“Yes, I’m his wife. That very fat and stupid hen. Right, darling?” Dasha said sweetly and brushed her husband’s hand off her waist.
Dasha stood in front of the mirror, adjusting her veil. The white dress, carefully chosen half a year ago, now seemed ridiculous. Nothing was the way she had dreamed.
“Are you ready?” Maksim entered the room, smiling. “Everyone’s waiting.”
She nodded, though everything inside tightened. His mother, Lyudmila Petrovna, had been walking around since morning with a sour face, whispering with relatives. Dasha knew: today there would be a battle.
The restaurant. Champagne, laughter, music.
“Well, Maksim, congratulations!” Uncle Kolya slapped the groom on the shoulder. “You’re married now—brace yourself.”
“Oh yes,” snorted Lyudmila Petrovna, taking a sip of wine. “Brace yourself tight, son. Especially when the dowry runs out.”
Silence. Dasha froze with the glass in her hand.
“Mom,” Maksim frowned. “Enough.”
“What?” the mother-in-law spread her hands. “I’m just telling the truth. She’s not a model, not a businesswoman… Just an ordinary office mouse. Although…” She narrowed her eyes. “Maybe she at least knows how to cook?”
The guests shifted uncomfortably. Dasha felt heat rush to her cheeks.
“Lyudmila Petrovna,” she said quietly. “Today is our day. Let’s just…”
“Just what?” the mother-in-law cut her off. “I’m simply asking! Well, fine, son, since you chose her… Although Lenochka, my friend’s daughter…”
Maksim tugged at his mother’s sleeve, but she brushed him off.
“Oh come on, Max, I’m not saying it out loud!” she laughed loudly, glancing around at the guests. “Although honestly, you could have found someone better…”
Dasha lowered her eyes. Her stomach twisted.
“Dasha, don’t pay attention,” her friend whispered.
But then a voice came from the table—Aunt Galya, Maksim’s sister:
“Well, I actually like the bride’s dress! Amazing that it even hides her figure.”
A quiet chuckle.
Dasha stood up.
“Thank you for the warm words,” she said evenly. “I’ll go fix my makeup.”
In the restroom, she breathed deeply, staring at her reflection. “Okay… first battle lost. But the war is just beginning.”
Behind the door, she heard whispers:
“So, Lyuda, how’s the plan?” an unfamiliar voice.
“Everything’s going perfectly,” the mother-in-law smirked. “We’ll get them divorced within a year. The apartment is hers.”
Dasha froze.
“And if it doesn’t work?”
“Oh, it will,” Lyudmila Petrovna said firmly. “She’s such a kind fool.”
Quiet laughter. Footsteps. The door slammed.
Dasha slowly unclenched her fists. Nail marks remained on her palms.
“No. Not anymore.”
She straightened up, fixed her dress, and walked back into the banquet hall.
A war lay ahead.
Three months after the wedding, Dasha had gotten used to her mother-in-law’s acidic remarks, but today crossed all boundaries.
She sat in the kitchen sorting mail when her phone vibrated. A text message from the bank:
“Debit 49,870 rubles. Boutique ‘Elegant’. Balance: 3,120 rubles.”
Dasha froze. It was her salary card. Her last money before vacation.
“Maksim!” she shouted. “Did you take my card?”
Her husband walked into the kitchen, frowning at something on his phone.
“No. Maybe you yourself…”
“I did NOT spend fifty thousand in one day!”
She opened the transaction history. A purchase at the boutique—today at 2:30 p.m. Exactly when she was at work.
Dasha called the bank.
“Yes, the transaction was confirmed with the PIN code,” the operator said politely.
Only she and…
“Galya,” Dasha whispered.
Maksim’s sister had stopped by yesterday, asked for tea. The card had been in her purse on the chair.
Dasha dialed the number.
“Hello, Dashenka?” Aunt Galya sounded unnaturally cheerful.
“Galya, did you take fifty thousand from my card?”
A pause. Then a fake laugh.
“Oh, come on, don’t be upset! I urgently needed a fur coat, and I only get paid next week. I’ll return it!”
“Without asking? Are you out of your—”
“Oh don’t start,” Galya’s voice sharpened. “Your husband earns well, and I’m a single mom. You can spare it…?”
Dasha tightened her grip on the phone.
