“How dare you?! She’s his future wife!” my mother-in-law yelled. She shoved the stranger aside and stormed into the apartment without ceremony.
“Come in, Lerochka, Vadim will be home soon; he’ll sort everything out himself.”
“Well, like this too?” I said, folding my arms across my chest. These women—who had barged into our home with my husband—seemed determined to wait for him.
“Yes. Pack your bags, because Vadim himself is going to throw you out. Lerochka, look around and see where everything belongs; I’ll make sure nothing gets moved.”
My husband’s mother, a blonde in her fifties who still looked much younger, lifted her head with arrogance and began scrutinizing the living room. She looked younger thanks to her facelift, multiple operations, and, of course, her personal trainer—the daughter of one of her friends—whom she had clearly brought along to command everyone’s attention.
I was supposed to leave her son’s side: she and Lerochka had a future together, and Lerochka was ready to give him an heir.
Ironclad reasoning. So take it and start packing. Naturally, she had her own keys, although in all the years we lived together she had never dared enter our apartment. Something had changed, and I had no idea what. And why was she so certain Vadim would return immediately just to throw me out?
Absurd! I didn’t even want to argue with her (or with them, though Lerochka stared at me in silence, not intervening). Let Vadim come home and sort out this circus.
It was pointless to speak with Margarita Vasilievna: just her eyes alone made it clear she was up to something, and any effort on my part to understand would have been in vain.
“I’m going to go to the bedroom—make yourselves at home,” I replied sarcastically.
I slammed and locked the bedroom door from the inside, because those women would not hesitate to barge in there as well. I grabbed the phone from the bedside table. A few rings later, Vadim answered. Then he immediately called me back.
“Darling, is that you? Hello.”
“Hello. Will you be home soon? Your mother is here.”
“Mother?” Vadim exclaimed. I recognized that he was at the wheel.
“She brought a girl—her trainer—and she said that from now on, Lerochka would be your wife. Tell me that’s nonsense?”
“That’s nonsense, Alena. I’m coming home soon; we’ll sort this out.”
Nothing foretold what was about to happen. Perhaps if I had taken her threats seriously, things would have turned out differently. Now I didn’t know.
Today I came home from work earlier. I wanted to prepare a celebratory dinner. I had even begun cooking, but with those guests already arrived, demanding I pack my bags, they would not let me organize anything. Besides, I was too deflated. What news: I was being evicted! What was my mother-in-law scheming this time?
The little box remained in my bag. I didn’t have time to take it out, and I didn’t want to do so in front of that woman. I did not want her to be the first to discover it.
She had hated me from the moment we first met. At first, she discouraged her son from seeing me, without caring that I stood right next to them. He immediately put an end to those remarks and even apologized to me for his mother’s behavior. The moment she had to apologize, she was already looking at me with hatred. And how could I blame her? An orphan girl had “stolen” her son: a thirty-five-year-old, brilliant, accomplished man. And she didn’t care that I had an excellent degree with honors and a successful career. I simply was not good enough for her son. Not good enough at all—“too skinny,” “too flat,” “too green-eyed,” and my hair was “too curly,” while Lerochka was perfect: curvy front and back, lips like a small bow, big gray eyes, flawless makeup. And, above all, the beloved daughter of her best friend.
My husband’s father, Igor Lvovich Grigoryev, a successful lawyer, was clearly the intellectual head of the family: the two of them worked together in their law firm. I didn’t understand what kept him bound to his wife, but apparently, love’s ways are unfathomable. She had given him a son, Vadim, and stopped there. Today, their son was the heir of the Grigoryev family and co-founder of the firm. That was where we met: after finishing university, I was hired as a legal assistant and often interacted with the firm’s clients, including Vadim. After six months of courting, I moved in with him, and six months later, we married.
I wanted neither parties nor lavish receptions—Vadim wasn’t keen on throwing anything big, either. He was handling a very complex lawsuit, and as soon as it was successfully resolved, we simply got married in private, with only his parents and his best friend present. Then we went to spend a week on an island dedicated solely to the two of us.
Our life was calm and peaceful. We had never argued: if a disagreement arose, we simply talked until we found a solution. I continued working in my own job, even though Vadim would have preferred that I quit. But I didn’t want to lose my place: it wasn’t about ambition, but I loved my work and did not wish to become a housewife. I had declined the offer to work at my husband’s firm. Perhaps someday—who knows. For now, I was completely content with things as they were: no one thought I’d been hired through connections, as “someone’s wife.”
The front door slammed shut—that was proof Vadim had returned! I jumped up from the bed where I was sitting. I wanted to go out, but I heard their argument. I would remain in the room a while longer.
Back in bed, I sat up and strained to hear.
Shouts erupted; Vadim swore loudly, and I had never heard him shout like that. He was kicking his mother out of the house. Then all fell silent, and the door to our bedroom flung open with a bang.
I had never seen him so angry and aggressive: he looked at me, unable to utter a word, filled with contempt, love, hatred, and pain.
“Vadim?” I did not understand what his mother could have done to be so grievous.
He seemed to emerge from his stupor at the sound of my voice.
“I’ll be back tomorrow to make sure you never step foot in this house again!” His words rang deafeningly in the absolute silence.
I understood nothing: I sat on our bed, completely in shock. Vadim left. Before going, he had punched the wall, leaving a bloody mark on the wallpaper. An icy chill swept over my skin, a sense of danger, of helplessness. He had evicted me? As Margarita Vasilievna had said. She knew this would happen! She knew! But how? What was happening?
I did not dare call him. The way she had cast me out made me realize that my mother-in-law was absolutely certain of herself. But why had she brought that girl here? Did she think Vadim would thank her and marry her on the spot, casting me aside?
