I’m not going to pay for your family, got it?” she said bluntly—without raising her voice, but with such chill that the air in the kitchen seemed to freeze.
Ilya slowly lifted his eyes from his cup of coffee, foam sliding down the sides. He didn’t understand right away what she’d said. Or maybe he didn’t want to.
“What do you mean, ‘pay’?” he asked, frowning.
“Exactly what I said,” Lena replied evenly. “I’m not an ATM. And I’m not obligated to carry your mother, your sister, and her kids.”
“Lena, you’re talking nonsense,” Ilya tried to smirk, but the smile came out strained. “It’s not like we’re talking about millions. Mom just asked for a little help. She’s got utility debts, and the bathroom needs repairs—the pipes are leaking…”
“That’s exactly it,” she cut in. “‘Just help,’ ‘a little,’ ‘temporary difficulties.’ I’ve been hearing that for three years, Ilya. How long is this supposed to go on?”
He got up from the table and paced the kitchen. Outside the window, gray clouds dragged along—October, mid-month, cold rain since morning, wet tracks of droplets on the sill. Saturday, supposedly a day off, but the air smelled like a fight.
“Lena,” he lowered his voice, “my mom isn’t a stranger. She’s alone, you know that—after Dad died…”
“Don’t start,” she snapped. “I understand everything. But it’s one thing to help, and another to pay for someone else’s choices. A year ago she started renovations even though she doesn’t have a stable income. Then she took out a loan, and now you hand over ten thousand every month. And when I ask, ‘With what money?’ you say, ‘We’ll figure it out.’ Well, here we are—figuring it out.”
Ilya sank back onto the chair and rubbed his face with both hands.
“You got promoted,” he said at last. “You’ve got a decent salary now. What—do you begrudge it?”
Those words hit harder than a shout.
“Begrudge it?” she repeated slowly. “No, Ilya. I don’t begrudge it. I’m hurt. Because I worked myself to the bone for two years just to crawl out of that hole—so we could breathe. And now you want me to pour it all down the drain again—for your mother, who thinks you owe her for the rest of your life.”
He said nothing. Something stirred inside him—not anger, not guilt, but confusion. It felt like the conversation had gone too far, as if he’d only said one wrong word and suddenly everything collapsed.
Lena turned to the window. In the reflection she saw herself: a tired face, eyes heavy with too many unspoken things.
“I’m not against helping,” she said more quietly. “But when it turns into an obligation, it’s not help anymore. It’s dependence. And sorry, but I don’t want to be part of your family accounting.”
“Not ours—mine,” he corrected automatically.
“No, yours,” she replied. “Your mother, your sister, your nieces and nephews. And you—you’re their guarantee. And I’m the source. That’s how it is, isn’t it?”
He wanted to argue, but the words stuck. It was too accurate.
Lena had come home late the night before—exhausted, her head buzzing from work. The general director had unexpectedly summoned her and announced that the previous department head was leaving. The position was opening up. They offered it to her. The salary—almost double. The role—serious. The responsibility—huge.
All evening she wandered around the apartment like it was a minefield. She opened her laptop to look at job listings, then closed it again. Put the kettle on and forgot about it. When Ilya came home, she simply said:
“They offered me a promotion.”
He was surprised, happy—hugged her. And then asked:
“How much does it pay?”
That was where it all began.
“Len,” he said now, softer, “you just took it the wrong way. We’re a family. Everything’s shared.”
“Not everything,” she cut him off. “I didn’t sign up to sponsor your relatives.”
“But you understand Mom isn’t asking out of spite. She’s genuinely in a difficult situation.”
“A difficult situation is when a person has no choice, Ilya. Your mom always chooses the most convenient option: call you and say, ‘Sonny, help.’ And you always help—even if afterward we’re the ones who come up short.”
“And you can’t help?” he pressed again. “Mom’s done so much good for you!”
