Marina was fastening the bracelet—the one with turquoise, a gift from an investor from St. Petersburg. Not a lover—nothing like that. Just a smart man who knows the value of money and of women who use their heads. She smoothed her hair, checked her earrings in the mirror, and was already reaching for her clutch when Dmitry walked into the room, looking guilty and carrying a bag of groceries.
“Mom’s coming over for dinner,” he said almost in a whisper, as if trying not to disturb his inner peace. Or someone’s patience.
“Dima, are you kidding me?” Marina nearly snapped the clasp on the bracelet. “I have a meeting with a client in an hour.”
“I said you’d be free. It’s not for the whole evening. She just misses you.”
“She misses my money, Dima,” Marina smirked, already angry. “Is my new coffee set missing from her collection?”
Marina and Yelena Sergeevna didn’t just fail to get along. It was a war with a long history of fronts and truces, where the weapons were cutting remarks, manipulation, and the constant “you’re a woman, just be simpler.” Uh-huh, simpler—so it’s easier for you to tolerate me? No, thanks.
“She’s your mother. Try to… I don’t know, be polite,” Dmitry set the bags on the table and headed toward the bathroom, as if fleeing the battlefield.
“Polite? After she called me a ‘man-peddler’ at the anniversary?”
“Well, she meant that you’re too independent…”
“Thanks, Dim, you’ve really fixed everything now,” Marina said with a sarcastic smile, throwing on her blazer. “Let the homesick mommy wait. I’m leaving.”
She walked out, slamming the door hard enough that even the cat felt the tension. The car glided out of the courtyard, and for a second it seemed everything was behind her. But it was the calm before a very loud storm.
When she came home later than planned, Marina sensed something was off right away. The bedroom light was on. I definitely turned it off… Time to take a step into a new life.
She took off her shoes, walked quietly down the hallway, and froze in the doorway. Yelena Sergeevna was standing at the mirror. She was wearing those very emerald earrings Marina kept in a locked jewelry box. In her hands she held the necklace.
“Back unexpectedly,” her mother-in-law said without turning. Her voice was icy, like in a cheap detective novel.
“What the hell are you doing?” Marina spoke slowly, controlling every muscle in her face not to scream.
“Trying things on. You hardly wear this anyway. And it looks good on me. Doesn’t it?” Yelena Sergeevna turned, smiling like someone who’s been living in your head rent-free for ages.
“These are my things. That’s an expensive necklace that I—”
“That you bought with money my son ‘invested,’ by the way. I have a right to it too. We’re family.”
“You’re out of your mind. What family?”
“The kind where you’re a temporary misunderstanding, Marina,” the mother-in-law said, taking off the earrings. “You think he loves you? Boys always obey their mothers. You’re just useful for now. As long as you have a business, as long as you have property, as long as you haven’t had a child.”
Marina stepped closer. Inside, everything was boiling. She realized this scene wasn’t just about the jewelry. It was the stripped-bare face of their whole history. Dmitry’s. And hers. It had always been there; she just refused to look.
“Got a plan?” Marina folded her arms. “Want to swindle me out of my assets through your golden boy?”
“Not me. He does,” Yelena shrugged and walked past her as if nothing had happened. “But I’m helping him. What—surely it’s not in your interest to leave us with nothing, right?”
Marina stayed where she was. Her heart wasn’t pounding in her chest—it was pounding in her head. She took out her phone, hit record. Then, in a hoarse voice:
“Repeat that, please. Everything you just said.”
“Oh no,” the mother-in-law snorted. “I’m not that stupid.”
“Pity,” Marina lifted her chin. “But I’ve already got everything recorded. From before.”
The mother-in-law froze. For the first time—for a split second—fear flickered in her. And it felt good. Sadistically good. Disgustingly satisfying.
“I knew you weren’t just a snake. You’re a snake with a community-theater diploma,” Marina tossed over her shoulder and headed into another room.
Her phone lit up—“Viktor. Lawyer.” She picked up.
“Hi, Vitia. Quick question. If my husband files for divorce, given the prenup, he won’t get anything, right?”
“Marina, are you joking? Of course not. Not a penny. Not a single ruble. He won’t even be able to take the cat if she’s registered to you.”
Marina smirked. Her voice went calm, like someone had turned on the A/C in an overheated room.
“Excellent. Then prepare the papers. Looks like we’re in for an interesting May.”
She glanced toward the doorway. Dmitry appeared from the hall. Tired, unshaven, with the eyes of a man who’d heard it all. But he kept silent.
“How long have you been there?” Marina asked without raising her voice.
“A while,” Dmitry answered quietly, staring at the floor.
“And?” Marina raised an eyebrow.
“Mom, go wait in the car,” he said, still looking down. “I’ll talk to her.”
Marina walked closer, slowly. Between them—a single step. Between them—eight years, a mortgage, three trips together, and one very unfortunate New Year’s in Karelia.
“You seriously think you can stay with her and come out of this clean?” she asked almost in a whisper.
“She’s my mother, Marina.”
“And I’m your wife. For now.”
He didn’t answer. She turned away and went to the window. Somewhere outside, a car honked. Probably a taxi. Or her new life.
