You’re not a woman, Nastya! You don’t have a maternal instinct at all!” Danila roared, slamming his fist on the table so hard the cup jumped and spilled tea all over the tablecloth.
Nastya stood by the window, pale as chalk. Outside, a fine rain was falling; uneven trails of droplets streaked the glass, and she suddenly caught herself thinking she wanted to go out into that rain—just leave and never come back.
“Say that again,” she said softly, without turning around.
“Say what again?” Danila snorted. “You heard me. Any normal wife would support her husband, but you…”
He cut himself off, as if realizing he’d gone too far, but it was too late.
Nastya turned around slowly. On her face—no tears, no hysterics—just exhaustion and firmness. The kind after which people don’t argue anymore.
“I’ll repeat something to you right now,” she said evenly. “This apartment is mine. And no one is moving in here without my consent. Not you, not your mother, not your son.”
Silence hung in the air, heavy as the moment before a storm. Danila straightened, tilted his head back, and gave a bitter little smirk.
“So that’s how it is,” he said. “Meaning you’re fine living with me, sleeping with me, going on vacation with me, but my child—sorry, that’s too much?”
Nastya looked at him and understood that there was nothing left in the man standing there with his face clenched in irritation of the Danila who used to bring her coffee in the morning and leave notes with little hearts.
“Don’t twist it,” she said quietly. “I didn’t sign up to be a mother to someone else’s child—one I only learned about three months after the wedding.”
“So what now?” he barked. “You’ll throw me out?”
“Already did,” Nastya replied, and took his jacket off the hook by the door.
He didn’t believe her. He just stood there watching her hold the jacket, then turned toward the hallway—and really did see his things packed. A suitcase, a box of tools, a couple of bags.
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
He gave a short grunt, tossed a screwdriver into the box, and paced around the room.
“I don’t recognize you, Nastya. You’ve become a stranger.”
“And I finally saw who’s been standing next to me,” she answered. “Congratulations—now we both know the truth.”
Danila had arrived in her life quietly, as if in passing. They met in a typical corporate cafeteria: she was a sales manager, he was an IT guy from the office next door. Not a heartthrob, not a tough guy—just a pleasant man with a confident smile and kind eyes.
He courted her calmly, without pressure. Flowers on weekends, calls without “where are you?”, trips to cafés and the movies. Nastya, exhausted by toxic relationships where every step had to be justified, saw him as support.
Three months later—a proposal. No fireworks, no kneeling, just dinner at home and a ring in a little box. “Nastya, marry me. With you everything is simple. No nerves, no games. I need that.”
She cried then. Happily.
Now, standing by the window, she couldn’t understand how she’d been so blind.
It didn’t start with shouting—it started with silence.
Three days earlier, when she came home from work, there were boxes in the entryway. Danila, breathless, in a T-shirt with a screwdriver in his hand, said as if it were nothing:
“My mom and my son are moving in with us.”
Nastya didn’t even understand right away. She thought it was a joke. Then that she’d misheard.
“What do you mean—moving in?” she asked.
“Well…” he shrugged. “Mom can’t manage alone. It’s hard for her. I can’t leave Artyom without supervision. Besides—family should be together.”
“Family”—that word hit her like a slap.
“Danila, do you even understand what you’re saying? You and I never agreed to this.”
“What is there to agree on?” he replied calmly. “He’s my son, Nastya. Ours, essentially.”
She sat down silently on a chair, trying not to scream.
“You didn’t even ask me,” she said dully.
“And why would I ask? It’s obvious,” Danila snorted. “You’re my wife.”
In that moment, Nastya realized that in his mind the word “wife” meant “a convenient servant with empathy.”
Once, before the wedding, her mother-in-law—Elena Viktorovna—had seemed like an ideal to Nastya: polite, neat, with a manicure, with pies that smelled of cinnamon. “Nastenka, dear, how wonderful that you’ve come into my son’s life!” she said at the engagement party, raising a glass.
And then, a few months later, that same woman sat at their kitchen table and softly, almost kindly, said:
“Nastenka, dear, true love isn’t afraid of anything. Not even a child.”
Nastya nodded then, not knowing how to respond. Danila sat beside her, staring into his cup.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” she asked when her mother-in-law left.
He shrugged.
“Not every girl wants a man with a child from another marriage. I decided to tell you when everything was already serious.”
That phrase lodged in her head like a splinter. “When everything was already serious.” Meaning—he knew in advance he was deceiving her.
After that, something broke between them.
He did everything as before—brought bread, turned on the kettle, invited her to watch a series. But it all became unbearably fake. Nastya caught herself unable to touch him.
