Anya flinched as if she’d been struck across the face. The blow was invisible, but that didn’t make it any less real—it hit straight in her chest, squeezing her heart into a tiny, frozen lump. The thick white envelope she’d been holding just a second earlier was no longer hers. It was in his hands now. In Igor’s. Her husband’s. The person she’d believed was closest to her in the world.
“I… I only wanted to take a look,” she stammered, feeling shame and hurt flood her cheeks. Her voice shook traitorously.
Igor stood opposite her—massive, immovable—blocking the only way out of their cramped bedroom. His face, usually calm, was twisted into a mask of anger and distrust. He gripped the envelope so tightly his knuckles went white, as if he was afraid she might try to snatch it back.
“Take a look?” he hissed, a cold metallic edge in his tone. “Anya, don’t play me for a fool. I know exactly why you went digging in there. And I already told you—this money is for my mother. End of story.”
He said that—end of story—with the kind of certainty that felt like hammering a nail into the lid of their shared future. The future the envelope had been created for in the first place. They’d saved every last kopeck together, denying themselves vacations, new clothes, even a simple movie night.
“For the down payment,” they’d tell each other, dreaming of their own place—of a nursery with star-patterned wallpaper, of a dog they swore they’d get one day.
Now those dreams shriveled, collapsed, and turned to dust because of a single sentence.
“But my mom…” Anya began, a hard knot rising in her throat. “She needs help too. Urgently.”
“Your mother has you and your brother,” Igor cut in sharply. “Mine has only me. And I gave her my word.”
He turned and strode to the wardrobe—tall, dark wood, looming in the room like a mausoleum for the life they’d failed to build. Igor rose on tiptoe and shoved the envelope onto the top shelf, behind a stack of old bed linens. The gesture was deliberate—humiliating. He wasn’t simply hiding the money. He was putting her in her place.
Anya stared at his broad back and felt something boil over inside her. Helplessness was being replaced by fury.
“You had no right to decide this alone!” she shouted. “We saved that money together! It’s mine too!”
Igor turned slowly. His eyes darkened, narrowing into two icy slits.
“Yours? And do you remember who spent the past year grinding through two jobs so that envelope would get even a little heavier? Who stayed up nights finishing projects while you slept peacefully?”
It was a vicious, below-the-belt hit. Yes, Igor had worked hard this past year. But had she been idle? She ran the house, created warmth and order, cooked dinners he swallowed in five minutes without even looking up from his laptop. She’d been his rear guard, his support. And now that support was being dismissed as if it meant nothing.
“So that’s it? Now we’re keeping score over who contributed more?” she asked with a bitter, crooked smile. “Fine—let’s count. And what currency are you using to value my care? My sleepless nights when you had crisis deadlines? My patience?”
“Don’t twist the subject,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if exhausted. “It’s not about who gave more. It’s about a promise. A man has to keep his word. That’s how my father raised me.”
“And a man is supposed to respect his wife,” her voice cracked. “Did you think about me for even a second? About my mother? Do you even know she’s been diagnosed? Do you know what the doctors said? ‘She needs surgery—and the sooner the better.’ And how are we supposed to pay for it—on her pension?”
She fell silent, breathing hard. A ringing stillness settled over the room. Outside, a car honked irritably. Somewhere in the living room, the wall clock ticked away.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
As if it were counting down the last minutes of their marriage. Or—what was far more terrifying—the last minutes of her mother’s life.
Igor didn’t answer. He stared off to the side, at the faded pattern on the carpet. For a brief moment, Anya thought she saw something like sympathy flash in his gaze. But it vanished instantly, replaced by the stubborn hardness she’d come to know too well.
“I’m sorry,” he finally muttered dully, still not looking at her. “I really am. But I can’t break my word. Mom is waiting. She… she’s counting on it.”
“So my mother shouldn’t count on anything?” Anya whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks—hot, desperate, the first of them. “So she should just die?”
She couldn’t stay in the same room with him. She turned and fled the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water with shaking hands and drank it in one gulp. It didn’t help. Everything inside her was on fire.
She sank onto a stool, clutching her head in her hands.
What now? Where was she supposed to find the money? The amount was enormous—impossible for them right now. That envelope had been their only hope. The last one.
She remembered the phone call with her mother the day before—her weak, yet so familiar voice. “Anyechka, sweetheart, don’t worry. Everything will be okay. We’ll get through it.” Her mother always said that. When Anya’s father left for another woman, abandoning her with two children. When she got laid off. “We’ll get through it.”
But now, for the first time, Anya felt they might not. The illness was too serious, and time was against them.
Suddenly, her phone vibrated in the pocket of her robe. Anya flinched. Her brother’s name—Lyoshka—glowed on the screen. She wiped her tears and answered.
“Hello?”
“Anya, hey. How are you? Did you talk to Igor?” Her brother’s voice was tense with worry.
“I did,” she forced out.
“And?”
“He refused.”
Silence hung for a few seconds on the line.
“Refused?” Lyoshka repeated, as if he couldn’t believe it. “Completely?”
“He said he promised the money to his mother.”
“For God’s—” her brother started, then cut himself off, but she understood everything from that unfinished curse. “So what now? Where do we get that kind of money? I already scraped together everything I had, asked friends. It’s nothing, Anya. Enough for meds, maybe.”
Anya’s heart clenched again. She hadn’t expected help from him—he’d recently gone through a divorce himself, paid child support, lived paycheck to paycheck.
“I don’t know, Lyosh,” she whispered. “I really don’t know.”
They spoke a bit more and hung up. Anya set the phone on the table and stared at one spot on the wall. Her mind was blank. No plan, no idea—only a dull, aching pain.
