The pregnancy test lay hidden in the pocket of my house robe, and it felt as if it got in the way with every step I took. I traced the ribbed plastic with my fingers, took a deep breath, and walked into the kitchen.
Pasha was sitting hunched over his laptop, like a teenager caught doing something wrong. On the screen glowed a travel agency website: palm trees, blinding white sand, and a price that made my legs go weak. Three hundred and twenty thousand rubles.
— Pasha, what is this? — I asked as I put the kettle on the stove. My hands were trembling slightly, and the lid clinked unpleasantly.
My husband flinched and hurriedly shut the laptop.
— Oh, that’s just… Mom asked me to check how much trips cost these days. You know, her anniversary is in a month. Fifty-five… that’s a serious number.
— Serious, — I agreed, taking out the mugs. — And who’s paying for all this fun?
Pasha scratched the back of his head. He always did that when he was dodging the truth.
— Well… she’s counting on us. She says she’s dreamed her whole life of seeing the ocean. Alisa, she’s my mother. She put me on my feet, stayed up nights for me…
— Pasha, stop. — I turned to him. — We’re saving for a car. The mortgage eats up half our budget. What three hundred thousand are you talking about?
— I’ll take out a loan, — he blurted out quickly, avoiding my eyes. — A small one. We’ll pay it off in a year. But Mom will be happy. You know her health isn’t great, she shouldn’t get upset.
Just then the intercom buzzed in the hallway. I knew immediately who it was. Eleonora Borisovna had a talent for showing up exactly when the conversation turned to her wallet.
A minute later she swept into the kitchen. She looked excellent for her age: perfect hair, manicured nails, a superior gaze. There was no sign of the sickly woman Pasha so often talked about.
— Ugh, what stinks in here? — she wrinkled her nose instead of greeting us. — Did you buy cheap soap again? Alisa, I told you: if you save on household things, it means you don’t love your home.
— Hello, Eleonora Borisovna. It’s just lemon, — I replied coldly.
She didn’t even listen and immediately turned on her son.
— Pavlik, well? Did you book it? My neighbor said prices are going up by the minute. If we miss it, we’ll have to fly to some dump. I won’t survive that humiliation.
Pasha looked guiltily at me, then at his mother.
— Mom, we’re just calculating… it’s a pretty big amount.
— So what? — her eyebrows shot up. — I asked for a gift once in my life!
I raised you, educated you, spent my last pennies on tutors! You owe me a decent old age. Or do you want me digging in the garden on my anniversary?
Silently, I took the test out of my pocket and placed it on the table, right on top of her magazine. Two clear lines.
— Pasha, there will be no loan, — I said calmly. — We have other expenses coming up.
My husband stared at the test. It was as if he had gone mute; only his eyes widened.
— This… is serious?
— Completely. Two months already.
The kitchen suddenly went quiet, with only the familiar hum of the refrigerator. I waited for him to be happy, or at least to hug me. But Eleonora Borisovna spoke first.
— And so what? — she snorted, not even looking at the test, as if a dirty rag had been tossed onto the table. — It’s an ordinary thing. This isn’t the Stone Age, Alisa. It can wait.
— What do you mean, “wait”? — I asked, stunned.
— Exactly that. Where are you planning to give birth now? Pavlik’s job has only just stabilized, there’s a mortgage hanging over his head. And now diapers and constant screaming? He’ll lose it, he won’t be able to work!
— Mom, well… — Pasha stammered.
— Well that’s what! — she cut him off. — You’re not ready. Neither of you is. Grandchildren can wait, but my anniversary can’t! Fifty-five happens only once. You can give birth in five or ten years. These days doctors can turn any old woman into a young mother.
I looked at my husband. He had shrunk into himself, his eyes darting between his mother and my stomach. This was the moment he should have stood up for me. But he stayed silent.
— Pasha? — I called. — Do you also think that “grandchildren can wait”?
— Alisa, well… — he stuttered. — Mom has a point. The timing really is bad. There’s no money. Maybe really… later? First we’ll send Mom off, she’ll calm down…
It felt like I had been doused with icy water. Like the light had gone out. I no longer saw my husband in front of me, but a cowardly boy ready to betray his own child just so his mommy wouldn’t yell.
— Fine, — I said firmly. — Since you’ve all decided everything, let’s count. Eleonora Borisovna, you like comfort, don’t you?
— I do, — she replied suspiciously. — I have a right to it.
— Of course. Pasha, take out your phone and start calculating.
