“Yes, I know that Tatyana Pavlovna fooled everyone into thinking I did nothing around the house. But all the cleanliness and the cooking—that’s my handiwork. You’ll have to live with that information now, Igor Ivanovich. I don’t even know how you managed before we moved in. Although… you’ll have a perfect chance to remember. Because I’m leaving this madhouse! Together with my daughter.”
Veronika hesitated for a long time, but circumstances forced her hand—the rented apartment was eating up almost half the family budget, and more unexpected expenses loomed ahead.
Moving in with Maxim’s parents turned out to be quick and… painful. The two-room apartment of her mother- and father-in-law had felt cramped even before they arrived, and now five people were squeezed into it, including little Liza, who had just learned to run, open everything that came to hand, and pull out all Grandma’s stashes.
Tatyana Pavlovna, a woman of strict rules, made it clear from the start that in her house everything would remain as it had always been. At first, Veronika tried to adapt: she washed the floors the way her mother-in-law demanded, cooked according to her recipes, and tried to keep quiet in the evenings. They even kept Liza shut in the room when father-in-law Igor Ivanovich came home from work.
But even perfect cleanliness and a soft voice didn’t save her from criticism—either the borscht wasn’t right, or Liza laughed too loudly, or Veronika got up too late.
“I asked for quiet after work!” the father-in-law would bristle whenever his granddaughter threw a tantrum because she wasn’t allowed to leave the room. “Haven’t I earned some rest in my own apartment at fifty-five?” he would keep grumbling at Veronika.
“She’ll calm down, just give it a minute.”
The daughter-in-law left the kitchen, and Igor Ivanovich went on, “Just think, they landed on our heads. As if there was so much space here without them.”
“Igoryusha, don’t get worked up. Here, better eat,” his wife set a plate of buckwheat and gravy right under his nose.
He inhaled the aroma and tucked in with pleasure.
“Tasty. I never noticed you’d learned to cook meat so it just falls into strands. Very good!” praised Igor Ivanovich, and his wife only smiled sweetly.
Tatyana Pavlovna didn’t mention that she hadn’t cooked a thing since her son and his wife had moved in. So what? They want to live here—let them hustle! As if she’d cook for that whole crowd!
Maxim, instead of defending his wife, withdrew more and more. He came home from work tired, ate dinner, and then buried himself in his phone or computer, avoiding conversation. If Veronika started to complain, he sighed and said:
“Bear with it for a bit, until I sort things out at work. They’re my parents, after all. You’re looking for enemies in the wrong place!”
That “bit” stretched into half a year. Liza was growing, and each day she needed more attention and space. In good weather Veronika tried to take her out, especially in the evenings. Liza not only hated being shut up within four walls—she was wildly active. So it was simpler to go outside.
First the mother-in-law didn’t like it—Veronika had less time to cook, since the walks took three to four hours a day. Then Igor Ivanovich grumbled, and then Maxim too, whom his mother diligently filled with nasty little whispers about Veronika whenever she was out.
And one day Maxim snapped. As soon as Veronika bathed their daughter after a walk and sat her in the high chair—which, by the way, was in their room—her husband started in.
“I don’t understand where you’re always running off to!” Maxim shouted.
“What do you mean? Maybe you forgot we have a two-year-old who needs fresh air and play. In this room Liza eats and uses the potty. She’s not allowed to go anywhere. And if before it was only in the evenings, now it’s practically all the time. Your mother puts on a whole drama about how her granddaughter gives her a migraine. I’ve only got one question—do they even love Liza at all?”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Of course they do.”
“I don’t know what love is—my parents abandoned me. And your parents are the only grandparents who could give her at least a drop of warmth and kindness. But apparently, it’s not meant to be.”
“That’s what I’m saying—genetics,” Maxim muttered.
“What do you mean?”
“That Liza doesn’t look like me at all. That’s what!”
“She’s the spitting image of your mother!” Veronika exclaimed.
“You know what? I want a DNA test.”
“Seriously?” She couldn’t stop being surprised by Maxim’s words.
“Yes, absolutely. We’ll go do it tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’ll find the money.”
“You’ve got money for that, but not for diapers? That’s really funny.”
