The workshop carried a sharp mix of chemical fumes, dried herbs, and the faint undertone of old timber. To an unaccustomed visitor, the air might have felt nauseating. But for Igor and Karina, it was the scent of their life together—the strange yet enduring harmony they had built.
Karina, a woman with the kind of figure Renaissance masters would have celebrated in oil paintings, though modern fashion magazines would dismiss as “plus-size,” was bent over the table. In her strong, practiced hands, a scalpel flashed—the only tool she trusted entirely to herself. She was not a doctor. She was a taxidermist, and one of the finest in her field. Museums lined up for her to reconstruct the appearance of extinct species or preserve trophies for private collections.
“You’re pulling the skin too tight around the neck,” Igor remarked without looking up from his own work.
He sat in the corner, where the light fell at just the right angle onto the body of a violin still taking shape. Igor was a luthier. He made instruments that seemed to sing with angelic voices, even though their creator was usually a man of few words.
“If I loosen it, he’ll look like a miserable spaniel, and this, for the record, is a steppe wolf,” Karina shot back, expertly guiding her needle. “He’s supposed to inspire fear, not pity.”
A small smile touched the corners of Igor’s mouth. He loved her exactly as she was—not some perfectly groomed doll, but alive, real, smelling of reagents and sawdust. To him, her fullness meant comfort and strength, never a flaw. But he knew that to the outside world—and especially to his mother, Valentina Georgievna—Karina was seen as an inconvenience.
“Dinner tonight,” he reminded her, and the air in the workshop immediately grew heavier.
“I remember. Your mother, her siren-like friend Larisa, and a bucket of poison served for dessert. I’ve already put my armor on.”
“Karina…”
“No, Igor, honestly. I’m tired of being polite. If she starts hinting again that I’m living off your talent, I can’t promise I’ll stay quiet.”
“I won’t let her hurt you.”
“You always say that. But the second she begins her suffering-mother performance, you turn into that little violin boy again, terrified of playing one wrong note.”
Igor set down his chisel. The maple wood, warm and smooth, felt oddly cold beneath his fingers. He knew his wife was right. His mother, Valentina, had spent her entire life acting like a tragic martyr who had sacrificed her career—though there had hardly been one, since she had only worked as an administrator at the philharmonic—for the sake of raising her son. And that imaginary altar demanded daily sacrifices, both financial and emotional.
“Tonight will be different,” Igor said quietly. “I’ve got a surprise for her.”
“Hopefully not another spa voucher she’ll complain about.”
“No. Something far more interesting.”
Valentina Georgievna’s apartment looked like a shrine to bad taste. Heavy curtains, gilded frames holding reproductions no one ever stopped to admire, and endless porcelain figurines collecting dust. Everything in it screamed of aristocratic ambition crashing headlong into petty greed.
Larisa was already seated at the table—a woman with the presence of a loudspeaker, whose daughter had fled all the way to Sakhalin just to escape her mother’s relentless advice about men and marriage. Larisa bred toy Pomeranians and seemed to have borrowed from them their shrill habit of yapping at anything she disliked.
“Oh, there you are!” Larisa waved her hand, tasteless rings glittering on every finger. “We were starting to think you’d gotten stuck in traffic. Or maybe little Karina had trouble squeezing through the doorway again?”
Larisa burst into laughter, thoroughly pleased with herself. Valentina Georgievna only gave a sly smile and adjusted her hair.
“Oh, Larisa, don’t be so cruel. Karina is… impressive. Sit down, dear. The chair is sturdy—I made sure of it.”
Igor’s jaw tightened so hard the muscles twitched, but he said nothing as he pulled out a chair for his wife. Karina sat down with the grace of a queen, ignoring the insult entirely.
“Mother, you look wonderful,” Igor said dryly.
“I try, my son, I try. Who else do I even live for now? Your father, may he rest in peace, can’t see what I’ve become. And you… you’re always working. By the way, how is your workshop? Those documents we talked about… did you bring them?”
Valentina’s eyes gleamed with greed.
