Dasha stood in front of the mirror, adjusting her veil. The white dress she’d chosen so carefully six months ago now looked ridiculous to her. Nothing was the way she had dreamed it would be.
“Are you ready?” Maksim walked into the room with a smile. “Everyone’s waiting.”
She nodded, but something inside her tightened. His mother, Lyudmila Petrovna, had been walking around with a sour face since morning, whispering with the relatives. Dasha knew it: there would be a fight today.
A restaurant. Champagne, laughter, music.
“So, Maksim, congratulations!” Uncle Kolya slapped the groom on the shoulder. “You got married—now brace yourself.”
“Oh, sure,” Lyudmila Petrovna snorted, taking a sip of wine. “Hold on tight, son. Especially when the dowry runs out.”
Silence. Dasha froze with her glass in her hand.
“Mom,” Maksim frowned. “Stop it.”
“What?” her mother-in-law spread her hands. “I’m just telling the truth. She’s no model, no businesswoman… just an ordinary office mouse. Although…” she narrowed her eyes. “Maybe she can at least cook?”
Guests shifted uncomfortably. Dasha felt the blood rush to her face.
“Lyudmila Petrovna,” she said softly. “It’s our day. Let’s just—”
“Just what?” her mother-in-law cut her off. “I’m just curious! Alright then, son, since you chose her… though Lenochka, my friend’s daughter…”
Maksim tugged at his mother’s sleeve, but she waved him away.
“Oh come on, Max, I’m not saying it out loud!” she laughed loudly, scanning the guests. “Though of course you could’ve found someone better…”
Dasha lowered her eyes. A dull ache spread in her stomach.
“Dasha, ignore her,” her friend whispered.
But then a voice came from the table—Aunt Galya, Maksim’s sister:
“I actually like the bride’s dress! Wow— it even hides her figure.”
A quiet chuckle.
Dasha stood up.
“Thank you for the warm words,” she said evenly. “I’m going to go fix my makeup.”
In the restroom, she breathed deeply, staring at her reflection. Okay… I lost the first battle. But the war is only beginning.
Outside the door, she heard whispering:
“So, Lyuda, how’s the plan?” an unfamiliar voice asked.
“Perfect,” her mother-in-law smirked. “In a year we’ll split them up. The apartment is hers, after all.”
Dasha went still.
“And if it doesn’t work?”
“It will,” Lyudmila Petrovna said firmly. “She’s a kind idiot.”
Quiet laughter. Footsteps. The door slammed.
Dasha slowly unclenched her fists. Nail marks were left in her palms.
No. Not anymore.
She straightened up, fixed her dress, and walked back into the hall.
A war was waiting.
Three months after the wedding, Dasha had gotten used to her mother-in-law’s venomous remarks, but today crossed every line.
She was sitting in the kitchen sorting mail when her phone buzzed. An SMS from the bank:
“Debit 49,870 rubles. Boutique ‘Elegant’. Balance: 3,120 rubles.”
Dasha went cold. It was her salary card. Her last money before vacation.
“Maksim!” she shouted. “Did you take my card?”
Her husband came into the kitchen, frowning at something on his phone.
“No. Maybe you—”
“I didn’t spend fifty thousand in one day!”
She opened the transaction history. Purchase at the boutique—today, 14:30. Exactly when she was at work.
Dasha called the bank.
“Yes, the transaction was confirmed with the PIN,” they told her politely.
Only she knew the PIN and…
“Galya,” Dasha whispered.
Maksim’s sister had stopped by yesterday, asked for tea. The card had been in Dasha’s purse on the chair.
Dasha dialed her number.
“Hello, Dashenka?” Aunt Galya sounded unnaturally cheerful.
“Galya, did you take fifty thousand from my card?”
Pause. Then a fake laugh.
“Oh, come on, you’re not going to get upset, are you? I urgently needed a fur coat, and I don’t get paid until next week. I’ll pay it back!”
“Without asking? Are you serious—”
“Oh, stop,” Galya’s voice sharpened. “Your husband earns well, and I’m a single mother. You’re not going to be stingy, are you?”
Dasha squeezed the phone.
“I am. Especially when people steal.”
“Steal?” Galya snorted. “God, you’re greedy. Maksim is right—you’re impossible.”
