Marina snapped her laptop shut and leaned back in her chair, feeling the tightness of the past few months slowly ease out of her shoulders. December 23rd. Project complete. Acceptance papers signed. The money had landed in the company account.
— Congratulations, — Oleg Viktorovich, her direct supervisor, said as he handed her an envelope. — You did great. No one thought you could handle a load like that.
Marina took it without opening it. She already knew what it was: the bonus he’d promised back in September, when she’d volunteered to lead that nightmare rollout—implementing a new accounting system across fifteen branches. Three months earlier, in that meeting, everyone had gone silent and stared anywhere but at her. The deadlines were brutal, the budget was a joke, the client was a walking panic attack. Marina was the first to raise her hand.
— I’ll do it.
That evening Dima asked, “Are you sure? That’s going to be a hell schedule.” She nodded. She was sure. Or she thought she was.
“Hell” turned out to be putting it kindly.
For three months she didn’t get home until after eleven. Weekend conference calls. The technical requirements rewritten for the fourth time. A contractor missing deadlines. A blowup with the head office accountants. Two nights without sleep at all—she sat there testing, hunting the bug that wrecked the entire integration. She found it. With her own hands, line by line.
Dima kept quiet. Brought her tea. Didn’t pressure her. His mother, Lyudmila Fyodorovna, called once a week like clockwork, and every time Dima said, “Mom, Marina’s swamped right now, let’s talk later.” Marina had actually been grateful.
At home she opened the envelope. The number was even higher than she’d expected. She reread it three times, smiled, and called Dima.
— Diman, I got the bonus! Let’s do something for New Year’s. Maybe we take off somewhere, just the two of us—Karelia, or—
— Marina, that’s amazing! — he sounded happy, but oddly uncertain too. — Listen, I actually wanted to talk to you. Tonight, okay? I’ve got an idea.
A faint тревога flickered in her chest, but she waved it away and went to the shower to rinse off the last few weeks of exhaustion.
Dima came home at eight with pizza and wine. Marina had already pictured it: the two of them by a fireplace in a wooden cabin, snow and silence outside the window. No phones. No email. Just them.
— Marish, — Dima began, pouring wine, — you remember Mom’s been complaining about her blood pressure lately?
Marina nodded, swallowing a bite of pizza. Lyudmila Fyodorovna really had been complaining—though she always complained about something: her heart, her legs, her dizziness.
— So I was thinking, — Dima still wouldn’t look at her, just rolled the glass between his fingers, — her health really isn’t great. And I found an excellent sanatorium outside Moscow—good cardiologist, all kinds of procedures. They’ve even got openings for the New Year holidays.
Marina lowered her glass slowly.
— You want your mom to go to a sanatorium?
— Yes! It would be perfect. She’ll rest, get treatment. And it’s not that expensive—I checked. It fits right into your bonus. Maybe we add a tiny bit extra.
The pause stretched. Marina felt something inside her beginning to boil—slowly, steadily.
— Wait. So you’ve already been looking at packages. With my money?
— I mean… I was just estimating, — Dima finally met her eyes. — Marish, she’s my mom. She really needs help.
— Dima, that bonus is mine. Three months of twelve-hour days. I thought we’d spend the holidays together, recover from that nightmare.
— We will, — he reached for her hand, but Marina pulled away. — I just… I thought you’d understand. It’s for Mom. For her health.
— Did you even discuss it with me?
Dima hesitated—and Marina instantly knew.
— You already told her, didn’t you? — her voice went quiet and level, the way it always did when she was truly angry.
— I… well, I mentioned I could help with the trip. She was so happy, Marina. You should’ve seen her. She’s wanted that place for six months, but her pension is small—you know that.
Marina stood, walked across the kitchen, and stopped at the window, staring at the dark courtyard washed in yellow streetlight.
— So you offered your mother my money without asking me first?
— Marish, don’t blow it up. I didn’t promise, I just—
— Just what? — she turned sharply. — Dima, I worked like a maniac for three months. I missed my sister’s birthday. I didn’t see my parents. I don’t even remember the last time I slept properly. And I got a bonus for it. My bonus. For my work.
— I understand, but—
— No, you don’t! — her voice cracked. — You have no idea what it’s like to carry a project while everyone waits for you to fail. When a client screams at you over mistakes you didn’t make. When you’re sitting at three in the morning rereading code because if you don’t find the error, millions burn—and your reputation burns with it.
— I was proud of you…
— Proud? — Marina laughed, bitter. — Proud, and yet you decided that money should go to your mom. Without my consent.
— I earn that money way too hard to hand it over for anyone’s vacation—and especially not for your mother! — she shouted, and startled herself with how raw it sounded.
Dima went pale.
— Did you really just say “your mother”?
Marina dragged a hand down her face, sat back at the table, and poured more wine.
— Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. But do you understand what you did?
— I just wanted to help Mom, — Dima’s voice turned hurt, almost childish. — She’s alone. She feels bad. Isn’t it normal to care for your parents?
— It is. With your money. Or at least after talking to me.
They sat in silence. The pizza cooled on the table. Outside, someone was firing off small fireworks—New Year’s was a week away.
— Fine, — Dima finally said. — I’ll call Mom and tell her it’s not happening.
— No, — Marina looked at him. — Don’t.
— So you agree?
— No. I’m not giving my bonus for her voucher. But if you’re truly that worried about her health, figure something out. Be there for her, for once.