“I did,” Igor said, patting his breast pocket. “But dinner first.”
The table was overflowing, but there was no warmth in it. Salads bought from a deli had been transferred into crystal bowls, and the sliced meats were already beginning to dry at the edges.
“Eat, Karina, eat,” her mother-in-law crooned sweetly. “Diets can’t save you now, so at least enjoy yourself.”
“Valentina Georgievna,” Karina said with a smile that resembled the snarl of the wolf she had recently mounted, “your concern is so touching. Like a spider wrapping up a fly. But I’m not a fly. And I have a healthy appetite, because I work instead of gossiping.”
Larisa nearly choked on her wine.
“What nerve! Valya, do you hear this? Is this how she talks to her husband’s mother?”
“Young people today are so ungrateful,” Valentina sighed. “Igor supports us all, and she just takes advantage of it. Sitting there gutting dead animals—ugh, disgusting. A proper woman should create a cozy home, not dig around in entrails.”
“Taxidermy is an art, Mother,” Igor replied calmly. “And Karina earns just as much as I do.”
“Oh, don’t make me laugh,” Larisa scoffed. “Who needs stuffed animals? They’re just dust traps.”
Dinner carried on in the same poisonous tone—little jabs, sly hints, blunt insults dressed up as family concern. Igor barely ate, watching his mother carefully. He noticed the glances she exchanged with Larisa, the nervous way she twisted her napkin, waiting for the right moment to secure the papers she wanted. She was sure her son would sign over power of attorney for his country property—an old house Igor intended to turn into a larger workshop. Valentina, however, planned to sell the house and pour the money into some “sure thing” cooked up by one of Larisa’s friends involving elite dogs.
“Igor, darling, we’re out of wine,” Valentina said, theatrically tipping the empty bottle upside down. “Could you go to the car? I think you still have that case of French wine your clients gave you.”
“Of course. I’ll get it.”
Igor stood and walked into the entryway. He slammed the front door loudly—but he didn’t leave. Instead, he remained in the vestibule, quietly easing the lock shut. He slipped off his shoes and crept back on tiptoe toward the living-room door, which had been left slightly ajar.
He needed to hear it. Needed to know for certain. The last trace of doubt had to disappear.
The room went silent for a moment. Then it began.
“So, has your spineless fool gone?” Larisa’s voice sounded even nastier now.
“He has. He’ll bring back the wine, we’ll get him tipsy, and I’ll slide the papers in front of him. I’ll tell him they’re for the tax office. He won’t even read them,” Valentina answered.
“And what are you going to do about her?” Larisa nodded toward Karina as though she were a piece of furniture.
Karina sat straight, staring hard at her mother-in-law. She hadn’t eaten a bite.
“What is there to do?” Valentina laughed, the sound harsh as metal grinding. “Let her sit there. I’m tolerating her for now. But once Igor signs that house over to me, and once I convince him to sell the workshop… what does he need a workshop for? He should work in a factory—something stable. And then I’ll push her out.”
Valentina turned to her daughter-in-law, certain her son would not return for another ten minutes.
“What are you staring at? You think I don’t see how you hang around his neck? Some beauty you are. Looking at you is enough to make anyone cry. Fat, clumsy, always with your hands covered in filth.”
“Valentina Georgievna…” Karina began, her voice low and dangerous.
“Be quiet!” her mother-in-law barked. “Don’t open your mouth in my house. You are nobody, girl. Igor picked you up out of pity. He told me so himself. Said, ‘Mother, she’s not pretty, but at least she’s warm.’”
It was a lie. A filthy, shameless lie. Karina knew Igor would never have said that. But poison has a way of finding its mark.
“You’re a monstrosity,” her mother-in-law hurled at her, never suspecting what the son standing just outside the door would do next. “A scarecrow. I’ll marry him to Larisa’s daughter, little Sveta. Now that girl is a prize—slim, bright, lively. And you? You belong in a dumpster next to your dead foxes.”
Larisa eagerly chimed in.
