My husband received an order from his mother: “Get this circus out of here, I want peace!” He told me to take our son and leave our own apartment just before New Year’s. In response, I painted my son green and announced… a quarantine at home.
The air smelled of tangerines, an expensive Christmas tree (we bought a Danish fir that didn’t shed needles), and… lies I sensed before I even read the message.
I, Lila, stood on a ladder hanging the last ornament—a glass, hand-painted, vintage bauble. On the floor, gifts waited in boxes: a huge LEGO set for my seven-year-old son, Maksim, and a new leather bag for my husband, Dmitry.
Dmitry was taking a shower, the sound of water creating an illusion of safety and calm. We had lived together for three years. He had welcomed me with my child from a previous marriage, and I thought I had won the lottery. He was calm, non-confrontational, loved Maks…
His phone lay on the dresser in the hallway. Notifications flooded it, one after another.
I didn’t usually go through someone else’s pockets. But the screen lit up on its own, and a message appeared in all caps right before my eyes as I climbed down the ladder holding the brass star.
Sender: “Mom.”
The text hit me like an electric shock:
«Did you tell her? I hope you’ll take this circus (Lila and her puppy) to her parents? I want peace and quiet, no strange children. Their noise gives me migraines, and remember the debt, don’t provoke me.»
I froze. The bauble in my hand cracked slightly, but luckily didn’t break.
“Circus,” “puppy,” “strange children”…
Maks called Dmitry “dad.” He was teaching him to ride a bike, building castles with him from blocks. And to his mother, Tamara Pavlovna, a respected teacher with thirty years of experience, we were a circus to be gotten rid of so the baroness could rest.
And the worst part: “remember the debt.” What debt?
Dmitry came out of the bathroom with a towel around his hips. He smelled of shower gel and calm, like a man who believed problems would solve themselves.
— Oh, Lilia! What a beautiful tree! — he said, coming up and kissing my cheek.
— Dmitry — I said, trying to keep my voice steady. — Your mother wrote to you. His smile disappeared instantly. He grabbed his phone.
— Really? Probably just Christmas wishes or a glitter card…
— No, Dmitry. Not glitter. She asked if you had taken out the circus, meaning us.
Silence fell in the hallway. Maks watched cartoons, unaware of the tension.
— Lil… — Dmitry slumped his shoulders. — You don’t understand. Mom… she just has her own way of speaking… specific.
— Specific? She called my son a puppy and ordered us to leave our apartment on New Year’s Eve.
— Well… you know… — he started twisting the towel in his hands — she has high blood pressure, doctors advised peace and quiet. And Maks… he’s active, noisy.
— So what? — I crossed my arms. — Are you suggesting we leave? Go to my mom’s? To a one-room flat on the outskirts? So your mom can lie in peace in our bedroom?
— Just for a few days! — he begged. — Lil, put yourself in her shoes, she raised me and… helps.
— Helps? — I snorted. — By calling us a circus? And what debt, Dmitry?
He turned red as a beet, looking like an embarrassed schoolboy.
— Uh… the car, our “Skoda.” I told you I took a loan, but the bank didn’t give the full amount, mom added five hundred thousand.
— Five hundred thousand?! — I sank onto the pouf, my legs trembling. — You took half a million from your mom and stayed silent for two years?
— I didn’t want to burden you… I thought I’d pay it off with bonuses, but the bonuses were cut… And now she… pressures me. Says if I disobey, she’ll demand the money back through court; she has a receipt.
The truth hit me. We weren’t just in a relationship; we were trapped in a *debt*, and my husband was a hostage to his domineering, wealthy mother. He couldn’t protect us because he feared her “strings.”
— Listen — I said quietly, firmly. — We are not going anywhere. This is my home. I’m paying the mortgage equally with you. Maks will spend New Year’s here, under this tree.
— Lil! You don’t understand! She’ll come and make a scene! She’ll destroy me!
— Let her come, there’s enough space.
— She can’t stand noise!
— Don’t worry. We’ll be quiet.
At that moment, Maks ran out of the room:
— Mom! Dad! Look what I drew!
He handed us a drawing—three of us together: me, Dmitry, and Maks, with crooked letters: “Family forever.”
Dmitry turned away, shame gripping him, but fear of his mother was stronger than guilt.
— Lil… — he whispered when Maks ran back to the room. — Please, I beg you, leave. I promise… I’ll make it up to you. We’ll buy you a fur coat, go on vacation…
I looked into his panicked eyes.
He was selling us—me and my son—for half a million rubles and his mother’s peace.
— Fine — I said suddenly, surprising even myself. — If your mother feels bad, we should help. We’ll go.
Dmitry exhaled deeply in relief.
— Thank you… You’re the best! I knew you’d understand!
He rushed into my arms, but I pulled back.
— I have to work, important client call in half an hour — he said, escaping to the bedroom and closing the door. I was a copywriter and editor, with a tight pre-holiday deadline.
Twenty minutes later, while wearing headphones discussing edits, the door suddenly opened without knocking. Dmitry came in, phone on speaker.
— Mom… tell her! Lil, mom wants to know when you’re leaving!