“It is a pity. Especially when someone steals.”
“Steals?” Galya snorted. “You’re so stingy. Maksim was right—you’re impossible.”
The call disconnected.
Dasha turned to her husband. He stood in the doorway, fists clenched.
“So, what kind of scene did you make?” he barked. “My sister called me crying!”
“She stole fifty thousand from me!”
“Stole?” Maksim rolled his eyes. “She’s family! We help our relatives.”
“Without asking?”
“Oh, did you turn on a meter or what?” He stepped closer. “I gave you an apartment, and you’re whining about some money—”
Dasha recoiled.
“What apartment? It’s my apartment! My parents’!”
Maksim fell silent. His face twisted.
“So that’s how it is. You’re one of those ‘mine-me-my’ types. Remember, Dasha, everything in a family is shared.”
He turned around and left, slamming the door.
Dasha sank onto a chair. Tears blurred her vision, but inside, rage was already boiling.
She pulled out her phone and opened the gallery. A photo from a festive dinner a month ago: Galya in a new fur coat, hugging Lyudmila Petrovna. The caption:
“Thank you, my beloved brother, for the gift!”
Only now did Dasha realize—the “gift” had been bought with her money.
She slowly dialed the bank.
“I want to block the card and dispute the transaction. Yes, as fraud.”
It grew dark outside. Somewhere in that darkness wandered her fifty thousand—and her trust.
But tomorrow the war would begin.
Dasha spent a week preparing for her son’s first birthday. She ordered a bear-shaped cake, decorated the apartment with balloons, bought little Misha a tiny suit. She wanted everything to be perfect.
In the morning she heard Maksim talking in the hallway:
“Mom, are you sure you’ll come?”
“Of course,” came Lyudmila Petrovna’s sharp voice. “Who else will show that fool how to throw a proper party?”
Dasha pretended not to hear. She set out plates of Olivier salad and checked the cake.
By two, the guests arrived. Dasha’s friends with their kids, Maksim’s colleagues, relatives. Lyudmila Petrovna showed up in a fur cape, though it was May outside.
“Oh, how cramped!” she sighed loudly, looking around the apartment. “Maksim, how can you live like this?”
“Mom, stop,” her son muttered.
Dasha brought in the cake with a candle. Misha reached for it with his little hands.
“Just a second, sweetheart—Daddy will help you blow it out,” she said with a smile.
“What sweetheart?” the mother-in-law sniffed. “Looks just like you—just as chubby.”
The room fell silent. Dasha felt herself turning red.
“Lyudmila Petrovna, today is a celebration…”
“What? I’m just telling the truth!” The woman stood up, pointing her finger. “Look at her—she’s overfed the child! And herself too!”
She deliberately pushed the table. A bowl of hot soup toppled onto Dasha’s dress.
“Oh! Sorry!” the mother-in-law covered her mouth. “Well, it’s your own fault—fattened yourself up like a cow!”
Dasha stood there, feeling the borscht running down her legs. Darkness clouded her eyes.
“Get out,” she whispered.
“What?” Lyudmila Petrovna made a mocking, surprised face.
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
The guests froze. Maksim jumped up:
“Dasha! Are you out of your mind?”
“No—you all are!” she said, wiping her dress with trembling hands. “Your mother has been tormenting me for a year!”
“Oh, here we go,” Aunt Galya sighed. “Always hysterical.”
“Oh shut up!” Dasha shouted. “You still owe me fifty thousand since yesterday!”
Maksim grabbed her arm:
“Stop embarrassing me!”
She jerked away, ran to the bedroom, slammed the door. Locked it.
Voices sounded from the other side:
“Don’t pay attention, she has postpartum depression…”
“I told you—she’s crazy…”
“Maksim, you need to divorce her immediately…”
Dasha pressed a crying Misha to her chest. She stared in the mirror at her tear-streaked face, her ruined dress.
At that moment she understood—this was it. No more chances.
There was a knock.
“Dasha, come out,” Maksim said dryly. “We need to clean up this mess.”
She inhaled deeply, wiped her tears.
“Clean it up yourself. With your mommy.”
Silence. Then footsteps—Maksim left.
Dasha took her phone and called her mother.
“Mom… Take me home. Please.”
Her mother’s worried voice came through:
“Sweetheart, what happened?”