— Why?
— Calculate, I said! — I snapped so sharply that they both flinched.
Pasha started tapping on the screen.
— Write this down. Your salary is one hundred ten thousand. After taxes. Right?
— Well…
— Now subtract. We’re getting divorced. Tomorrow I’ll file the papers. We won’t be divorced immediately, but you’ll start paying child support from tomorrow. That’s a quarter of your salary. Plus, since I won’t be able to work, you’ll support me too until the child turns three.
The court will set a fixed amount, the subsistence minimum, about fifteen thousand. Total: minus a little over forty thousand. That leaves seventy thousand.
Eleonora Borisovna grimaced.
— So what? Seventy thousand is perfectly fine money. That’s enough. He’ll move in with me.
— Don’t celebrate yet, — I smiled bitterly. — Pasha, continue. The apartment. The first two million were given by my parents. I have all the documents. The court will say that part is mine.
The rest is split in half. But you’ll still have to pay for it even if you move in with Mom, until we sell it. That’s another thirty thousand a month.
Pasha went pale, sweat appearing on his forehead.
— Seventy minus thirty. That leaves forty.
— He has a car! — his mother shrieked. — He’ll sell it and that’s that!
— The car is on credit, Eleonora Borisovna. He pays for that himself. Another fifteen thousand. Forty minus fifteen. That leaves twenty-five thousand rubles.
I stepped closer to her.
— Twenty-five thousand. That’s all your son will have left for food, gas, and your whims. So? How far will you get on that? To the nearest dacha?
The silence was so thick you could hear the clock ticking in the hallway. My mother-in-law sat there red-faced, blinking, unable to say a word. All her arrogance evaporated the moment numbers entered the conversation.
Pasha stared at his phone as if seeing math for the first time.
— Twenty-five thousand… — he muttered. — You can’t even eat properly on that.
— Exactly, — I nodded. — You’d be counting pennies. Sleeping in your old room at your mother’s place on a collapsing couch, listening every day to how much of a failure you are. And I’ll manage.
My parents will help, the alimony will come in. At least no one will be tearing my nerves apart.
— You… you calculating snake! — his mother hissed. — What a vile woman! Pasha, do you hear this? She’s cornered you!
Pasha slowly raised his head. He looked at his mother — her face twisted with rage. Then at me. And finally at the test.
Something changed in his eyes. The fear disappeared.
— Mom, — he said quietly.
— What do you mean “Mom”? Come on, we’re leaving! Let her choke on her palace!
— No, Mom. — Pasha closed the laptop. — No one is going anywhere. And there will be no ocean.
— What?! — she choked. — You’re refusing your mother? Because of her?
— Because of my child. And because of myself. I don’t want to live on plain pasta for the rest of my life. I want a family.
He stood up, came over to me, and hugged me tightly.
— I’m sorry, Alisa. I wasn’t thinking. I just… I’m used to it.
His mother jumped up, the chair scraping loudly.
— So that’s how it is?! Then live in your swamp! I won’t set foot here again! — she pointed toward the door. — And don’t even hope that I’ll take care of this child! I want to live for myself!
She stormed out, slamming the door so hard that the calendar fell off the wall.
We stood in the kitchen. Pasha buried his face in my shoulder.
— Would you really have divorced me? — he asked quietly.
— Immediately, — I answered honestly. — I won’t let anyone, even your mother, decide for us.
— I get it. I get everything. We’ll manage. I’ll pay off the car faster, find extra work. And for Mom… we’ll buy a multicooker. She complained the old one was junk anyway.
A year passed.
Our son, Misha, was born on time, strong and loud. Pasha turned out to be a wonderful father — he gets up at night, bathes him, and doesn’t trust anyone else to cut his nails.
Eleonora Borisovna didn’t keep her word — as soon as she saw that we were doing well, she showed up. Now she comes on a schedule: once every two weeks, with advance notice, and for no more than an hour. She tries to grumble and teach us how to live, but Pasha just smiles:
— Mom, we’ll handle it ourselves. Should I call you a taxi, or are you taking the bus?
She didn’t go anywhere for her anniversary after all. She took offense at all her friends, quarreled with the neighbors, and now plays the role of the abandoned mother.
But recently I saw her secretly slip a pair of knitted socks into Misha’s stroller. Scratchy, bright green, but warm.
It seems that even the most unbearable people’s hearts can sometimes soften. The main thing is not to let them too close to family decisions.