“Like what, exactly?” Lena spun around. “Remind me what she’s done personally for me. When I got sick last winter—did she call even once? When we were renting and I suggested borrowing from her for a down payment—she said, ‘Handle it yourselves, you’re young.’ But now that I’ve finally been offered a position, you all suddenly remember I’m ‘part of the family.’ Convenient, isn’t it?”
He fell silent.
The wall clock ticked in the kitchen—loudly, as if on purpose.
Lena stood, poured herself water, took a couple of sips. Her voice trembled, but her words were measured:
“Ilya, I’m not against helping. But I don’t want my promotion to become an excuse for new obligations. I haven’t even accepted the position yet.”
“You haven’t accepted?” He lifted his head. “What do you mean? Why?”
“Because I’m not sure I can manage. The team is complicated—intrigues, a new work format. I don’t want to jump in blindly.”
He gave a short laugh.
“Are you serious? You’ve been working your whole life for this! You were always complaining they underestimated you. And now, when you get a chance, you start doubting?”
“I’m not doubting,” she said quietly. “I just want to understand whether I’m ready for that kind of responsibility.”
“Len,” he leaned forward, palm on the table, “if they offered it to you, you’re ready. Don’t you get that?”
She looked at him for a long time. And realized there was no support in his voice—only calculation. He wasn’t saying, I believe in you. He was saying, This is profitable.
“I need time,” she said.
“Fine.” He leaned back. “Just so you know—offers like that don’t come twice.”
The next morning began with a phone call. It was his mother. Lena was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, and Ilya spoke loudly—like he wanted her to hear:
“Yes, Mom, of course. No, don’t worry, I’ll handle it. Yeah, Lena will probably agree—where’s she going to go?”
She spat the foam into the sink and went still.
Where’s she going to go echoed inside her.
By then, the kitchen conversation was only the continuation of what had been building up. Everything had been said before—no one had listened.
“All right,” Ilya finally said, looking away. “I get it. You don’t want to help—fine.”
“I want you to want to stop standing between me and your mother,” Lena answered. “That’s all.”
He looked at her wearily, like at someone you can’t negotiate with.
“Len, you’re making things too complicated.”
“And you make them too simple,” she said, pushing back from the table. “And I think that’s exactly why we keep going in circles.”
She went into the room and closed the door. Picked up her phone, opened the chat with her boss. The message she’d typed for the third time—then erased every time:
“I agree to accept the offer. I’m ready to start on Monday.”
Her finger hovered over “send.” She exhaled. Pressed it.
The screen blinked, and it went quiet.
Behind the door she heard Ilya’s footsteps, the clink of dishes. He was probably talking to his mother again.
And Lena stood by the window thinking that maybe only now—right now—she had started to grow up.
Not when she graduated university. Not when she got married. Not when she got a new position.
But exactly now—when she said “no” for the first time.
“Is this a circus or a workplace?” came from the doorway, and the room fell silent instantly.
Lena stood in the doorway of her new office, a folder tucked under her arm, a nervous smile on her face. Her first day as head of the marketing department began with three employees arguing about a client mockup—voices raised, cutting each other off.
“Sorry,” the girl by the window said quietly. “We were just… clarifying details.”
“Details—in a separate room,” Lena walked to her desk. “And right now—everyone calm. Deadline is tomorrow. No time for drama.”
The room froze. For a few seconds, everyone looked at her with curiosity and mild wariness. Then one of the guys snorted:
“Here we go. New broom…”
She didn’t react. Just turned on her computer and started reviewing reports.
Ten minutes later, the silence had fully settled.
By lunch, Lena already understood she’d inherited a team that wasn’t exactly friendly.
There were twelve people, and half of them clearly believed someone else should be sitting in her chair—Margarita: tall, striking, businesslike, with a controlled voice. She’d been there longest, knew the clients, ran key projects, and made a point of looking indifferent.
“If you want, I can walk you through all the current contracts,” Margarita said after lunch, leaning into the office. “Just so you know what’s what.”
“Great,” Lena said. “After three—I’ll be free then.”