She didn’t know how long she sat like that—ten minutes, maybe an hour. The sound of the front door opening snapped her out of it.
Igor.
He was leaving.
On tiptoe, Anya peered into the hallway. He stood with his back to her, pulling on his jacket. A small gym bag hung from his hand. Anya’s blood went cold. She knew what was in that bag.
The envelope.
He was going to take the money to his mother—right now. Without a word. Just to do it and let her deal with it after.
Something inside Anya tore. The last thread of patience, the last drop of hope that he might reconsider, might understand. Whatever love still flickered in her chest was replaced by a cold, calculating rage.
She slipped back into the kitchen without making a sound. Her eyes landed on the heavy cast-iron frying pan on the stove. Her hand reached for it before she even thought. Her fingers closed around the cold handle.
Heavy. Perfect.
No—she wasn’t going to hit him. Just scare him. Stop him. Force him to listen.
She hid the pan behind her back and stepped out into the hallway again. Igor was already putting on his shoes.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, her voice deliberately calm.
He startled and slowly straightened up.
“Yes. I need to go to my mom.”
“I see,” she nodded, moving closer. “Important business.”
He looked at her suspiciously.
“Anya… what are you up to?”
“Me? Nothing,” she said with a smile. The smile came out wrong—crooked, unsettling. “I just want to see you off. And give you something.”
She took another step. Now less than a meter separated them. Igor noticed the frying pan behind her back. His eyes widened in shock—and fear.
“Are you… are you insane? Put it down.”
“Not until you put the bag down,” she hissed. “Put it down. And take out the envelope.”
Igor backed up until his shoulders hit the front door.
“Anya, stop this circus. We’re adults.”
“This is your circus!” she shrieked, lifting the pan slightly. “You turned our life into a circus! You betrayed me!”
He threw up an arm defensively.
“I didn’t betray you! I’m saving my mother!”
“And you’re killing mine!”
She stepped forward. He stumbled over the threshold—and started to topple backward. The door, apparently not latched, swung open. Igor lost his balance and crashed onto the stairwell with a thud. The bag slipped from his hand and rolled away.
Anya froze in the doorway, breathing hard. The frying pan was still clenched in her fist. Igor lay on the floor grimacing, clutching his bruised elbow.
“Psycho…” he rasped.
At that moment, the neighbor’s door cracked open and a curious head poked out—Zina, the local gossip queen.
“Oh my—what’s going on here, lovebirds? Italian drama again?”
Heat rushed to Anya’s face—shame, pure shame. She lowered the pan.
Igor groaned as he pushed himself up. He shot Anya a vicious look, then glanced at the neighbor, grabbed his bag, and bolted down the stairs without another word.
Anya stood in the doorway watching him go. Zina kept clucking something that sounded sympathetic, but Anya didn’t hear a thing. Her ears rang.
She’d lost.
He still left. He would still take the money.
She shut the door mechanically, walked inside, and sank to the floor right there in the hallway. Tears poured again, but these were no longer angry tears—they were tears of powerlessness.
It was over. There was no hope left.
And then her gaze caught something white lying on the doormat by the door. It must have fallen out of Igor’s bag when he fell. Not the envelope—something else.
A sheet of paper, folded into quarters.
Anya picked it up with trembling fingers and unfolded it.
It was a form from a private medical center—an expensive one. Her eyes raced over the text.
Patient: Vorobyova Antonina Petrovna. Igor’s mother.
Diagnosis…
Anya read it and didn’t believe what she was seeing.
No urgent surgery. No life-threatening illness.
The diagnosis stated: “Age-related skin changes. Recommended course of rejuvenation procedures: laser resurfacing, hyaluronic acid injections, plasmolifting.” And at the bottom, in handwriting, the total cost of the course—an amount that almost perfectly matched what they had in their shared envelope.
The air left Anya’s lungs in a thin, whistling breath. Her head spun. She stared at the paper while the world around her cracked apart, scattering into a million sharp pieces.
Rejuvenation procedures.
Not an operation to save a life.
Cosmetic injections.
He had lied to her—coldly, cruelly, looking her straight in the eyes. He’d been ready to gamble her mother’s life for his mother’s whim. So she could look younger.
The pain she’d felt earlier was nothing compared to what surged through her now. This wasn’t just betrayal. It was monstrous—beyond anything she could understand.
She sat on the floor in the empty apartment, gripping that cursed piece of paper. And in that moment, something inside her died. The Anya who loved, who believed, who forgave—she no longer existed. In her place, another woman was being born: cold, determined, and willing to do whatever it took.
He wanted a war?
He was going to get one.
Anya rose slowly to her feet. Wiped her tears. Went to the mirror. A pale woman stared back—red eyes, lips pressed into a hard line. She wasn’t crying anymore.
She was thinking.
Her gaze dropped to her phone. She picked it up, opened her contacts, and found a number.
“Pavel Sergeyevich. Divorce attorney.”
A friend had given it to her—one who’d survived a brutal divorce herself. Back then Anya had thought, I’ll never need this.
How wrong she’d been.
Her finger hovered over the call button.
No. Not yet.
Divorce was too easy. He had to pay—for the lies, for the humiliation, for the way her mother’s life had dangled by a thread while he chose beauty treatments for his own.
Anya opened a search engine and began typing words that felt strange and frightening on her tongue:
“How to get a large loan fast.”
“Private lenders urgent.”
“Loan secured by property without spouse’s consent.”
She knew she was stepping onto dangerously thin ice—risking disaster, risking everything.
But she didn’t care.
The fear was gone.
There was only an icy emptiness, and one single goal: get the money. Any way she could.
And then…
Then she would make Igor regret the day he decided his mother’s youthfulness mattered more than her mother’s life.