“Exactly! Sveta’s divorced now, she needs a husband. And Igor, if you guide him properly, is pure gold. We get rid of this wardrobe of a woman, and life will be perfect!”
Behind the door, Igor clenched his fist so tightly his knuckles went white. But he did not burst in. Not yet. He was waiting for his wife’s reaction. He knew Karina was no victim. He knew a volcano slept inside her.
Karina slowly set down her fork. Then she rose to her feet. Her body, usually soft and comforting, suddenly seemed massive and intimidating.
She did not cry. Instead, her lips pulled into a wide, unsettling smile that sent a chill down Larisa’s spine.
“A monstrosity?” Karina repeated. Her voice trembled—not from hurt, but from boiling rage. “So I’m a scarecrow?”
Suddenly, she snatched the crystal salad bowl full of Olivier from the table.
“AND WHAT DOES THAT MAKE YOU?!” she roared so loudly that the chandelier overhead rattled. “TWO MANGY OLD HYENAS CHEWING ON THE BONES OF YOUR OWN CHILDREN!”
“How dare you?!” Valentina jumped up, knocking over her wineglass. A red stain spread across the tablecloth.
“How dare I?” Karina thundered. “YOU DARED TO THINK I WOULD KEEP ENDURING THIS!”
She hurled the bowl onto the floor. Salad splattered across the fake Persian rug.
Then Karina stepped right up to her mother-in-law.
“You think I don’t know how much money Igor sends you every month?” she hissed. “You think I don’t see the lies about your illnesses, the expensive medicines, while you waste everything on clothes and this woman Larisa?”
“Get out!” Valentina shrieked. “This is my home!”
“YOUR HOME?” Karina laughed. “Your home? Please. You can’t even pay the utility bills on your own. You’re a parasite, Valentina! A bloated tick swollen with arrogance!”
Larisa tried to step in.
“How dare you insult such a respectable woman…”
“SHUT UP, dog-breeder!” Karina snapped, whipping her head toward her. “Your daughter ran to the edge of the earth just to get away from your voice! You’re nobody here. Empty space!”
Karina grabbed a napkin from the table, crumpled it, and threw it into her mother-in-law’s face.
“I love Igor. I tolerate you only because of him. But you—you crossed the line. You called me hideous? Look in the mirror! That’s where the real monster is. Your soul is as rotten as my specimens before treatment! The difference is that I can save them. I can’t save you. You’re beyond saving!”
Rage gave Karina a strength her mother-in-law had never expected. Valentina was used to daughters-in-law who cried, ran away, complained to their husbands. She had never expected an attack. She stumbled backward, striking her hip against the dresser.
“Psychopath…” she whispered. “Igor! IGOR!”
At that moment, the door flew open. Igor entered the room with measured, calm steps. There was no wine in his hands.
“I’m here, Mother,” he said. His voice was flat and cold as winter wind.
Valentina rushed to him, pretending to be in shock.
“My son! She—she attacked me! She’s insane! She smashed everything! Look at her!”
Igor looked at Karina, flushed and breathing hard. Then he turned his gaze to his mother.
“I heard everything,” he said.
Those three words dropped into the silence like stones into a well.
“What?..” Valentina froze.
“I never left the apartment. I was standing behind the door. I heard every word, Mother. About the ‘monster.’ About the ‘fat one.’ About your plans to sell my workshop. About how, to you, I’m nothing but a wallet and a tool.”
Valentina’s face turned gray.
“You misunderstood… It was a joke… Larisa and I…”
“Enough.” Igor did not raise his voice, but his tone made both women shrink back toward their chairs. “Enough with the lies. All my life, you’ve lied. You manipulated Father, and now you’ve done the same to me. But tonight, the performance is over.”
He pulled an envelope from his pocket.
“You wanted documents? Here they are.”
Hope flickered again in Valentina’s eyes. She thought he had still broken, that habit and obedience had won in the end.
“Oh, my son, you are such a wise boy…”
Igor tossed the envelope onto the table.
“Open it.”