They did the DNA test, and you’d think everything would calm down for the time it took to get the results. But instead of relief, Veronika felt an invisible wall grow between her and Maxim. There was neither shame nor regret in his eyes—as if there was nothing strange about suspecting his own wife of cheating.
Maxim, on the contrary, behaved as if it were some routine domestic formality. Veronika more and more often caught herself thinking she could no longer open up to her husband; as for intimacy—there was no question of it.
The next day, early in the morning, Tatyana Pavlovna went to visit a friend. Veronika took advantage of the moment, while no one was home, to clean the apartment. After lunch she got Liza ready and they went to the park. The weather was wonderful, and she wanted to escape the stuffy apartment where every corner reminded her of pressure and reproaches.
When they decided to head home, the sun was already nearing the horizon. Meanwhile, a full-blown drama was unfolding in the apartment. Tatyana Pavlovna returned from her friend’s in high spirits. She saw a spotless apartment and smiled with satisfaction. Then she looked at the stove—nothing there; then into the fridge—also nothing.
She was about to throw something together quickly; otherwise her little scheme would turn into a scandal. But she didn’t make it in time. Igor Ivanovich walked into the kitchen.
“How nice and quiet! If only they’d go for walks at this hour more often! It’s getting unbearable. Come on, Tanyusha, dish it up. What have you got today?”
“Um… today I’ve got… fried eggs!” blurted out Tatyana Pavlovna.
“You mean, all day and you only managed fried eggs?”
“Why ‘only’? Look how the apartment is sparkling. I was cleaning!”
Just then Maxim arrived. Almost at the same time, he and Veronika with Liza came home. Veronika calmly set Liza on the floor and helped her take off her jacket. At that moment Maxim, as if ignoring his wife, headed straight for the kitchen. He’d stayed late and was starving. But disappointment awaited him there.
“And where’s dinner?” he barked at his wife as she passed by with Liza in her arms.
Veronika looked at Maxim and, without raising her voice, said:
“There won’t be any more dinner. I’m not the housemaid for your entire clan.”
She glanced at her bewildered in-laws and went on:
“Yes, I know that Tatyana Pavlovna fooled everyone into thinking I did nothing around the house. But all the cleanliness and the cooking—that’s my handiwork. You’ll have to live with that information now, Igor Ivanovich. I don’t even know how you managed before we moved in. Although… you’ll have a perfect chance to remember. Because I’m leaving this madhouse! Together with my daughter.”
Maxim was furious, but as soon as his wife disappeared behind the bedroom door, all he could manage was:
“What was that supposed to be? What makes her think she can take the child away from her father?”
“I can hear everything!” came Veronika’s voice from the room. “You only just recently questioned your own fatherhood. And now you’re indignant. What a clown family.”
“What did she say?!” yelled Igor Ivanovich.
He got up and went to the room, but no one looked in beforehand, and neither of them knew the suitcases had already been packed. Veronika came out to meet her father-in-law, boring into him with her gaze.
“Now your ego will be just fine. It’s a pity there’ll be no one left to boss around. Because the two-year-old you could shut up won’t be living in your apartment anymore. Go practice on someone else. Maybe it’ll work.”
“How dare you!” began Igor Ivanovich, but his daughter-in-law gave him a slight nudge with the suitcase and walked on into the hallway.
Calmly, Veronika put on her coat and hat in the corridor and helped Liza zip her jacket. Maxim, sitting on a kitchen chair, at first watched her actions with a skeptical air—he thought it was another female performance that would end in half an hour with tears and kneeling apologies.
But when Veronika tossed the keys onto the shelf by the door and said, “I didn’t make a duplicate, don’t worry,” bewilderment flashed in his eyes, quickly replaced by alarm.
“Wait… Are you serious?” Maxim jumped up and rushed toward his wife and daughter, but she, holding Liza’s hand, simply stepped aside.
“Too late,” she said curtly.
Twenty minutes later they were already in a taxi, the small suitcase neatly stowed in the trunk. Their new home was the one-room apartment of Antonina Grigoryevna—Veronika’s grandmother on her father’s side. She welcomed her granddaughter and great-granddaughter as if she’d been waiting for them all morning: with hot soup, warm compote, and not a single question. She only stroked Veronika gently on the shoulder and said:
“If you’ve come, then there was no other way. Stay as long as you need.”