“Okay.” Margarita nodded and lingered for a second, as if she wanted to add something. “Just… don’t take it personally, all right? Things have been set up here for a long time, and people upstairs often think a new boss means everything has to change.”
“We’ll see,” Lena replied calmly. “The main thing is that it works.”
When Margarita left, Lena finally let out a heavy breath. She understood perfectly that in the team’s eyes she looked like an outsider.
And that feeling—outsider—she knew too well. At home, and now at work.
By evening her head was pounding. She stepped outside and inhaled the cold Moscow air. October was already sliding toward its end; the leaves underfoot were wet, streetlights mirrored in puddles.
Her phone buzzed—Ilya.
She didn’t answer. Let it be. Too soon.
She walked to the metro on foot, unhurried.
Past kiosks, coffee shops, display windows with autumn discounts. People hurried by with bags, someone laughed loudly. Inside her, it was empty and quiet.
That evening at home—if this rented one-room corner could be called home now—Lena switched on the kettle and sat by the window. The kitchen was tiny; on the sill sat a couple of cactus pots she’d bought over the weekend just so there’d be something living.
A new message appeared on her phone:
Ilya: “Mom’s asking when you get your salary. We need to cover the heating bill.”
She stared at the screen for a long time. Then simply deleted the message.
No reply.
The next days were packed. She came in before everyone else and left after. She sat over spreadsheets, sorted old reports, rewrote email templates for clients.
On Monday the general director called her in:
“Lena, I can see you’re taking this seriously. Good. Just don’t break the people, okay? They’re already on edge after Viktor left.”
“I understand,” she said.
“The main thing—don’t try to rebuild everything at once. Watch how people work, who’s good at what. Then draw conclusions.”
She nodded, though inside she knew: there was no time to warm up. Clients, reports, charts, delays—everything hit at once.
The first two weeks she barely ate properly, living off coffee and vending-machine sandwiches.
Margarita appeared in her office more and more often with “advice”:
“This contractor likes to be stroked the right way—don’t you dare come down hard.”
“Better not touch this client, she respected Viktor, she doesn’t trust you yet.”
“I’d redo this mailing completely, but if you want you can leave it—we’ll come back to my version later anyway.”
To say Lena wanted to curse would be an understatement.
But she held it in.
For now.
One evening, when only the two of them were left in the office, Margarita suddenly asked:
“So—true that you got promoted after a one-on-one conversation with Sergey Nikolaevich?”
Lena looked up from her laptop.
“And how do you know that?”
“Oh… just rumors.”
“Rumors are a favorite hobby of people who don’t have facts,” Lena said dryly and went back to her documents.
“Don’t be offended, I was just asking,” Margarita replied with fake innocence. “It’s just strange they chose you. We had plenty of candidates.”
“And yet they chose me,” Lena said calmly. “So I guess there were reasons.”
Margarita’s smile barely flickered.
“Maybe. But you know, it’s not always the numbers that decide. Sometimes it’s… sympathy.”
Lena snapped her laptop shut.
“Margarita, if you have something to say—say it directly.”
“Oh no,” Margarita spread her hands. “Just thinking out loud. Don’t let it get to you.”
Lena didn’t answer.
That was the first moment Lena realized: the fight at home and the fight at work weren’t any different. Only the faces changed.
On the weekend her mother called—her real mother, not her mother-in-law.
“Sweetheart, where have you gone?” Her voice was warm, familiar. “I’ve been calling, you never pick up.”
“Work, Mom,” Lena said. “New position, heavy load.”
“Well, at least you’re not bored,” her mother laughed. “Just don’t overdo it. And don’t listen to anyone who says you won’t manage.”
Lena listened and caught herself barely holding back tears.
How many times had she wanted to hear just that: I believe in you.
Not from Ilya. From her mother—yes. And it was enough.
After the call she sat down on the couch and just sat there, not moving.
Thoughts spun about work, about people, about how easily everything collapses when trust is gone.
And how hard it is to build again when there’s no one beside you.