Dima blinked, confused.
— But you just said—
— I said I’m not giving my money. And I’m not. You brought this up to her, you deal with it. Buy the trip with your own money.
— Marish, I don’t have that kind of money right now…
— Then start thinking where you’ll get it.
The next day Marina took a day off and went to a travel agency. The bright, cheerful agent—wearing a Christmas sweater with reindeer—offered her a dozen options.
— Traveling as a couple?
— No. Alone.
— Oh! Then look—here’s a gorgeous option: Italy, the Dolomites. Skiing, spa, incredible views. Not cheap, but for New Year’s in Europe it’s hard to find anything at all.
Marina looked at the price. Exactly the amount of her bonus. She smiled.
— I’ll take it.
That evening Dima found her packing.
— You’re… leaving?
— Yes. Italy. December 30th. Back January 7th.
— Over New Year’s? — he stood in the bedroom doorway like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. — We always celebrate together…
— This year will be different.
— Marina, you can’t just—
— I can, — she said, folding her ski outfit neatly. — I’ve been thinking. If your mom feels so awful, she needs steady support. Constant support. So you’ll stay with her. Take her for walks, drive her to procedures if needed. Take care of her. Isn’t that what you were talking about?
— But she’ll be at the sanatorium!
— Did you find the money?
— Not yet. But if I do—
— It’s a sanatorium outside Moscow, Dim. Two hours by car. You can visit every day. Or even rent a room there if you’re that worried.
— And you?..
— And I’m going to rest. Finally. After three months of hell. On my money. The money I earned.
Dima sat down on the bed.
— You’re punishing me.
Marina paused with a pair of warm socks in her hands and looked at him.
— No. I’m not punishing you. I’m doing what I should’ve done from the start—taking care of myself. You made a choice for me without asking. You decided my money, my work, my time could be redistributed without my consent. Now I’m making my choice. Without your consent.
— That’s cruel.
— Cruel is promising someone else’s money. Cruel is not valuing a person’s labor. Cruel is acting like your mother matters more than my rest.
— She’s my mother!
— And I’m your wife! — Marina raised her voice. — The wife who worked herself into the ground for three months. Who dreamed of spending the holidays with you. Who you didn’t even bother to ask—what do you want?
Silence settled between them, heavy as the first snow.
— I didn’t think it mattered that much to you, — Dima said quietly.
— Exactly. You didn’t think. You didn’t think about me at all. Only about your mom. Only about how bad she feels, how much she needs help. And what about me? I don’t need rest? I’m not exhausted? I don’t need to recover?
— You do, but—
— No “buts.” I’m going to rest. And you’re staying to take care of your mother, since you’re so worried about her.
On the 29th, Marina got a message from Lyudmila Fyodorovna: “Marina, thank you to you and Dima for the voucher! I’m so happy, I don’t even know how to thank you. God grant you good health!”
Marina didn’t reply.
On December 30th she stood in Sheremetyevo Airport with a suitcase and a backpack. Dima saw her off in silence, gloomy. He stopped by the check-in counters.
— I wanted to do the right thing.
— I know. You just didn’t realize “right” can look different.
She kissed his cheek—brief, formal—and walked toward check-in. She glanced back at passport control. Dima was still standing there, hands in his pockets, lost.
For a second she felt sorry for him. Only for a second.
Italy greeted her with snow and sunlight. Cortina d’Ampezzo—the jewel of the Dolomites—looked like a postcard: white slopes, chocolate-colored chalets, the scent of mulled wine. Marina checked into a hotel with a mountain view, unpacked, and for the first time in three months felt like she could breathe fully.
She rang in January 1st on the slopes. She skied down under the stars, listening to the soft hiss of snow beneath her skis. Down in the valley fireworks burst—distant, toy-like. Someone nearby popped champagne, someone laughed. Marina stopped, took off her helmet, and closed her eyes.
Happiness. Pure, ringing, absolute.
Dima called three times. She didn’t answer. Then a message came: “I get it now. I’m sorry. We’ll talk when you get back.”
She didn’t reply. Not now. Right now she was standing at the top of the world, breathing in air that smelled like freedom.
On the third day she met Paolo—a snowboard instructor who helped her up when she fell near the lift line. They drank coffee in a mountain hut, and he spoke about the Dolomites the way someone speaks about a beloved woman. Marina listened and realized: this was it. When you’re valued not for what you can give, but simply because you exist.
Paolo knew nothing about her project, her bonus, Dima, or Lyudmila Fyodorovna. He just smiled, offered her another cappuccino, showed her the best runs.
— Are you happy? — he asked in broken English one evening.
Marina thought for a moment, looking at the snow-covered peaks turning pink in the sunset.
— You know… I think I am.
On January 7th she came home: tanned, rested, carrying souvenirs—and carrying the memory of what it feels like when your wants actually matter.
Dima met her at the airport. He looked older, exhausted. They drove home in silence, and only at the entrance did he ask:
— Are we going to talk?
— We are, — Marina nodded. — But first you’re going to listen. And I’m going to explain why you don’t get to spend other people’s money. Or other people’s lives. And why sometimes taking care of yourself isn’t selfish—it’s necessary.
He nodded.
And Marina thought January 7th was a perfect day for beginnings. Or endings. Time would tell.
But she’d spent her bonus the right way.
Of that, she was absolutely certain.