“It’s over,” Dasha whispered. “I don’t have a family anymore.”
Dasha spent a week at her parents’. Misha slept poorly—stress from that nightmare birthday. Every morning she checked her phone—no calls from Maksim. Only a text yesterday: “When will you stop the hysterics and come back?”
The morning began with a phone call. An unknown number.
“Hello, is this Darya Sergeyevna?” a woman asked. “I’m the district doctor from Clinic No. 5. Your mother-in-law, Lyudmila Petrovna Kozlova, is in serious condition. She needs care.”
Dasha sat on the bed, nausea rising.
“What… condition?”
“Suspected mini-stroke. Blood pressure 190 over 110. She insists that YOU be the caregiver.”
Forty minutes later, Dasha stood at the door of her own apartment. Aunt Galya opened it, tear-streaked.
“Finally!” she sobbed. “Mom feels terrible and you’re here making scenes!”
In the bedroom, Lyudmila Petrovna lay on the bed. Eyes closed, one side of her face twitching strangely. Maksim sat beside her, holding her hand.
“Look who bothered to visit,” the mother-in-law rasped without opening her eyes.
Dasha stepped closer. She noticed something odd—despite her “serious condition,” the woman was wearing makeup, and on the nightstand sat a half-finished glass of soda.
“Where’s the doctor? What treatment did she prescribe?”
“The doctor left,” Maksim replied quickly. “Said she needs bed rest and care. You’ll stay.”
Dasha picked up the medical file from the table. The page with the diagnosis had been torn out. Only an old note about hypertension remained.
“Interesting… Why aren’t there any records of today’s examination?” she asked aloud.
Lyudmila Petrovna’s eyes snapped open.
“You don’t trust doctors?! I almost died, and you—”
“Mom, calm down!” Maksim jumped up. “See, Dasha? Look what you’ve done to her!”
Dasha quietly stepped into the hallway and pulled out her phone. She dialed the clinic.
“Hello, may I speak with the district doctor? No, I’m not a patient. I’m the daughter-in-law of Lyudmila Petrovna Kozlova. Yes, I need information about her condition… What?.. Thank you.”
She returned to the bedroom. All three of them stared at her expectantly.
“I just called the clinic. Your district doctor hasn’t made any house calls today. At all.”
Silence filled the room. Suddenly, the mother-in-law stopped “trembling.”
“So what?” Galya snorted. “It could’ve been an on-duty doctor!”
“Right,” Dasha pulled a crumpled receipt from her pocket. “And the on-duty doctor just happened to drop this pharmacy receipt in the stairwell? ‘Validol, Corvalol, 12:45.’ Bought today. Right after your call.”
Maksim turned pale.
“Mom… you were faking?!”
His mother abruptly sat up in bed.
“What did you expect?! She ran away, took my grandson! How else was I supposed to bring her back?!” Then she turned to Dasha: “Yes, I staged it all! And what will you do about it? You’re still obligated to take care of me—I’m your child’s grandmother!”
Dasha slowly walked to the window and threw it open. Fresh air rushed into the stuffy room.
“Here’s what I’ll do,” she said very quietly. “First, I’m calling an ambulance. Let them confirm your ‘stroke.’ Second…” She turned to Maksim. “You choose. Either they move out today… or tomorrow I file for divorce.”
Lyudmila Petrovna suddenly jumped out of bed.
“How dare you! He’s my son! Mine!”
“Yours,” Dasha nodded. “And he’ll stay with you. Forever.”
She walked out, slamming the door. In the stairwell she dialed the ambulance number with trembling hands. And suddenly realized—she wasn’t afraid anymore. Not at all.
Dasha returned to work after a week’s absence. Colleagues cast curious glances at her—apparently, rumors about her family drama had already spread through the office.
“Darya Sergeyevna, the director asked you to come in,” the secretary said.
In the office, her boss leaned back in his chair, tapping a pencil on the desk.
“Explain what’s going on. Your project is behind schedule, and yesterday some man called demanding your work files. Said you no longer work here.”
A cold shock ran down her spine.
“What did he look like?”
“Young, leather jacket. Introduced himself as your husband’s brother.”
“Sergey…” Dasha whispered.
She stood up abruptly.
“I need to go home. Right now.”
The taxi raced through the city, weaving between cars. Dasha frantically checked her phone—the apartment’s security cameras showed a black screen. The system noted it had shut down at 11:23 a.m.
