— What on earth made you think you could bring your kids to my place and I’d look after them here? They have a mother for that—and you! And by the way, they shouldn’t be here at all, in my apartment, in case you’ve forgotten!
— Are you serious right now? — Margarita slowly set her book down on the armrest of the sofa. Her voice was so even and quiet that for a moment it seemed as if she were merely clarifying some trivial detail.
Andrey, who had already kicked off one shoe in the entryway, turned and looked at his wife with poorly concealed irritation. He moved quickly, as if afraid that if he hesitated, his plan would fall apart. His two sons, Kirill and Maxim, stood beside him, gripping the straps of their small backpacks. With timid curiosity, they took in the bright, spacious apartment that smelled of coffee and something indefinably foreign—nothing like the scents of their mother’s or grandmother’s homes.
— Rita, why are you starting up again, huh? I explained—Sergei can only meet today; we haven’t seen each other in ages. It’s literally for a couple of hours, you won’t even notice I’m gone, — he rattled off, trying to pull off his second shoe with his other foot without bending over. — Boys, come in, take your shoes off.
He gave his older son a slight push between the shoulder blades, but the boy didn’t move, glancing sideways at Margarita, who had frozen in the living-room doorway. The younger one, Maxim, on the contrary, took a small step forward, then immediately retreated, hiding behind his brother. The air in the hall subtly thickened.
— Wait, — Margarita took a few steps toward them, her house slippers sliding soundlessly over the laminate. She stopped a couple of meters away, arms crossed over her chest. — Let’s go back to the beginning. You and I, Andrey, discussed this very thoroughly. More than once. We agreed that your past life and your children would not become part of my life within these walls. I was perfectly clear.
Her calm worked on him like a red rag on a bull. He had expected anything—reproaches, shouting, arguments—but this icy, matter-of-fact tone threw him off balance.
— For God’s sake, what “past life”? They’re my sons! They’re not ghosts from the past, they’re living people, for your information! — He finally wrestled off the second shoe and straightened up, looking down at her. — What kind of selfishness is this? They’ll just hang out here for a couple of hours. Watch some cartoons. What’s so criminal about that? You’re acting like I brought in a platoon of soldiers.
— You brought people here whose appearance we did not agree on. What’s more, we agreed on the opposite, — she didn’t raise her voice, which only made her words weightier. — This is my apartment, Andrey. Not ours—mine. And you live here on my terms. The main one being that I do not want to and will not take part in raising your children. Not as a stepmother, not as a temporary babysitter. You agreed. You said you understood, and that it wouldn’t be a problem for you either.
He snorted and turned away, pretending to straighten his jacket on the hanger. It was his favorite trick—to show how bored and ridiculous he found the conversation.
— Rita, stop this circus. What will the kids think? Are you humiliating them on purpose? — he hissed, turning his head toward her. — They’re my sons. You’re my wife. You should be used to the fact that those things are connected. That’s it, I’m off, I don’t have time for these stupid arguments.
Andrey took a decisive step toward the door, intending to end the conversation with this show of authority. But Margarita was quicker. In an instant she moved and stood squarely in his way, planting her palm against the door.
— You’re not going anywhere, — she enunciated, looking him straight in the eyes. — At least not without them. You’ve broken our most important agreement. You decided you could just show up and present me with a fait accompli, trampling on my opinion and my wishes. Well, Andrey, you were wrong. Take your sons, get dressed, and figure out your plans with your friend yourself. But they will not stay here for even a minute.
Andrey froze, his hand suspended halfway to the doorknob. He looked at Margarita’s palm pressed to the door, then lifted his gaze to her face. Bewilderment quickly gave way to barely veiled rage in his eyes. He clearly hadn’t expected such a determined rebuff.
— What do you think you’re doing? — he whispered through his teeth, lowering his voice and casting a quick glance at his sons, who shrank at his angry whisper. — Take your hand down. Don’t make a scene in front of the kids. They see everything, they understand everything. Aren’t you ashamed?
— Me? Ashamed? — Margarita gave the slightest shake of her head without removing her hand. — You’re the one who should be ashamed, Andrey. You brought them here knowing they weren’t welcome. You put them in the position of uninvited guests. And you’re the one making a scene right now, trying to shift your responsibility onto me. So no, I’m not the least bit ashamed. I’m simply sticking to the rules we both agreed on.
His face turned crimson. The attempt to press on her conscience had failed with a crack, and he moved on to his next tactic—dismissing their agreement.