And now, as he stood in front of her, angry, his face twisted, she felt only one thing—cold.
“Nastya, let’s do this without hysterics,” he said at last. “We’ll sort it out. You’ll get used to it. Mom will help. Artyom’s a good boy.”
She gave a quiet laugh. It came out hollow, cracked.
“Do you hear yourself? I’m supposed to get used to it? To what—to your lies? To you dragging everyone in here without asking?”
He rolled his eyes.
“God, here we go! Female drama!”
Nastya stepped closer.
“Danila,” she said calmly. “Take your boxes. And leave.”
“You can’t throw me out!” he shouted. “This is my home too!”
“No. This was my home before you. And now it’s only mine again.”
The door slammed.
Nastya sank onto the floor. Her head rang—like someone had turned the volume up to maximum. She stared at her reflection in the entryway mirror: messy hair, reddened eyes, a tired face.
“So that’s how love ends,” she thought.
Later, at night, she sat on the floor in silence. Behind the door, Danila was still shouting, demanding she let him in, then threatening, then begging again.
She didn’t open it.
When the lock finally clicked and he left, Nastya felt as if rotten air had been carried out of the apartment.
And it still hurt.
It hurt for herself—for the days when she believed they had a “we.”
Now there was only “me.”
At dawn, as soon as it started to get light, Nastya called a locksmith.
“Change the locks,” she said briefly, opening the door. “All of them.”
While the man fiddled with his tools, Nastya brewed coffee and listened to the drill’s screech biting into old metal.
Suddenly the elevator clanged, and Elena Viktorovna stepped out. In her hands—a bouquet of chrysanthemums; on her face—indignation.
“Nastenka!” she exclaimed, dropping the flowers. “What is this you’ve done? Changing the locks? Have you gone completely crazy?!”
The locksmith immediately gathered his tools and retreated. Nastya took the new keys, turned to her mother-in-law, and said calmly:
“Yes. I’m changing them. So your son doesn’t come back here again.”
“What are you saying!” the woman flared up. “You’re destroying a family! Have you thought about the child?”
“Your son should have thought about the child when he lied to me,” Nastya replied without raising her voice.
She closed the door in her face.
Three weeks passed. Nastya started sleeping normally again—though not right away. The first days she woke up at every rustle, even at the sound of the elevator behind the wall. It felt like Danila was about to appear again—with the same brazen expression, with the same words: “We’re family, you just need to get used to it.”
But he didn’t appear. No calls, no messages. Even his mother, Elena Viktorovna, vanished—and that was strange. Nastya was used to her constantly intruding with her “maternal advice,” and then—silence.
Only three weeks later did Nastya see them again.
It happened in the evening, when she was coming back from work. A grocery bag in her hands, fatigue on her face after a long day. The courtyard was already almost dark; only streetlights lit the puddles on the asphalt. And suddenly, by the entrance, she noticed a familiar figure—Danila.
He stood leaning against the railing, and next to him—a boy of about nine. A thin neck, an oversized backpack, eyes—an exact copy of Danila’s.
Nastya froze.
Danila noticed her almost at once. He lifted his head and straightened.
“Nastya…” he said. “We need to talk.”
She didn’t move. She just looked. At the boy, at Danila, at how time seemed to roll backward.
“There’s nothing for us to talk about,” she said dryly and tried to pass, but the boy stepped forward.
“Are you Nastya?” he asked quietly.
Something inside her turned over. The voice was childlike, but steady, like he’d been preparing for this conversation.
“Yes,” she answered reluctantly.
“I’m Artyom,” he said. “Dad said you’re kind.”
Nastya swallowed. Danila coughed as if to excuse himself.
“I didn’t know he’d say that to you. We just… came to pick up some things.”
“Things?” Nastya repeated. “The ones you didn’t manage to take after I threw you out?”
His lips tightened.
“Please don’t start.”
“No—you don’t start,” she snapped. “Go up, take them, and that’s it.”
They went into the apartment. Nastya set the bag down, walked into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water just to keep her hands busy. From the room came rustling—Danila was looking for his tools, his boxes, shuffling things around.
And the boy stood in the hallway, studying the photos on the wall. In one—Nastya with friends by the sea. In another—her and Danila, smiling, back in the “before” days.
“Is that you and my dad?” he asked.
Nastya nodded.
“Before,” she said shortly.
“Why don’t you live together now?”
She closed her eyes for a second. That was it. A small question that jabbed so sharply inside she wanted to shout.
“Sometimes people make mistakes,” Nastya said calmly. “They think they know each other, and then it turns out—they don’t.”
Artyom nodded as if he understood. And went to help his father carry the boxes.