Veronika had no other close family: her father died ten years ago, and her mother left the country with a new boyfriend when the girl was only five.
A week later the DNA results arrived: Maxim turned out to be Liza’s father with 99.99% certainty. That very day Veronika, without hesitation, filed for divorce.
The court hearings dragged on for several weeks. Veronika demanded child support and half the value of the car recently purchased during the marriage. Maxim and his mother, Tatyana Pavlovna, fought tooth and nail. At every hearing the mother-in-law nearly broke into a scream, insisting that for the last two and a half years the daughter-in-law had sat at home and hadn’t contributed a kopeck to the family.
“If she’s been on maternity leave for two years, then she has no right to the car!” fumed Tatyana Pavlovna.
The judge listened patiently and then replied calmly:
“Ma’am, you seem to be forgetting that your former daughter-in-law did colossal work when she gave birth to and raised your granddaughter. That is also a contribution to the family.”
Tatyana Pavlovna flushed purple, but had nothing to say. The decision was in Veronika’s favor: child support and half the value of the car.
The mother-in-law seethed, Maxim grew gloomier, and Veronika, for the first time in a long while, felt light. She had a roof over her head, her daughter and grandmother by her side, and ahead lay a life where she owed nothing to anyone.
After the last court session, Tatyana Pavlovna kept silent for a long time on the way home with Maxim. Her face was stone, but her eyes burned with anger.
“Son,” she finally said, “want me to tell you how to get back at her?”
Maxim looked up at his mother.
“How?”
“Just don’t see Liza. Let her sit with the girl without weekends or breaks. Let her gnash her teeth. We’re paying child support anyway—that’s enough for them!”
Maxim didn’t even argue—he only nodded. And that’s how they lived: for five years he didn’t see Veronika or his daughter. Bank transfers were the only reminder of Liza.
Then the unexpected happened. Tatyana Pavlovna fell gravely ill. The doctors were cautious, but the gist was clear: she had only a couple of months left. She did a lot of thinking, tossed and turned sleepless at night. And one day, struggling up from bed, she called her son:
“Maxim,” her voice was weak, “bring Liza. I want to see my granddaughter… at least once, while I still can.”
Maxim hesitated, but dialed Veronika. To his surprise, his ex-wife agreed almost at once, only adding:
“But first Liza needs to meet you as her father. She barely remembers you. We’ll meet at a café.”
Maxim thought that was reasonable and agreed to the time she named.
The next day he walked into a cozy café and saw them immediately. By the window sat Veronika; next to her, a girl of about eight, incredibly similar to a young Tatyana Pavlovna. But his eyes snagged on a third person: a tall, solid man around forty who had his arm around Veronika’s waist. What was even more unbearable—they all looked happy.
Maxim stopped, clenching his teeth, not understanding who this was… but already sensing that his ex-wife had prepared a surprise that wouldn’t be pleasant.
And then Maxim heard a clear child’s voice:
“Daddy!”
He spun toward the girl; his heart twinged—he hadn’t heard Liza call him that even once in five years. But the joy lasted only a moment. Liza, beaming, wasn’t looking at him at all, but at the man sitting across from her, making funny faces at him. The man laughed back.
In that instant Maxim turned to stone. A wave of anger and humiliation rose in his chest. What the hell? That was his Liza, his daughter, and now she was calling some other guy “Daddy.” He failed the vanity test before he even managed to come closer.
He pivoted on his heel and walked out of the café without so much as a greeting. Already outside, gripping his phone, he called his mother:
“Mom, Veronika’s gone too far! She forbade Liza to see me. Never mind you…”
Tatyana Pavlovna listened in silence, then said quietly,
“Apparently, we deserve this, son…”
In the end she never saw her granddaughter before she died. Maxim didn’t try again—his pride was dearer.
Now two stubborn men lived in their two-room apartment—Igor Ivanovich and Maxim. They considered themselves the better half of the whole world, but life only grew emptier for it.
And Veronika didn’t know and didn’t want to know any of this. She lived her own life—with a man she loved, with a wonderful daughter who smiled far more often than in childhood. And deep down, she was already dreaming that very soon she would become a mother for the second time.