The line went dead.
Dasha turned to her husband. He stood in the doorway, fists clenched.
“So what did you do now?” he barked. “My sister called—she’s crying!”
“She stole fifty thousand from me!”
“Stole?” Maksim rolled his eyes. “She’s family! We help our relatives.”
“Without asking?”
“What, you started keeping score?” He stepped closer. “I gave you an apartment, and you’re losing it over some money—”
Dasha backed away.
“What apartment? This is my apartment! My parents’!”
Maksim went silent. His face twisted.
“Ah, I see. So it’s ‘me—mine—my.’ Remember this, Dasha: in a family, everything is shared.”
He turned and left, slamming the door.
Dasha sank onto a chair. Tears stung her eyes, but inside, fury was already boiling.
She pulled out her phone and opened her gallery. A photo from a celebratory dinner a month ago: Galya in a new fur coat, hugging Lyudmila Petrovna. Caption:
“Thanks to my beloved brother for the gift!”
Only now did Dasha realize—the “gift” had been paid for with her money.
She slowly dialed the bank again.
“I want to block the card and dispute the transaction. Yes—as fraud.”
Outside, it grew dark. Somewhere in that darkness were her fifty thousand—and her trust.
But tomorrow the war would begin.
Dasha spent a week preparing for her son’s first birthday. She ordered a teddy-bear cake, decorated the apartment with balloons, bought little Misha a tiny suit. She wanted everything to be perfect.
In the morning she heard Maksim talking in the entryway:
“Mom, you’re definitely coming, right?”
“Of course,” Lyudmila Petrovna’s sharp voice answered. “Who else is going to show that idiot how holidays are supposed to be done?”
Dasha pretended she hadn’t heard. She plated Olivier salad, checked the cake.
By two o’clock, guests had arrived. Dasha’s friends with children, Maksim’s colleagues, relatives. Lyudmila Petrovna showed up in a fur cape even though it was May outside.
“Oh, it’s so cramped!” she sighed loudly, looking around the apartment. “Maksim, how do you even live here?”
“Mom, stop,” her husband muttered.
Dasha brought in the cake with the candle. Misha reached for it with tiny hands.
“Just a second, sunshine—Daddy will help you blow it out,” she smiled.
“Sunshine!” her mother-in-law snorted. “He takes after you—same little chubby one.”
The room went quiet. Dasha felt herself turning red.
“Lyudmila Petrovna, today is a celebration…”
“What? I’m just telling the truth!” the woman stood up, pointing. “Look, she’s overfed the kid! And herself too!”
She deliberately shoved the table. A bowl of hot soup tipped over right onto Dasha’s dress.
“Oh, sorry!” her mother-in-law covered her mouth with her hand. “But it’s your own fault— you’ve gotten fat like a cow!”
Dasha stood there, feeling borscht run down her legs. Her vision darkened.
“Out,” she whispered.
“What?” Lyudmila Petrovna put on a shocked face.
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
The guests froze. Maksim jumped up.
“Dasha! Have you lost your mind?!”
“No—you’ve all lost your minds!” she wiped at her dress with shaking hands. “Your mother has been tormenting me for a year!”
“Here we go,” Aunt Galya sighed. “Same old hysterics.”
“Shut up!” Dasha yelled. “You still owe me fifty thousand, by the way!”
Maksim grabbed her arm.
“Stop humiliating me!”
She tore free, ran into the bedroom, slammed the door, locked it.
Outside came voices:
“Don’t mind her, she has postpartum depression…”
“I told you—she’s crazy…”
“Maksim, you need to divorce her urgently…”
Dasha clutched crying Misha to her chest. She looked in the mirror at her tear-streaked face, at her ruined dress.
In that moment she understood—this was it. No more chances.
There was a knock at the door.
“Dasha, come out,” Maksim said flatly. “We need to clean this mess up.”
She took a deep breath, wiped her cheeks.
“You clean it up yourself. With your mommy.”
Silence. Then footsteps—Maksim left.
Dasha took out her phone and called her mother.
“Mom… come get me. Please.”
In the receiver she heard her mother’s frightened voice:
“Sweetheart, what happened?”
“Everything,” Dasha whispered. “I don’t have a family anymore.”