When they left, the apartment felt cold. Nastya stood by the window and watched Danila open the car trunk, watched the boy carefully place boxes inside, watched them both get in and drive away.
And suddenly she felt sorry for the child. Not Danila—for him. A small boy pulled into adult conflicts.
She brewed tea and, for the first time in a long while, turned on the TV—just so it wouldn’t be quiet.
A week later, Artyom called on his own.
“Is this Nastya?” he asked softly. “I wanted to say… thank you. Dad forgot his book about cars at your place, but I found the same one at the library.”
“Glad to hear it,” she replied, smiling.
“Dad says you’re mean. But you’re not mean. You’re just sad.”
Nastya fell silent. What do you say to a child who sees straight through you?
“You’re a good boy, Artyom,” she finally said. “Listen to your grandma.”
“Can I call you again?” he asked after a pause. “Just to talk.”
Nastya wanted to say no, but she couldn’t.
“You can,” she said quietly.
That’s how their rare, strange conversations began. Every few days—a short call. Artyom talked about his robotics club, about his grandma scolding him over grades, about Dad always being angry.
Nastya listened. Sometimes she was quiet, sometimes she answered. Not out of pity—more from a simple human attachment.
Danila, it seemed, didn’t know about the calls.
One evening, someone knocked at the door. Nastya opened it—and almost dropped her mug. Danila stood on the threshold. He looked worn out: stubble, red eyes.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“We haven’t had anything to talk about for a long time,” Nastya answered, and tried to close the door, but he held it with his hand.
“Wait. Not like that. I’m not asking for forgiveness—though maybe I should. It’s just… everything fell apart. Mom got sick, problems at work. I can’t cope.”
Nastya stood there listening—and felt nothing. No pity, no anger. Just emptiness.
“Danila, I don’t owe you anything,” she said softly. “You made your choice.”
He smirked.
“You always had a character. Too much, even.”
“At least without lies,” she replied. “Unlike you.”
“I thought we could bring everything back,” he muttered.
“No. We won’t bring anything back. Even if you want to, I’m not that person anymore.”
He stood a moment longer, then nodded and left.
Two days later, Artyom came. Alone. He held a bundle in his hands.
“This is for you,” he said, and handed her a drawing. On the paper—a sun, a house, and three stick figures. Labeled: Nastya, me, Dad.
Nastya crouched down and looked at him.
“Artyom… where’s your dad?”
“He left,” the boy said. “He said he’ll be back soon.”
The boy stood there lost, as if he didn’t believe it himself.
Nastya invited him in and poured tea. They sat in silence.
And then Artyom said:
“Dad said you’re angry because nobody loved you.”
Nastya gave a small, crooked smile.
“Well, maybe he’s partly right,” she said. “But I learned to love myself. That takes time too.”
He nodded.
Then he looked up and asked:
“Can I come sometimes? It’s just… it’s quiet at your place.”
Nastya nodded.
That evening, after the boy left, Nastya sat by the window for a long time. The city lived its own life—cars, lights, other people’s windows where someone laughed, someone argued.
She thought about how everything had changed. A year ago she dreamed of a wedding, of a white dress, of a “real man by her side.” Now she just wanted peace. And honesty. Without lies, without pretending.
Her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number:
“I’m sorry. I’m leaving. Don’t look for me. Take care of yourself. Danila.”
Nastya read it, then simply deleted the message.
In spring she started living again. Not in the sense of “smiling” or “taking coffee photos for stories”—but for real. She bought new curtains, repainted the walls, signed up for design courses. She began waking up in the mornings with the desire to do something.
Artyom sometimes stopped by after school—brought new drawings, talked about robots. Nastya listened and caught herself feeling calm. Not happy—just calm.
One day the boy asked:
“Nastya, do you not love Dad anymore?”
She thought for a moment.
“You know, Artyom… love isn’t about ‘forever.’ It’s about ‘as long as it’s true.’”
The boy frowned.
“I don’t get it.”
“Well… as long as you’re honest, as long as you don’t lie—it lives. And then it dies.”
He nodded.
“Then I’ll always be honest.”
“And that’s right,” Nastya said, smiling. “That’s the only way.”
After he left, Nastya looked at the door and suddenly understood: everything that happened made her stronger. Not because she “got through it,” but because she stopped enduring it.
She no longer believed in “you have to understand” or “everyone makes mistakes.” She simply knew: if a person lies, they won’t change.
Nastya turned off the light and opened the window. The evening air was cool, but clean.
And for the first time in a long while, she wanted to keep living—without looking back, without fear, without Danila.
From a clean slate.