Marina held the phone to her ear, waiting to be connected to the notary. The front door slammed behind her. She turned—Dmitry stood in the doorway, clutching her necklace in his hands.
“I can’t choose between you,” he said. “But if you throw her out—you’re throwing me out too.”
“Then you have only one option,” Marina approached slowly, looked him in the eye, and added quietly, “Find somewhere to live. I’m not sharing a bed with traitors anymore.”
He took a step toward her, as if to say something—then stopped. Silence. Soft breathing. One look. But no kisses, no embraces, no forgiveness. Just a pause. Tense, loud, like a shot nobody fired.
A week passed. In silence. As if someone had muted a TV series. Marina lived alone in the house, but the air still held the scent of Dmitry’s lotion and his stupid vanilla morning coffee. She wanted to throw out all his things, but restrained herself. Not out of nobility—her lawyer had said, “Until the divorce is signed, don’t touch anything. If something looks shady, he’ll file a countersuit.”
And it wasn’t about the things anyway. Things can be tossed. What really hit was that he stayed silent—no texts, no calls, no attempt to come back. So easy? Eight years?
Her morning started with a cup of black coffee and the intercom buzzing.
“Who is it?” Marina asked wearily.
“Courier,” a familiar voice.
“Dmitry, are you out of your mind?” She almost dropped her cup.
“No. Just open up.”
He was at the door. In his hands—a box of documents. Red-rimmed eyes, messy hair, a T-shirt with some idiotic cartoon. A grown man in crisis.
“What’s this?” Marina asked coldly.
“Signed papers. I agree to the divorce. No division. No claims. No questions.”
“Seriously?” She narrowed her eyes. “Just like that?”
“It’s what you wanted. You won. Congratulations, Marina.”
“Dima, I’m not playing chess, I’m living my life. And if you think this is a victory—then we really are done. For good,” Marina turned away, though something clenched inside.
He said nothing. He set the box by the door and went to the elevator. No drama. As if he’d just returned a parcel to an online shop.
That’s it. The end. No tears, no smashed dishes, not even a “let’s try again.” Good. Enough of being the one holding the bridge while both ends are already on fire.
Two days later she ran into Yelena Sergeevna. At the supermarket. By the antipasti section, naturally. The old woman wore a dressy coat, carried a new handbag, and had the look of a victor.
“You’re holding up pretty well, Marina,” she began, picking out olives. “Even without a husband.”
“I’m holding up because I have more than brains like yours in my head—I have real prospects.”
“Oh, don’t be snide. You’ll still have it worse. Women like you grow old alone. Men always have a choice.”
“Mm-hmm. Like you, for instance—you chose loneliness because no one could stand your character.”
“Dmitry is already looking for a place, by the way. With your money, of course, it would be easier.”
“Tell him the money’s mine. Like my dignity. He can rent a studio with his mother—split the bill.”
Yelena tried to retort, but choked on a grape. Marina left without waiting for rescue.
That same evening Dmitry finally texted. Briefly: “I miss you. Can we talk? No mom. No lawyers.”
She stared at the message for a long time. Then simply wrote: “Tomorrow. At 12. The café on the corner.”
He arrived late. Of course. As usual. As always. And he brought her tea, not coffee. Also as usual. The habits she was tired of but that, for some reason, still warmed her.
“I really miss you,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “You’re more to me than… just a wife. Just a business. Just a house.”
“But less than your mother, right?” Marina asked evenly.
“I don’t know how to live with this. She… she’s sick. Mentally. I realized that.”
“You realized it only after you were left without money. Without a home. And without sex.”
“Well, sex isn’t an argument anymore. Even before that we…”
“Shut up,” Marina cut him off, not hiding the pain. “I don’t need to hear that you miss me. I needed you to stand beside me when it was hard. But you chose your mother. And you were sure she was smarter, slyer, more important.”
“Because you’re stronger, Marina. I knew you’d cope.”
“That’s where you were wrong, Dim. I coped—not because I’m strong. But because there was simply nowhere else left to fall. You betrayed me. Not physically—that I could’ve handled. Morally. You weren’t there when I was screaming inside.”
He stared into his cup. She looked out the window. Between them sat a table, a sugar bowl, two glasses. And eight years of life.
“What do you want now?” she asked.
“To come back.”
“And I want to stop being afraid to fall asleep in an empty bed. You know how that works? I’m not afraid because I’m alone. I’m afraid because you might come back. And I’ll believe again. And then you’ll choose her again.”
“I won’t come back if you say ‘no.’”
“Then listen carefully. No.”
He stood up. And left. For good this time. No theatrics. No hope.
THE END:
A month later, Marina sat at the notary’s office. She signed the papers, took the documents, and exhaled. That was that. She was free.
Outside—the sun. Her car gleamed in the parking lot. She opened the door, got in, and smiled at herself in the mirror. Not a victory. But she survived. No revenge. But she left the game intact.
Then her phone buzzed. A text message. Unknown number: “You’re still of interest to us as an investor. Are you ready to discuss participation in a project in Milan? Accommodation on the coast included.”
She smiled. Yes. She was ready.
Moral of the story:
Sometimes love isn’t holding on—it’s letting go. And if you choose yourself, you don’t lose. You finally find yourself.