Dasha spent a week at her parents’ house. Misha slept poorly—stress after that nightmare birthday. Every morning she checked her phone—no calls from Maksim. Only yesterday she got a text: “When are you going to stop hysterics and come back?”
The morning began with a call from an unknown number.
“Hello, is this Darya Sergeyevna?” a woman’s voice asked. “I’m the district doctor from Polyclinic No. 5. Your mother-in-law, Lyudmila Petrovna Kozlova, is in serious condition. She needs care.”
Dasha sat up in bed as nausea rose in her throat.
“What… condition?”
“Suspected micro-stroke. Blood pressure 190 over 110. She insists that you be the one to take care of her.”
Forty minutes later, Dasha stood at the door of her own apartment. The door was opened by tearful Aunt Galya.
“Finally!” Galya sobbed. “Mom is so sick, and you’re out here making scandals!”
In the bedroom, Lyudmila Petrovna lay on the bed. Eyes closed, one side of her face twitching strangely. Maksim sat nearby, holding her hand.
“Look who has honored us with her visit,” the mother-in-law rasped without opening her eyes.
Dasha stepped closer. Something felt off—despite her “serious condition,” her mother-in-law had makeup on, and on the bedside table stood a half-finished cup of soda.
“Where’s the doctor? What treatment did they prescribe?”
“The doctor left,” Maksim answered quickly. “She said bed rest and care. You’ll stay.”
Dasha picked up the medical file. The diagnostic page had been torn out. All that remained was an old hypertension note.
“Interesting—why are there no notes from today’s exam?” she asked out loud.
Lyudmila Petrovna’s eyes snapped open.
“What, you don’t believe doctors?! I almost died and you—”
“Mom, calm down!” Maksim jumped up. “See, Dasha? Look what you’ve done to her!”
Without a word, Dasha went into the hallway, pulled out her phone, and called the clinic.
“Hello, can I speak to the district doctor? No, I’m not a patient. I’m Lyudmila Petrovna Kozlova’s daughter-in-law. Yes, I need information about her condition… What?.. Thank you.”
She returned to the bedroom. All three stared at her expectantly.
“I just called the clinic. Your district doctor hasn’t been on house calls today. At all.”
Silence hung in the room. Lyudmila Petrovna suddenly stopped “twitching.”
“So what?” Galya snorted. “It could’ve been the on-duty doctor!”
“Uh-huh.” Dasha pulled a crumpled receipt from her pocket. “And the on-duty doctor just happened to drop a pharmacy receipt in the stairwell? ‘Validol, Corvalol, 12:45.’ Bought today. After your call.”
Maksim went pale.
“Mom… are you really faking it?!”
Lyudmila Petrovna sat up abruptly.
“What did you expect?! She ran away and took my grandson! How else was I supposed to bring her back?!” Then she turned to Dasha. “Yes, I set it up! And what are you going to do? You’re still obligated to take care of me—I’m your child’s grandmother!”
Dasha walked to the window and threw it open. Fresh air rushed into the stuffy room.
“Here’s what I’m going to do,” she said very quietly. “First, I’m calling an ambulance. Let them confirm your ‘stroke.’ Second—” she turned to Maksim, “you choose. Either they move out today. Or tomorrow I file for divorce.”
Lyudmila Petrovna sprang from the bed.
“How dare you! He’s my son! Mine!”
“Yours,” Dasha nodded. “And he’ll stay with you. Forever.”
She left, slamming the door. In the stairwell, with trembling hands, she dialed emergency services—and suddenly realized she wasn’t afraid anymore. Not at all.
Dasha returned to work after a week away. Colleagues threw curious looks at her—apparently rumors about her family problems had already spread around the office.
“Darya Sergeyevna, the director asked you to come in,” the secretary told her.
In the boss’s office, he leaned back in his chair, tapping a pencil on the desk.
“Explain what’s going on. Your project is behind schedule, and yesterday some man called demanding your work files. He said you don’t work here anymore.”
A cold wave ran down her spine.
“What did he look like?”
“Young. Leather jacket. He introduced himself as your husband’s brother.”
“Sergey…” Dasha whispered.
She stood up sharply.
“I need to go home. Now.”
The taxi tore through the city. Dasha nervously checked her phone—her apartment security cameras showed a black screen. The system reported a shutdown at 11:23 a.m.