When she burst into the apartment, the first thing she noticed was the half-open office door. Torn router cables lay on the floor.
“No…” She rushed to the desk.
The laptop was gone.
So were the external hard drives with years of archived projects. Even the old tablet she hadn’t used in two years.
A rustle came from the kitchen. Dasha froze.
“Who’s there?”
Sergey appeared from behind the corner. In his hand was her favorite porcelain mug.
“Oh, sister-in-law! You’re early.”
“Where is my laptop?” her voice shook with fury.
“What laptop?” he opened his eyes innocently. “I just came to check on my brother.”
“Maksim is at work.”
“So what?” Sergey put the mug in the sink. A crack sounded—the bottom broke off. “Oops…”
Dasha pulled out her phone.
“I’m calling the police.”
“Go ahead!” he stepped toward her sharply. “You know who my friend is? A traffic police inspector. He’ll bury all your complaints.”
“Sure,” she slowly raised her phone. “And he’ll bury this conversation too?”
The screen read: Recording.
Sergey turned pale.
“You…”
“Get out. Now.”
He threw a bunch of keys on the floor.
“Maks won’t make you new ones.”
When the door slammed behind him, Dasha sank to the floor. Her hands shook so badly she could barely hold her phone.
A bank notification popped up:
“Login to online banking from a new device. IP: 95.31.18.207”
She knew that IP address—it was Maksim’s garage Wi-Fi.
Dasha stood up slowly and went to the wardrobe. From the top shelf she took down a thick folder.
“Well, relatives…” she whispered, flipping through the documents. “Let’s start a real war.”
Inside the folder were:
— printouts of threatening messages from Galya
— photos of damaged belongings
— the medical report confirming the mother-in-law’s simulation
— and a freshly signed contract with a lawyer
She opened her husband’s laptop (the only one they hadn’t stolen) and began typing a police report.
Dasha was finishing her third cup of coffee when someone knocked sharply on the door. Through the peephole she saw Maksim—haggard, unshaven, with a week-old beard. He held a grocery bag.
She didn’t want to open. But it had to end once and for all.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked, stepping into the hallway.
“An hour. Maybe more.” He held out the bag. “I bought your favorite jam. Remember? From your childhood?”
Inside was indeed a jar of apricot jam—just like her mother used to make. Dasha felt a lump in her throat but forced herself to stay composed.
“Why are you here?”
Maksim walked into the living room and sat on the couch. His fingers nervously drummed on his knees.
“I want things back the way they were.” He lifted his red, tearful eyes. “Mom and Sergey went to stay with an aunt in the village. Galya too. I… I understand everything now.”
Dasha slowly sat down in the armchair opposite him.
“What exactly have you understood?”
“That I was blind. That they…” — he swallowed — “used me. As a wallet. And used you as a maid.”
She studied his face carefully. Searched for deceit. But saw only exhaustion and something resembling remorse.
“Why now? After five years of this hell?”
“Because…” — he reached for her hand, but she pulled it away — “because when you left, I was alone. Truly alone. They didn’t even bring me tea, Dash. They only demanded money.”
In the bedroom, Misha began to cry. Dasha got up to fix his blanket. When she returned, Maksim was standing by the window, gripping a sheet of paper.
“What’s that?”
“A medical file.” He handed it to her. “Mom’s. The real diagnosis.”
Dasha skimmed the lines: “Alcoholic encephalopathy. Psycho-organic syndrome.” Date — three years ago.
“She… is actually sick?”
“Yes. Doctors said the aggression, the manias — it’s all the illness. I didn’t believe them. I thought she was just… like that.”
Dasha placed the file on the table. One thought kept circling in her mind: “Too late.”
“Maksim,” — she took a deep breath — “even if I believe that you finally understand… I can’t. There’s been too much filth. Too much pain.”
He raised his head sharply.
“But I sent them away! Did everything you wanted!”
“Not for me!” her voice suddenly rose. “You did it only when YOU suffered! For five years you watched them humiliate me. And nothing! Not a word!”
Maksim turned pale. His hands clenched into fists.
“So that’s it? Just… the end?”
Dasha walked to the dresser and pulled out the folder. Inside were the divorce papers and the apartment ownership order.
