some groceries and they’d somehow make do. But when she got home, she saw a scowling Vitaly at the kitchen table. The apartment was quiet—so quiet that even Yeseniya didn’t come out to meet her mother.
“Did something happen?” Vika asked, kicking off her heels in the hallway and walking into the kitchen.
“Something did! Where’s dinner? The fridge is empty!” her husband barked.
“Sorry… I couldn’t buy groceries today. The last payment on the washing machine loan was due today. I completely forgot.”
“Sometimes I think you’ve forgotten about everything in the world—including that you have a husband!”
“It’s not like that. Why are you starting a fight? Did you have a rough day?” Victoria tried to keep the peace.
“My day was fine. Don’t try to get into my head. Order delivery.”
“I’m telling you there’s no money. Then let’s use your card?” she asked.
“I don’t have any either,” he shrugged.
“But you got paid last week. You spent it all already?”
“Yes, imagine that. Mom went to the cosmetologist. I transferred fifty thousand to her, and then another ten because it wasn’t enough.”
“What? A cosmetologist? You said that was quackery!”
“For you. My mother needs it—she has wrinkles. She wants to look young. Figure out something to eat, and make it quick.”
With that, Vitaly pushed back from the table and headed to the bedroom. As soon as Yeseniya heard her father’s steps, she ran to her mother in the kitchen.
“Did something happen to Dad? He’s so angry today… He scolded me for getting a B. Said I’m a disgrace to him.”
Victoria looked at her daughter and, trying not to show her inner anxiety, stroked Yeseniya’s head.
“No, sunshine. Dad’s just not in the best mood. It happens. It’s not because of you. He’s just tired from work.”
Yeseniya nodded, but she was still a little uneasy. She already knew adults often didn’t say what they really thought, and she understood—something was wrong.
“Let’s make scrambled eggs, yeah?” Vika suggested. “Quick, tasty, with sausages.”
“And can we add ketchup?” the girl brightened.
“Absolutely.”
While the eggs sizzled in the pan, Victoria opened the fridge, took the last scraps of cheese, buttered some bread, and made sandwiches. From the “riches” of the fridge she managed to scrape together a modest but hot dinner. The air in the room smelled like home.
Vitaly never came out of the bedroom. The door stayed shut. He didn’t so much as glance toward the kitchen.
But Yeseniya tucked in with a good appetite. She swung her legs under the table, doused the eggs with ketchup, and smiled as if it were a real feast.
Vika watched her daughter and smiled, but inside she felt heavy. The thought weighed on her that tomorrow she’d have to take money off the credit card again.
Shrimp and beer? That now seemed like reckless luxury from another life, where she had a choice of what to spend money on and could relax at least once a month.
She looked at her daughter, wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin, and whispered to herself: “For her. For her I’ll endure anything.”
But deep down there was weariness. She knew it couldn’t go on like this and it was time to change something.
The next morning, just as Vika had planned, she withdrew a little money from the credit card. Her heart clenched unpleasantly as she took the card back. That monthly ritual had become routine. But there was no choice—they had to eat. Only this time Vika bought food just for herself and her daughter.
At the checkout she stood with a cart holding milk, pasta, chicken breast, apples, bread, and one inexpensive pastry—especially for her girl, a small treat for good behavior and patience. Vika didn’t even try to remember what Vitaly liked—that no longer figured in her list of priorities.
In the evening, when Vitaly came home, the first thing he did was look into the fridge and, without turning around, mutter:
“What is this, a survival kit? Where’s the meat? Where’s the sausage I like?”
“Everything you see was bought on a credit card. For me and Yeseniya only,” Vika said evenly, clutching the dish towel in her hands. “You transferred half your salary to your mother again. So let her decide what you’ll have for dinner.”
“Have you lost your mind?” he turned to her. “She’s my mother. I have to help her.”
“You’re not helping—you’re supporting her. And you seem to have forgotten about your own family. Doesn’t it bother you that I’ve been wearing the same coat for three years, and when our daughter outgrows her shoes you grudgingly transfer half the money for new ones?”
“That’s not true! I’ve always taken care of my daughter!”
“Right… as if you’re doing us a favor. When I ask for money for decent boots for your daughter, it’s a ‘blow to the budget.’ But your mother’s beauty injections are sacred, of course. Let her feed you then!” Vika snapped, furious.
He said nothing. His shoulders tensed, his face went pale.
“I’m tired, Vitaly. This isn’t the first month—it’s a well-oiled system. And I don’t want to be the weak link in that system anymore. Either you reconsider your priorities, or we get a divorce. I mean it. Enough of living on two fronts. One—a cozy salon for your mother; the other—watery porridge for your wife and child.”
“You’re giving me an ultimatum?” Vitaly smirked, not taking her words seriously.
“No. I’m drawing conclusions. People always have a choice. But remember: if you choose your mother, the road back will be closed forever.”
Vitaly snorted and turned toward the hallway. Throwing on his jacket, he tossed over his shoulder:
“I’ll pick up my things on the weekend.”