When she burst into the apartment, the first thing she saw was the office door ajar. Torn router wires lay on the floor.
“No…” She lunged toward the desk.
Her laptop was gone.
The external hard drives with her project archive were gone. Even the old tablet she hadn’t used in two years.
A rustle came from the kitchen. Dasha froze.
“Who’s there?”
Sergey stepped out from around the corner. In his hands he held her favorite porcelain mug.
“Oh, sister-in-law! Back early.”
“Where’s my laptop?” Her voice trembled with rage.
“What laptop?” he widened his eyes innocently. “I just came to check on my brother.”
“Maksim is at work.”
“So what?” Sergey set the mug into the sink. A crack rang out—its bottom chipped. “Oops.”
Dasha took out her phone.
“I’m calling the police.”
“Go ahead!” He stepped toward her sharply. “You know who my friend is? A traffic police inspector. He’ll bury all your calls.”
“Yeah?” Dasha slowly lifted the phone. “And will he bury this conversation too?”
On the screen, the words glowed: “Recording.”
Sergey went pale.
“You…”
“Get out. Now.”
He threw a keyring onto the floor.
“Maks won’t make you new ones.”
When the door slammed, Dasha sank to the floor. Her hands shook so badly she could barely hold the phone.
A bank notification flashed:
“Online banking login from a new device. IP: 95.31.18.207”
She knew that IP—Maksim’s home garage Wi-Fi.
Dasha slowly stood up and went to the wardrobe. From the top shelf she pulled down a thick folder.
“Well then, dear relatives…” she whispered, flipping through documents. “Let’s start the war for real.”
Inside were:
printouts of threatening messages from Galya
photos of damaged belongings
a medical conclusion confirming her mother-in-law’s fake episode
and a fresh, newly signed contract with a lawyer
She opened her husband’s laptop—the only one they hadn’t stolen—and began typing a police report.
Dasha was finishing her third cup of coffee when someone knocked hard on the door. Through the peephole she saw Maksim—hollow-cheeked, with a week’s stubble. He held a grocery bag.
She didn’t want to open. But she needed to end this once and for all.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked, stepping back into the hallway.
“An hour. Maybe more.” He held out the bag. “I bought your jam. Remember—like from childhood?”
Inside really was a jar of apricot jam—the kind her mother used to make. A lump rose in Dasha’s throat, but she forced herself steady.
“Why are you here?”
Maksim walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. His fingers drummed nervously on his knees.
“I want to bring everything back.” He looked up at her with red eyes. “Mom and Sergey left—went to Auntie’s in the village. Galya too. I… I understood everything.”
Dasha lowered herself into the chair opposite him.
“What exactly did you understand?”
“That I was blind. That they…” he swallowed, “used me like a wallet. And you—like a servant.”
She studied his face, searching for lies. But she saw only exhaustion—and something like remorse.
“Why now? After five years of this hell?”
“Because…” he reached for her hand, but she pulled away, “because when you left, I was alone. For real. They didn’t even bring me tea, Dasha. They just demanded money.”
Misha began crying in the bedroom. Dasha went to fix his blanket. When she returned, Maksim was standing by the window, squeezing a sheet of paper in his hands.
“What’s that?”
“A medical record.” He handed it over. “Mom. The real diagnosis.”
Dasha scanned the lines: “Alcoholic encephalopathy. Psychoorganic syndrome.” Date—three years ago.
“She’s… sick? For real?”
“Yes. Doctors said—aggression, manias, it’s the disease. I didn’t believe them. I thought she was just… like that.”
Dasha set the record on the table. One thought spun in her head: Too late.
“Maksim,” she inhaled deeply, “even if I believe that you finally understood… I can’t. Too much filth. Too much pain.”
He jerked his head up.
“But I kicked them out! I did everything you wanted!”
“Not for me!” Dasha suddenly raised her voice. “You did it only when you got hurt! For five years you watched them humiliate me—and did nothing. Not one word!”
Maksim went pale. His hands clenched.
“So that’s it? Just… the end?”
Dasha went to the dresser and pulled out the folder. Inside were the divorce filing and the apartment warrant.
“Here’s your choice. Either we split everything civilly, or I go to court with this—” she slapped her palm on the stack of documents— “and you’ll end up without the garage, without savings, and with the mortgage on your mom’s dacha.”