A squeaky, sharp voice came from the phone, Tamara Pavlovna:
— Give her to me! Give me the phone! I’ll teach her how to respect elders! Why hasn’t she packed her bags yet?!
— Dmitry! — I yanked off my headphones. — I have a call! Client is watching!
— What’s the call! — she yelled through the phone. — You should be cooking, not sitting at the computer!
The client’s face appeared on the monitor—elegant, in a blazer—raising an eyebrow.
— Lilia… everything okay? Seems like there’s an issue with the work environment… Maybe we reschedule… or… find someone else.
The screen went black.
I lost a fifty-thousand contract because of his mother. I looked at Dmitry.
— You ruined my deal.
— Well… mom was worried… — he mumbled.
In that moment, love shrank and hid in the farthest corner of my heart. Only cold, calculated anger remained.
I smiled.
— No matter, Dmitry. Tell your mother we’re leaving tomorrow.
But I knew: tomorrow no one would go anywhere.
At night, I lay listening to Dmitry’s peaceful breathing, sleeping like a child, convinced the problem was solved.
In my head, a plan was forming: if I leave now, I leave forever. But if I stay and force *them* to leave, I regain my self-worth and control over my life.
In the morning, I woke up:
— Son — I whispered, leaning over Maks. — Want to play spies? Real spies?
Maks’ eyes lit up.
— Yes! What do we do?
— We pretend you’re sick… very contagious. We need to scare the enemy so they run away.
— Who’s the enemy? Grandma Tom?
— Her. And… Uncle Dmitry a little too, went over to the dark side.
We grabbed green paint, and the fun began.
Half an hour later, Maks looked like he’d rolled in mud—green dots covering his face, neck, arms, even belly.
— Awesome! — he said, looking in the mirror. — I’m Shrek!
— You’re sick with smallpox — I corrected him. — Very contagious.
When Dmitry got up and went to the kitchen for coffee, I stopped him in the hallway, face serious.
— Dmitry… we have a problem.
— What? Car won’t start?
— Worse, Maks.
I opened the children’s room door. Maks sat on the bed, sad, covered in green spots.
— What is this?! — Dmitry dropped his cup, shattering it on the tiles, not even noticing.
— Smallpox — I sighed. — Severe form. Doctor just left… (of course, I was lying). Temperature 39, unbearable itching, strict isolation, no going out for two weeks, contagious like plague rats.
— Smallpox?! — Dmitry went pale as a wall. — But… mom, she’s already on the train!
— I know, but we can’t go to my mom, doctor forbade it.
— Now what?! — he grabbed his head. — Mom’s afraid of infection, Lil, you have to do something!
— I did — I said calmly. — We’ll stay in the room with Maks, quietly. You’ll slide us food under the door, and tell your mom we’re sick, but in isolation.
Dmitry calmed slightly. He was terrified but saw no way out.
— Okay… I’ll buy masks.
December 30, zero hour. Doorbell rings. Dmitry rushes to open.
Tamara Pavlovna stands at the door, wearing a mink coat, medical mask, and—strangely—protective goggles.
— Dmitry! — she squeaked. — Where are they?! Where’s the bacterial reservoir?!
— Mom, quiet! — Dmitry dragged her huge suitcase like she was staying for a year. — They’re in the children’s room, locked up.
— Ew! — she entered, grimacing. — The air is stagnant, microbes flying, open the windows!
— Mom, it’s minus twenty outside!
— Open them! Better cold than covered in blisters at my age!
She sat in the living room, spreading a newspaper under herself.
— I’m hungry after the trip. What’s for lunch? Did Lilia cook, or just spreading germs?
I came out of the kitchen in full gear: robe, hat, mask, gloves.
— Good day, Tamara Pavlovna. Lunch is ready.
I placed a pot on the table.
— What’s this? — she peeked.
— Zucchini cream soup, no salt, no butter, with rusks.
— This… for me?!
— For all of us — I answered calmly. — Maks is on a diet, smells make him nauseous. Fried food, meat, spices—he’d vomit. You don’t want to hear him throwing up behind the wall, do you?
Tamara Pavlovna paled.
— I don’t want to, but I want meat! Dmitry! Go to the store, get sausage! Doctor’s sausage!
— Not allowed! — I interrupted. — Smell will trigger spasms in sick child.
— Eat this mush?! — she stabbed the soup.
— Healthy for blood vessels — Dmitry sighed. — Mom, endure it, it’s for the child.
— For someone else’s child I must starve?! — she screamed.
She ate two spoonfuls and pushed the plate away.
— Where do I sleep?
— In our bedroom — Dmitry said. — We with Lilia… I on the couch, Lilia in the room with the sick child.
— No way! — she protested. — Couch? New sheets! In packaging!
Dmitry ran to the store for sheets. That evening Maks blew his whistle. Tuu-tuu-tuu! The sound was piercing, awful.
— What is this?! — screamed mother-in-law. — Gone mad?!
Dmitry ran to the children’s room door.
— Lil, calm him!
I held the door slightly ajar.
— Dmitry, no. Doctor ordered breathing exercises. Windy pneumonia, very dangerous.