— What “rules,” Rita? It was just a conversation! I never imagined you’d take everything so literally, like some emotionless machine! I thought you were a normal, living woman capable of being understanding. I’ve got a force majeure, a meeting with a friend that can’t be rescheduled. I asked my wife for help! What’s so abnormal about that? Any other woman in your place would be glad to help!
The boys stood completely still. The older one, Kirill, lowered his head and stared at his sneakers as if the pattern on them were the most interesting thing in the world. The younger one, on the contrary, didn’t take his big frightened eyes off Margarita, in which a mute question was written.
— Exactly. You asked for help and got a refusal. And now you’re trying to force that help on me, — her voice remained just as calm and even, which infuriated him even more. — And let’s be honest. This isn’t force majeure. Force majeure is when your ex-wife ends up in the hospital and there’s truly no one to leave the kids with. A meeting with a friend is your leisure time. And you decided to arrange it at my expense without even asking. You simply decided that by default I’m obliged to sit with your kids.
She paused, letting him absorb what she’d said.
— When we decided to live together, I stated my position right away. I don’t hate children, Andrey. But I don’t want other people’s children in my home. I don’t want to be responsible for them, I don’t want to adjust my routines and plans for them. I want to come home and rest, not work a second shift as a caregiver. You said you understood. You assured me your mother has a big house and is always happy to have her grandchildren. You yourself proposed that option as ideal for everyone. Or have you already forgotten?
— So that’s what this is, — he sneered viciously. — You only needed me—convenient, without a past, without “baggage.” To come home from work, bring money, and create no problems. And the fact that I have a life, that I have sons—that was all supposed to stay out there, beyond the threshold of your perfect apartment? You’re such a…
He didn’t finish, but the word on the tip of his tongue was obvious. He looked at her with such open dislike, as if seeing her for the first time. As if all the months of their life together had been nothing but an illusion, shattered by the cold reality of this hallway.
— …such an egotist, — he finished, spitting out the word as if it burned his tongue. His face twisted into a grimace of contempt. He no longer tried to seem reasonable or offended—now he was openly attacking. — You don’t care about me. You don’t care about what matters to me. These boys are my blood, my family. And you want me to pretend they don’t exist. To lock them in a cage at their mother’s and visit by schedule so God forbid your precious peace isn’t disturbed!
He took a step toward her, invading her personal space, and spoke more quietly but even more venomously, so the children wouldn’t catch every word.
— I thought you loved me. And love means accepting a person as a whole. With all his past, with all his problems. And what are you doing? You’re cutting off the parts of me you don’t like. You don’t need me, Rita. You need a convenient function in your sterile apartment—someone who comes and goes and doesn’t interfere with your perfect life.
Margarita listened without interrupting. Her face remained impassive, but there was something new in her gaze—a cold curiosity, like a researcher observing the habits of an unfamiliar creature. When he finished his tirade, she didn’t answer right away; she looked at the children. Kirill unobtrusively drew his younger brother closer and whispered something in his ear. There was so much quiet, adult despair in their posture that Margarita’s heart clenched for a moment. But the pity wasn’t for them. It was for the situation their own father had created.
— Are you finished? — she asked calmly, looking back at Andrey. — Now listen to me. When I said I didn’t want to see your children here, it wasn’t a whim. It was self-protection. I knew that sooner or later exactly what’s happening now would happen. That you’d start with “just a couple of hours,” then “for a day,” then “for the weekend.” I knew you’d press on pity, accuse me of selfishness, and manipulate the concept of “family.” And I didn’t want to be part of that. You swore it wouldn’t happen. You lied.
His nostrils flared with anger. He wanted to blurt something out in response, but she stopped him with a gesture.
— What on earth made you think you could bring your kids to my place and I’d look after them here? They have a mother for that—and you! And, by the way, they shouldn’t be here at all, in my apartment, in case you’ve forgotten!
The key phrase, spoken in the same even tone, hit him harder than a slap. He recoiled as if she had actually pushed him. Bewilderment flickered in his eyes. He couldn’t find anything to say—because there was no answer. It was the truth, bare and unvarnished.
— This… this is my home too! — he finally squeezed out, but the line sounded pathetic and unconvincing, like the last argument of someone who’d already lost.
— No, — Margarita cut him off. — You live here because I allowed it. And I’m starting to seriously regret that decision. It’s not about the children, is it? And not about your sudden meeting with a friend. It’s about you. About your desire for everyone around you to serve your interests. Your ex-wife is supposed to hand over the kids at your first request. Your new wife is supposed to entertain them while you relax. Everyone owes you. And you, as a responsible father and loving husband, what do you do? You just try to dump the problem on whoever happens to be closest…
Continued in the comments