On Monday at the meeting the first real conflict happened.
Margarita cut her off mid-presentation:
“Lena, sorry, but you didn’t account for the fact that the Q4 ad budget has already been allocated. If we start changing channels now, we’ll go over.”
“I did account for it,” Lena replied calmly. “The budget was calculated with an error. I redid it based on actuals.”
“Who approved that?” Margarita’s voice turned sharp.
“I did.”
“Without coordinating with the department?”
“The manager has the right to make decisions,” Lena said firmly. “If there are objections, we’ll discuss them after the meeting.”
Silence fell across the room.
The general director smiled slightly—barely, but Lena saw it.
After the meeting Margarita came up to her by the elevator:
“Want to show how decisive you are? Careful—they’ll tear you apart.”
“Let them try,” Lena said, looking her straight in the eyes. “I’m used to it.”
That evening she got another message from Ilya.
Ilya: “Len, let’s meet. I get it now. I don’t want us to end like this.”
She didn’t answer right away. Then she wrote:
Lena: “We’ll see. Not now.”
He replied almost instantly:
Ilya: “You’ve changed. You’ve gotten kind of cold.”
Lena looked at those words and thought that maybe she had changed. Just not in the way he meant. Not cold—just sober.
The week flew by in a constant sprint. By the end of the month the department delivered an excellent result: new clients, increased traffic, growth in leads. Sergey Nikolaevich praised them in front of everyone:
“Good work. Especially Lena—you can see she’s got her finger on the pulse.”
Lena thanked him, but her smile came out tight. She already knew: success is a double-edged thing. After praise, colleagues started looking at her differently.
Some congratulated her sincerely.
Some—with a smirk.
That evening, when everyone had left, Lena stayed alone. The office was quiet, only the hum beyond the window and the glow of the screen.
She opened the messenger and wrote to her mother:
Lena: “Mom, it’s working. But it’s hard.”
Mom: “Hard means you’re going the right way.”
Lena smiled.
And realized that for the first time in a long while, that word—hard—didn’t scare her.
But the next day everything changed sharply.
In the morning, as soon as Lena walked into her office, Margarita handed her a folder:
“Contractor documents. Need your signature.”
“Let me look.”
Lena flipped through and immediately noticed: the amounts didn’t match. The old contract—less. This one—forty thousand more.
“What is this?”
“New pricing,” Margarita said evenly. “They raised prices.”
“Since when?”
“Inflation. Everything’s getting more expensive.”
Lena looked up.
“I’ll call them myself.”
“As you wish,” Margarita shrugged. “Just don’t be surprised if you have to apologize later.”
Fifteen minutes later Lena really did call the contractor.
And found out there was no new pricing.
She hung up and sat there for a few seconds, unmoving. Then stood and said quietly:
“Now it starts.”
That evening she got home later than usual. On the table—unfinished tea. On her phone—another message from Ilya:
“I miss you. I want to talk. I understand I was wrong.”
She didn’t reply. She just turned off her phone.
On Monday morning, the meeting began with that very estimate suddenly coming up.
“Who prepared the contract with the contractor?” Sergey Nikolaevich asked, flipping through pages. “There’s a forty-thousand difference here.”
A tense silence fell.
Margarita sat across from Lena, calmly sipping coffee.
“Margarita brought the document,” Lena said evenly. “But I didn’t sign it.”
“Why?” the director raised an eyebrow.
“Because the numbers were swapped. The contractor confirms no new pricing was approved.”
Margarita twitched, but quickly pulled herself together.
“Lena, are you serious? It’s just a mistake! The secretary filed the wrong version.”
“Strange that the ‘mistake’ matches a benefit of exactly forty thousand,” Lena said softly. “And that the old contract copy disappeared from the server folder.”
Sergey Nikolaevich set the papers down without a word and looked at both of them.
“We’ll sort it out. Today.”
After the meeting, the department was deathly quiet.
Lena returned to her office, feeling her heart hammering.
She knew: it had started. And it was too late to step back.