“Here is your choice. Either we divide everything civilly. Or I go to court with these”—she slapped her hand on the stack of documents—“and you lose the garage, the savings, and get stuck with the mortgage on your mother’s dacha.”
He flipped through the papers with growing horror. Photos of stolen items. Printed threats. Even the camera footage of Sergey carrying out her laptop.
“You… collected all this the whole time?”
“From day one.” She sat opposite him. “I loved you. Enough to endure everything. But my endurance was only enough to gather evidence.”
Maksim suddenly bent forward, covering his face with his hands. His shoulders shook. For the first time in five years, Dasha saw him cry.
“I… I don’t know how to live without you. Without Misha.”
She looked at this broken man and realized — there was still pity. But no love.
“You’ll learn.” Dasha stood up and straightened the tablecloth. “Sign the papers. And let us go.”
When the door closed behind him, she sank to the floor and finally allowed herself to cry. But these were tears of relief.
Courtroom No. 14 smelled of wood polish and someone’s cheap perfume. Dasha sat at the table, adjusting her blouse collar. In her pocket lay a cherished flash drive — her final trump card.
“All rise, court in session!” announced the clerk.
On the opposite side sat the entire “family”: Maksim with a swollen face, Lyudmila Petrovna in an old-fashioned suit, Galya wearing fake Chanel. Even Sergey appeared, though he had a separate pending case for theft.
“The civil case of Darya Kozlova regarding compensation for material damages,” the judge read monotonously. “The plaintiff demands…”
Suddenly, Lyudmila Petrovna shot up.
“Your Honor! She owes US! Her parents bought the apartment, but my son invested in repairs!”
The judge frowned:
“Citizen Kozlova, if you have questions — save them for closing arguments.”
Dasha calmly laid out the documents. The receipt for repairs (paid by her father). Bank statements (only her funds). Even a printed message where Maksim admitted: ‘The apartment is yours, I’m not claiming it.’
“Your Honor, permission to submit new evidence,” her lawyer said.
A video began playing. The hallway camera in their apartment. Clearly visible: Galya rummaging in Dasha’s purse, pulling out her wallet. Dated a week before the “gift” fur coat.
“This is fake!” Galya screeched.
“Silence in the courtroom!” the judge banged the gavel. “Next piece of evidence.”
An audio recording. Lyudmila Petrovna’s voice:
“That’s it, enough whining! Let her sue! My son-in-law has someone in the court — the case will get buried!”
Maksim turned pale. He was seeing his mother for the first time as she truly was — an angry, spiteful old woman, not a “poor sick victim.”
The judge reviewed the file:
“Citizen Kozlov, do you confirm your mother made such threats?”
Maksim was silent. Then raised his head.
“I confirm. And…” — he swallowed — “I want to file a statement. About the money she and my sister took from my wife.”
Galya leapt up like she’d been stung:
“Traitor! We’re family!”
“Family doesn’t steal,” Maksim said quietly. “And doesn’t lie in court.”
Dasha stared at him in surprise. She hadn’t expected this.
The judge withdrew to deliberate. In the hallway, Galya lunged at Dasha:
“Happy now?! You destroyed a family! No one will believe you — a single mother with a child!”
“The court believes me,” Dasha replied calmly. “And my son. When he grows up — he’ll know the truth.”
The doors opened. The ruling:
“To recover 327,000 rubles from the defendants. The theft case is to be transferred to criminal proceedings.”
Lyudmila Petrovna collapsed onto a bench with a wail. Sergey cursed. Galya sobbed. Only Maksim stood silently.
After the hearing he caught up with Dasha at the exit.
“I… didn’t know. That they were like this. Truly.”
She looked at him — this broken man she once loved.
“I knew. And I still stayed. Because I loved you.”
“And now?”
“Now I love myself,” Dasha adjusted her bag. “And my son. That’s enough.”
She stepped outside into the bright sunlight. For the first time in five years, she breathed freely. Her phone buzzed — a new client agreed to her terms. Life was starting fresh.
A year later, Dasha received the final installment of the recovered money. That same day, she got a letter: Galya had tried to appeal the decision but lost. Lyudmila Petrovna was now in a psychiatric facility. And Maksim… Maksim sent a birthday card for Misha. With no return address.
She placed it into a box labeled “Past.” And went to greet a new morning.