— But mom…
— Mom will survive, or do you want Maks worse off?
Dmitry returned to his mother:
— Mom, it’s therapy, lungs exercise.
— Therapy?! This is torture! I came to rest!
At that moment, the doorbell rang. Neighbor, Grandma Walentyna, at the door.
— Tamara arrived! — she shouted.
— Don’t come closer! — the mother-in-law waved. — Lazaret! Smallpox!
— What? — Grandma Walentyna widened her eyes. — Already three in our block! African strain! Adults badly! Ninka from the fifth floor hair fell out!
Tamara Pavlovna grabbed her curly hair.
— Hair?!
— Yes, teeth loosen! Better mask on, minimal breathing!
Grandma Walentyna left, leaving her in panic.
The night passed in a nightmare: Maks coughing into his pillow, mother-in-law tossing on the hallway couch, spraying antiseptic, Dmitry slept on the floor like a faithful dog.
I in the children’s room held my son. “Tomorrow it will all be over,” I thought.
December 31, morning. Silence in the apartment. Tamara Pavlovna sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, awake all night. Dmitry tried to dress the tree (removing foil, hanging ornaments in gloves).
— Let’s have some fun! It’s New Year!
— What fun?! — she hissed. — In a smallpox infirmary, I feel viruses on my skin, left heel itchy!
At noon I decided to strengthen the effect.
I left the children’s room in full equipment: robe, hat, mask.
— Dmitry — I said dramatically — Maks wants to eat, but we’re out of broccoli. Will you go?
— Broccoli again?! — she shouted. — I want Olivier salad! Herring under a fur! Champagne!
— Not allowed — I cut her off. — Smell of mayonnaise will cause spasms in the sick child.
— Damn it! — she turned to the wall.
Dmitry went to get broccoli.
Meanwhile, I left the children’s room door slightly open and turned on hospital sounds on the tablet: monitors beeping, coughs, moans… quietly in the background.
Mother-in-law listened:
— Oh God… what do they have? Resuscitation?!
— It’s a story, she likes doctors — I shouted from the kitchen.
At 5 p.m. I made the decisive move. I walked into the hallway with the phone, loudly enough for her to hear in the living room:
— Hello, Masha? Yes… What?! The doctor called back?!
Silence in the living room. Mother-in-law didn’t even breathe.
— What?! Not smallpox?! What? Rotavirus?! Mutant?! God…
I paused.
— Symptoms? Vomiting like a fountain? Diarrhea? Dehydration in two hours? Highly contagious for older people?
I heard something fall in the living room.
— Masha, nightmare… Ambulances not coming… — she groaned. I put down the phone and returned to the room:
— Dmitry… Tamara Pavlovna… The doctor was wrong. It’s rotavirus, new strain “Black Widow” from Africa , Grandma Walentyna was right.
Mother-in-law grabbed her stomach.
— Oh… — she whispered. — I feel dizzy…
— It’s starting! — I glared. — Incubation 48 hours, they arrived two days ago, everything fits.
— Dmitry! — she screamed. — Take me! I don’t want to die in the infirmary! Already dizzy!
— Mom, six p.m.! Where?! Before New Year only a few hours left!
— Hotel! Hospital! Bunker! Anywhere! Taxi! Quick!
— Prices sky-high, no availability!
— I don’t care about prices, I want to live! Walk!
She threw her bags, slippers, rusks, masks.
Dmitry, seeing the futility of the argument, grabbed the phone:
— Hello, taxi! Now! Economy? At least truck!
Ten minutes later, they were at the door, ready to leave.
— Lil — Dmitry said angrily. — You… on purpose!
— Me?! — I looked innocent. — Quarantine warning, they came themselves! What do I have to do with it?!
— Go! — she pushed him. — I’m dizzy!
They ran out, door slammed.
I waited a moment, listened—they were gone by elevator.
I locked the door.
I went to the children’s room.
— Maks, the enemy ran away!
Maks peeked out from behind the door.
— Really? They left? Forever?
— Forever, my son. Go wash off your smallpox!
While Maks splashed in the tub, I went to the balcony, reached into a secret stash:
jar of red caviar,
Napoleon cake,
bottle of cold champagne.
I set the table, turned on the garland and TV with Ivan Vasilievich.
The apartment transformed into a cozy home.
Maks came out clean, rosy, happy.
— Mom! I want to eat!
— Eat, my brave agent, you deserve it!
We sat at the table. I poured myself champagne, Maks juice.
— Happy New Year, son.
— Happy New Year, Mom! Will Uncle Dmitry come back?
— Not today, and I hope not tomorrow.
00:00. Chimes rang, fireworks boomed outside.
My phone beeped. SMS from Dmitry:
«We’re in a taxi, drove past three hotels—no vacancies! Mom screams, she’s dizzy! Driver wants to drop us, your fault! Let us back, we agree to the hallway!»
I smiled, reached for champagne.
I replied:
«I can’t, dear, quarantine. Doctor ordered full isolation. Your things (the essentials) are in the hallway, where you were by the elevator. Take them if passing by. Happy New Year, Dmitry, take care of mom and don’t get sick.»