With shaking fingers, Valentina tore it open. She pulled out the paper and skimmed it. Her hands trembled so badly that the page slipped from her grasp.
“What is this?” she croaked. “A notice of termination? An eviction notice? Igor, what does this mean?”
“It means, Mother, that the apartment we are standing in belongs to me. Did you forget? Father transferred it to my name before he died so you wouldn’t lose it over debts or hand it over to your latest ‘friends.’ I allowed you to live here. I paid the bills. I gave you money.”
Igor stepped toward Karina and took her hand. His fingers were warm.
“And that document says I have sold this apartment. The sale is already registered. The new owners move in next week.”
“You’re throwing your own mother into the street?” Larisa squealed.
“No,” Igor replied calmly. “Mother has her own one-room flat on the outskirts of town, the one she rents out and keeps the money from while hiding it from me. That’s where she’ll be moving. I’ve already informed the tenants. They’re leaving tomorrow.”
Valentina collapsed into a chair, clutching at her chest, but Igor did not move.
“The heart attack act won’t work.”
“Igor, my son, you can’t… because of her?” She jabbed a finger toward Karina.
“Do not call her ‘her.’ She is my wife. My family. And you… you are just a toxic relative who has lost the right to call herself my mother.”
Then Igor turned to Larisa.
“And as for you, madam, I suggest you leave. Right now. Otherwise I may suddenly remember that debt you borrowed from my father ten years ago and conveniently forgot to repay. I still have the signed note. With accumulated interest, it’s become quite a sum. You’ll spend the rest of your life paying it off.”
Larisa snatched up her handbag and rushed out of the apartment without a word.
Three months passed.
The neighborhood on the edge of the city was gray and joyless. There were no restaurants here, only cheap liquor shops and discount chain stores. In a one-room apartment on the first floor, filled with the smell of dampness and fried onions drifting from the neighbors, Valentina sat alone.
She looked ten years older. Her elegant hairstyle had been replaced by a messy knot. Her expensive robe had given way to a faded T-shirt.
The phone was silent. It still worked, but no one called. Larisa had vanished the moment she realized there was nothing left to gain from Valentina. The other “friends” disappeared too, as soon as they learned the “wealthy son” had turned off the tap.
Valentina went to the window. The view was of trash bins.
She had tried calling Igor. At first she demanded, then threatened legal action—though she had nothing to stand on—then begged, trying to appeal to pity.
The answer was always the same: she was blocked.
She had tried going to the workshop. There was a new steel door there now, and cameras. A security guard politely but firmly showed her out, saying:
“Igor Sergeyevich has instructed us not to let strangers in.”
“I am his mother!” she had screamed.
“As far as I know, Igor Sergeyevich has no mother,” the guard replied. “He has a family: a wife and a sister. By the way, they’re expecting a baby.”
That was what broke her. Zhanna? Her daughter Zhanna, who lived in another city and rarely stayed in touch, apparently knew everything and had sided with her brother. And the grandchild… she would never even learn the baby’s name.
Valentina sat down on the creaking sofa.
“You’re a monstrosity,” her own words echoed in her head.
And at last she understood: the true monstrosity was herself. With her own hands, with her greed and cruelty, she had destroyed every bright thing in her life.
The doorbell rang. Valentina jerked upright. Maybe Igor? Maybe he had come to his senses? Maybe he had returned with apologies? With money?
She rushed to the door and flung it open.
On the threshold stood a heavyset woman in a dirty apron—the neighbor from upstairs.
“Hey, neighbor, you got a hundred till payday? I’m desperate for a drink.”
Valentina stared at her, then at her own shabby hallway.
“No!” she screamed and slammed the door.
Igor was not coming. No one was coming. The verdict had been passed and carried out. Her punishment was herself—alone with her bitterness, trapped within four walls until the very end.
And on the other side of the city, in a warm workshop scented with wood and varnish, Igor carefully lacquered the body of a new cello. Beside him sat Karina, one hand resting on her rounded belly, smiling as she watched her husband work. They were happy. And in that happiness, there was no room left for fear or betrayal.