The door slammed, and Vika exhaled and sank onto a chair, dropping the towel on the table. Silence settled over the apartment.
Vitaly didn’t come that weekend, nor the next. His silence spoke louder than any words—he’d made his choice. Vika understood that, but somewhere deep down a small hope still flickered: what if he came to his senses?
On the tenth day the phone rang. Not Vitaly—his mother.
“Happy now?” hissed Lyudmila Petrovna into the receiver. “You’ve wrecked a family over money! Vitalik is sleeping at my place now! Where’s your conscience?!”
“He’s sleeping in a three-room apartment you took from his father in the divorce,” Vika parried coolly. “And yes, I am happy. Because I no longer have to feed a grown man who prefers to spend money on your whims rather than his own family.”
Her mother-in-law had nothing to say. She spat out, “Insolent!” and hung up.
Vika closed her eyes. What infuriated her most wasn’t the rudeness but that Lyudmila Petrovna hadn’t even asked about her granddaughter.
Present day
Life without Vitaly turned out to be… easier. Yes, money was still tight, but now Vika knew exactly where it went. She closed the credit card and picked up a side job—writing articles for a local magazine in the evenings. Watching her mother work so hard, Yeseniya began helping around the house without reminders: she made her bed, washed the floors, even tried cooking simple things like scrambled eggs.
“Mom, I finished my homework already!” she announced proudly one evening, handing her notebook to her mother.
Vika checked the assignments—everything was perfect. She hugged her daughter, hiding tears in her hair.
“You’re my clever girl.”
“When will Dad come?” Yeseniya suddenly asked.
Vika froze. She didn’t know what to say.
“He… is busy. But he loves you very much and promised to call on the weekend.”
Three years later
Vika fastened the seat belt in her used Chevrolet Spark and smiled at Yeseniya, who was carefully tying the bow on her new sundress.
“Ready for our big trip?” Vika asked, starting the engine.
“A trip to the forest park isn’t exactly traveling,” eleven-year-old Yeseniya laughed, but her eyes were shining. “But it’s still cool!”
Vika drove along the highway, listening to her daughter hum a new song. The wind blew in through the cracked windows and swirled through the cabin; it smelled of freshness and freedom.
After the divorce, Vitaly seemed to vanish from the lives of Victoria and Yeseniya. Alimony arrived on time—the last thing that connected him to his former family. On Yeseniya’s birthday he limited himself to a faceless message:
“Happy birthday. I transferred the money.”
“He’s just mad at you,” Yeseniya said once, dropping her eyes. “Because you drove him away.”
“I didn’t drive him away. He just chose another life.”
“Do you think Dad has forgotten about us?” the girl’s voice trembled.
Vika hugged her daughter.
“No, I don’t think that…”
But inside she was angry not at Vitaly, but at herself for not being able to make up for a father for her daughter.
Ilya came into their lives by chance. He was a photographer at the magazine where Vika wrote articles. Tall, with warm brown eyes, and a habit of carrying candies in his backpack.
“For potential models,” he joked, handing a sweet to Yeseniya when they first met.
The girl took the treat warily but didn’t eat it—she slipped it into her pocket.
“She’s distrustful,” Vika apologized.
“And that’s exactly right,” Ilya nodded. “Some guy is shoving a candy at her. She’s doing everything right.”
After moving up to middle school, Yeseniya started getting teased for growing up without a father. When Vika found out, she rushed to the principal, but Ilya stopped her:
“Let me go instead.”
The next day he came to the school. He went up to the homeroom teacher:
“I’m Yeseniya’s dad. And if the bullying doesn’t stop, we’ll be talking to those girls’ parents somewhere else.”
That evening the ringleader apologized to Yeseniya. And when Ilya came back, he just shrugged:
“Sometimes you just have to show you’re not afraid of anyone.”
Yeseniya looked at him wide-eyed, then suddenly hugged him.
“Thank you.”
Vika saw Ilya’s fingers tremble before he gently patted the girl on the head.
“Let’s get married,” Ilya said a year later, drying dishes after dinner.
Vika dropped her fork.
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. I want to be a real dad to Yeseniya. If she agrees, of course.”
“But… she has a father. A biological one.”
“A father isn’t the one who helped conceive,” he said softly. “He’s the one who cares about the child’s life and comes to school concerts.”
Vika burst into tears.
A year later Ilya sat with Yeseniya at the table, explaining a geometry problem that wouldn’t click for her. Vika watched them from the side, holding little Alisa in her arms—their daughter together.
“Mom, I got it!” Yeseniya turned, beaming. “Dad’s a genius!”
“Well, not a genius,” he laughed. “I just know one secret.”
“What secret?”
“That if you bang your head against a textbook long enough, sooner or later it’ll give in.”
Yeseniya burst out laughing. Vika met Ilya’s gaze—warm and full of love. Not just for her. For all of them. And then she realized it hadn’t all been for nothing.