He flipped through the papers, horror growing on his face. Photos of stolen items. Message printouts. Even camera footage of Sergey carrying out her laptop.
“You… you collected this the whole time?”
“From day one.” She sat across from him. “I loved you. So much I endured it. But my patience only lasted long enough to gather proof.”
Maksim bent over suddenly, covering his face with his hands. His shoulders shook. For the first time in five years, Dasha saw him crying.
“I… I don’t know how to live without you. Without Misha.”
She looked at this broken man she once loved and understood—pity was still there. But love was gone.
“You’ll learn.” Dasha stood and smoothed the tablecloth. “Sign the papers. And let us go.”
When the door closed behind him, she sank to the floor and finally let herself cry. But these were tears of relief.
Courtroom No. 14 smelled of wood polish and someone’s cheap perfume. Dasha sat at the table, adjusting her blouse collar. In her pocket was the precious flash drive—her final trump card.
“Everyone rise, court is in session!” the clerk announced.
Across from her sat the whole “family”: Maksim with a swollen face, Lyudmila Petrovna in an old-fashioned suit, Galya with fake “Chanel.” Even Sergey showed up, though there was a separate theft case against him.
“Civil case on the claim of Darya Kozlova for recovery of material damages,” the judge read in a monotone. “The plaintiff demands…”
Lyudmila Petrovna suddenly jumped up.
“Your Honor! She owes us herself! Her parents bought the apartment, but my son paid for the renovations!”
The judge frowned.
“Citizen Kozlova, if you have questions, you’ll ask them during arguments.”
Calmly, Dasha laid out documents. A renovation receipt (done by her father). Account statements (money only from her). Even a printed message where Maksim admitted: “The apartment is yours, I don’t claim it.”
“Your Honor, permission to submit new evidence,” her lawyer said.
A video played on the screen. The hallway camera in their apartment. Clear as day: Galya rummaging through Dasha’s purse, pulling out her wallet. Date—one week before the “gift” fur coat.
“It’s fake!” Galya shrieked.
“Order in the court!” the judge banged the gavel. “Next piece of evidence.”
An audio recording. Lyudmila Petrovna’s voice:
“That’s enough whining! Let her sue! My son-in-law has someone there—they’ll close the case!”
Maksim went pale. It was the first time he saw his mother as she truly was: not a “poor sick woman,” but a cruel old woman.
The judge skimmed the file.
“Citizen Kozlov, do you confirm that your mother made such threats?”
Maksim stayed silent. Then поднял his head.
“I confirm. And…” he swallowed, “I want to file a statement. About the return of the money. That my mother and sister took from my wife.”
Galya sprang up as if stung.
“What are you doing—betraying us?! We’re family!”
“Family doesn’t steal,” Maksim said quietly. “And doesn’t lie in court.”
Dasha looked at him in surprise. She hadn’t expected a turn like that.
The judge left to deliberate. In the corridor, Galya lunged at Dasha.
“Happy now?! You destroyed the family! No one will believe you—single mother with a child!”
“The court believes me,” Dasha answered calmly. “And my son. When he grows up—he’ll know the truth.”
The doors opened. The decision:
“Recover 327,000 rubles from the defendants. Transfer the theft case to criminal proceedings.”
Lyudmila Petrovna collapsed onto the bench with a howl. Sergey cursed. Galya sobbed. Only Maksim stood in silence.
After the hearing, he caught up with Dasha at the exit.
“I… I didn’t know. That they were like that. For real.”
She looked at him—the shattered man she once loved.
“I knew. And I still endured it. Because I loved you.”
“And now?”
“Now I love myself.” Dasha adjusted her bag. “And my son. That’s enough.”
She stepped outside into bright sunlight. For the first time in five years, she breathed fully. Her phone rang in her pocket—a new client agreed to her work terms. Life was starting with a clean page.
Epilogue
A year later, Dasha received a transfer—the last part of the recovered money. That same day a letter arrived: Galya tried to appeal the decision, but lost. Lyudmila Petrovna was in a neuropsychiatric hospital. And Maksim… Maksim sent a birthday card for Misha. With no return address.
She put it in a box labeled “Past.” And went to greet a new morning.