By lunchtime an email came from accounting: “Difference confirmed. Original file removed from shared access on October 11 at 19:46.”
Lena remembered who had stayed in the office until eight that day.
Only Margarita.
An hour later, both of them were called to the director.
Margarita spoke quickly, confidently, even with irritation:
“This is a setup. I didn’t touch anything. I have a child at home—I don’t sit here late. Maybe someone else got into the folder.”
“We’ll check the logs,” Sergey Nikolaevich replied calmly. “For now, Margarita, take the day off. Until we clarify.”
When she left—slamming the door—Lena finally allowed herself to breathe out.
But there was no relief. Only exhaustion.
That evening, at home, Lena put the kettle on and looked at her phone.
Another message from Ilya:
“Len, I’m serious. Let’s just talk. No accusations. I need to see you.”
She stared at the screen for a long time. Then typed:
“Tomorrow. Seven. The coffee shop by the metro.”
The next day she arrived first. Ordered a cappuccino, sat by the window.
Ilya showed up ten minutes later—the same, but somehow different: gaunt, without his old confidence.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
“Talk,” Lena answered calmly.
“I… I don’t want to lose all of this. I was an idiot. I didn’t listen to you, didn’t see how hard it was for you. I thought we were fine—until you left.”
She listened in silence. The coffee cooled.
“You didn’t see because you didn’t want to,” she finally said. “I asked you for support back then. Not money, not help—just words.”
He lowered his eyes.
“I know. I understood too late.”
“Yes,” Lena said. “Too late.”
He exhaled, looked at her as if trying to memorize every feature.
“So that’s it?”
She gave a faint smile.
“No. ‘It’s over’ is when you feel nothing. And I feel something—just different. Fatigue, probably. And calm.”
He nodded.
“I won’t forget you.”
“You don’t have to,” Lena said. “Just live right.”
When she stepped out of the coffee shop, snow had started falling—rare, wet, the first of the year. Lena lifted her collar and walked toward the metro. It was quiet.
At the office, everything turned upside down over those days.
The review confirmed: the documents had indeed been altered—on Margarita’s computer.
Sergey Nikolaevich held a brief meeting:
“By decision of management, Margarita no longer works at the company. Lena, your department carried the project and saved our reputation—thank you.”
There were no applause, only short silence.
The team looked at her differently now—not with wariness, but with respect.
That evening, when everyone had gone, Lena stood by the window of her office.
Down below, car lights streamed by; the snow fell thicker.
She took out her phone and texted her mother:
Lena: “It’s over. I did it.”
Mom: “I knew you would. Now start living—not just surviving.”
Lena smiled and set the phone down on the desk.
And for the first time in a long while, she felt like she could breathe.
A few weeks later, everything settled into rhythm.
Work went smoothly; the department stood strong.
Sometimes late at night, when she stayed in the office, Lena would catch herself thinking she didn’t feel fear anymore.
Only a quiet certainty that everything that had broken—hadn’t broken for nothing.
One day, on her way home, she noticed a poster in a bookstore window:
“Project Management Course for Women Leaders. How to build a career without losing yourself.”
She stopped and looked at it.
And bought a ticket. Just because. No big plan.
In spring, she stood again by the same coffee shop where she’d once met Ilya.
No snow—only the smell of wet asphalt and a warm wind.
A latte in her hand, a new project plan in her head.
A young couple walked past, laughing.
She watched them—and suddenly realized it didn’t hurt.
Life hadn’t changed overnight. It had simply stopped feeling чужой—like it belonged to someone else.
Late that evening, back home, she pulled out an old box—the one with letters, tickets, photos.
She went through it and carefully threw it away.
Without tears. Without regret.
Two cactuses stood on the windowsill—grown larger, fuller.
Lena smiled and whispered:
“Good job. We’re holding on.”
She turned off the light, lay down, and for the first time in a long while fell asleep peacefully—without heavy thoughts, without waiting for something to happen—just with the feeling that everything was going the way it should