It was horrific: I could not believe this was happening to me and not someone else. He hadn’t even bothered to speak to me properly. After all, we were not strangers. How could they accuse me of something I had no idea about? Of course, he wasn’t accusing me truly—he was simply telling me to leave.
It was his apartment.
As my mother-in-law liked to say, I had arrived fully prepared.
Did he want me to leave?
Or perhaps he had made that decision himself? Had I become too ordinary for him? Too dull?
I couldn’t understand.
He didn’t answer, so I wrote him a message. I asked him to explain what was happening. I felt my head begin to split, so I went to get medicine from my bag, and then I froze when I felt the small box of the test.
The pregnancy test was positive. I wanted to give him good news: I was eager to come home. I returned to the bedroom with the box in hand, forgetting the medicine. I had to tell him.
He still did not respond, so I typed another message:
“Vadim, I am pregnant. We will have a child. I wanted to tell you, but apparently such news no longer interests you. Explain what is happening?”
He read it almost immediately: I thought he wouldn’t reply. His silence had lasted too long. I had time to swallow my medicine with water and go to the kitchen, where I collapsed at the table. My legs gave out, I shook with nervous trembling, my hands began to tremble: I became ever more aware that Vadim had cast me out. He didn’t want me to stay here until morning.
“I don’t care. Other people’s children don’t interest me. Vacate the apartment by five in the morning. At five they come to clean.”
He didn’t care…
Other people’s children…
A tear betrayed me, sliding down my cheek. I started writing to him again, but he blocked my number. The ringing abruptly stopped and my messages remained unread.
Then I curled up in a ball on the bed, crying for a long while with no hope, until I finally fell asleep. I woke with a start in the middle of the night, screaming. I had had a nightmare.
I was back in the orphanage. I was hiding under the bed in the small children’s room, knowing they would not betray me. The youngest children loved me and protected me. But this time was different. He found me and yanked my hair while screaming. He threw me onto one of the beds, and I jerked awake, screaming, drenched in sweat.
This nightmare had returned. It had been a long time since it last haunted me. I jerked suddenly at the sound of a dog barking outside. It was four in the morning. I had to leave before five. Since that is what he wanted. Since he hadn’t even bothered to explain. I was going to leave. To him, we were nothing now. We were strangers in my husband’s eyes. My child was probably just a tiny cluster of living cells, but I already loved them infinitely and would never, ever abandon them.
I looked in the wardrobe. There were so many beautiful things that Vadim and I had bought together. He loved watching me try clothes on in the stores. He loved seeing me try everything on.
I pushed my dresses aside with the back of my hand—straight to the floor. So that was why he had hired cleaning? To wipe away every trace of my life here? I put on jeans and a T-shirt with a hooded sweatshirt. A pair of sneakers completed the outfit; I shoved a few changes of sports underwear into my backpack, leaving the lace garments behind. A few personal items, and then I felt my wallet in the bag—credit cards and documents; I nearly forgot it. Luckily, I remembered and also took my passport and my degree.
It was 4:55 when I walked out, handing the keys to the building attendant and saying goodbye. A rush of cold air hit me, and I stood there hesitating.
I had nowhere to go.
I didn’t want to stay near our building. Near his house, because it was no longer ours. Next door was a small park, so I headed there. Walking slowly, I reflected on my life until, before heading to a place where I knew I would be welcomed, I made one last attempt. I hailed a taxi and went to the building where my husband’s firm was located. The odds of encountering anyone there were slim, but Vadim was certainly inside. The light was on in his office. The attendant let me through without difficulty; I went up to the third floor and stopped in front of the reception door. My heart pounded so loudly in my ears that I felt I might faint.
One step forward, then another, then a third… I opened the door, and my eyes met my husband’s. He looked surprised, then immediately put on a mask of indifference.
“Why did you come?”
“Vadim, please, listen to me. I…” he stepped forward in silence and handed me papers.
They were my lab results—my ultrasound findings, my hCG level—confirmation of the pregnancy.
“This is for you. I will file for divorce myself. If you ever think of using your pregnancy, I assure you, you and your lover will regret it. Severely.”
“W-what lover?” I murmured.
“Vadim! It’s your child! Do you think I would have cheated on you? It’s not true!”
In response, he handed me another stack of papers: tests in his name, with the diagnosis: confirmed infertility.
“That’s impossible…” I whispered, shaking my head. “Yet I am pregnant.”
He looked at me with a cynical smile.
“Stop lying now.”
“I’m not lying. Who told you? Who?” I didn’t need any answer: his mother knew everything. That was why he was acting this way. They had convinced him he’d been cuckolded.
“I didn’t cheat on you, Vadim. Please, believe me.”
“I would believe you if it were only words. But I see facts. Evidence. Alena, stop making us suffer—both you and me. You are free. I will file for divorce myself. We will divorce at the civil registry, if the two of us…”
“Vadim Igorievitch, good morning, you are already here? I will make you a coffee right away,” my husband’s secretary partially opened the door.
“Oh, excuse me. Good morning, Alena Valentinovna. The usual for you?”
“Alena Valentinovna is leaving,” Vadim growled. Inga jumped, then quietly closed the door, apologizing.
“So you’re so certain of your diagnosis…” He stared at me in anger, not allowing me to speak.
“I advise you to take another test quickly. Because at this moment, you are fine—since it is I who is the pregnant one.”
I turned sharply, my lips trembling. Part of me wanted to rush to him, beg him, convince him, implore him—but the other part of me ordered me to leave, firmly and without hesitation.
A loving heart does not doubt. How could he believe that I would have shared my bed with someone else? How?
