Vyacheslav was rushing from work, trying to get home in time to take Lyana to the clinic. An hour earlier, she had called and said she wasn’t feeling well, so he had had to ask to leave work early. His wife never bothered him over trifles. She drove well herself, but now she was even afraid to get behind the wheel. Seven months of pregnancy had gone smoothly and calmly, and then suddenly she had felt unwell. Slavik was deeply worried. Lyana had struggled for a long time to get pregnant, and this child was wanted, long-awaited. Panic washed over him, but he tried to keep himself under control. After all, he was on the road.
After standing in traffic for more than ten minutes, Vyacheslav swore quietly and began thinking about how he could get around the jam faster. He looked around, trying to see whether it was possible to turn around, but his car was tightly boxed in on all sides. Slava picked up his phone to call his wife. The screen lit up, and then the familiar ringtone filled the car. His mother, Kira Leonidovna, was calling.
“Yes, Mom, hi. Is it something urgent?” Vyacheslav asked, visibly nervous.
“Hello,” his mother drawled in her usual manner. “Slavik, Nyusha is flying in from Moscow today. Someone needs to meet her. Drive to the airport in three hours.”
“Nyusha…”
That name cut through his mind. A grown woman, and they still called her Nyusha, as if she were still that spoiled little girl with freckles scattered across her face and braids down to her shoulders.
“I can’t, even if I wanted to,” Slava said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and looking around to see whether any chance had appeared to slip out of the lane.
“What do you mean, you can’t?” Kira Leonidovna stretched out the words in her habitual singsong way. “Try harder. After all, you haven’t seen Nyusha for five years. Show some respect to your little sister. She’ll be pleased to know people here remember her.”
“Mom, I have my own problems. Lyana feels very unwell. I need to take her to the clinic, and I’m stuck in traffic.”
“Well, imagine that, what a problem you’ve found! She’s not some great lady. Here’s what you’ll do, son: meet your sister at the airport, and that pretty little darling of yours can get to the clinic by metro. End of discussion.”
Vyacheslav didn’t even have time to open his mouth in protest before sharp beeps sounded in the receiver. A few seconds later, his mother sent him a message with the flight number.
Slava sighed heavily and wrote back:
“Don’t count on me. Let her take a taxi. She’s not some great lady!”
Immediately, calls from his mother began literally tearing his phone apart. Vyacheslav had to put her number on the blacklist for a while. Wound up to the limit, he called Lyana, and she said she felt even worse.
“Slav, my stomach is pulling so badly. I can’t bear it anymore. Maybe I should call an ambulance?”
“Yes, let’s do that. I’m stuck in traffic, and I don’t know how long I’ll be here. Call me afterward and tell me where they’re taking you. I’ll come there right away.”
That was what they decided. Slava’s heart was uneasy, and his mother still would not leave him alone. As soon as he returned her to the whitelist, messages started pouring in, each one more emotional than the last.
So it begins!
He had lived peacefully for several years while Nadya was studying in the capital, and now they would give him no peace again: take Nyusha there, drive her here, help her with this, explain that to her.
Kira Leonidovna, who had always dreamed of having a daughter, absolutely doted on her niece. She fussed over her like a mother hen, while constantly picking at her own son.
Tie Nyusha’s shoelaces. Read Nyushenka a fairy tale. Help your little sister with her homework.
Nadya’s mother lived for her own pleasure, constantly dumping her daughter on her sister, and Kira Leonidovna was only glad to take her. She loved the girl more than her own son.
Vyacheslav closed his eyes and plunged headfirst into his memories, as if into a whirlpool.
He saw himself again as a little five-year-old boy. Evening. Dim light in the room. The shadows on the walls seemed alive. He stood beside the bed, clutching the edge of the blanket in his hands, and asked quietly:
“Mom, tell me a story…”
But his mother did not even look at him. She was sitting in an armchair, rocking Nadya in her arms — tiny, rosy-cheeked, wrapped in a soft little blanket.
“Quiet,” she hissed irritably. “Can’t you see I’m putting Nyushenka to sleep? She’s little. And you’re grown up already. Go to sleep by yourself.”
And in that moment, something inside him seemed to break. At five years old, he suddenly became “grown up.”
He quietly climbed into his bed, pulled the blanket over himself, and stared at the ceiling for a long time, where the shadows from the curtains swayed like ghosts. That night, he made up his own fairy tale — about a boy nobody noticed.
And for some reason, that fairy tale did not turn out kind at all.
From then on, Nadya seemed to take up all the space in their home. She was brought over often — on weekends, on holidays, sometimes simply because her mother wanted to rest. And every time, Vyacheslav already knew: today, he would be unnecessary again.
The maternal tenderness he lacked so badly no longer belonged to him at all. All he heard were reproaches.
“Why did you scatter your things again?”
“Why did you get a B?”
And immediately afterward, his mother would speak in a completely different, soft voice:
“Our Nyushenka is such a clever girl… What a beauty she’s growing into…”
Those words seemed to come from another world — a world he had no entry into.
One day remained especially vivid in his memory. His tenth birthday. He gathered his courage for a long time before asking:
“Mom, could I have this game as a present? I really want it…”
She did not even let him finish.
“Too expensive. You’ll survive without it.”
Back then, he only nodded, swallowing his disappointment out of habit. But just a month later, his mother brought Nadya a huge doll, almost the size of a child, for no reason at all. It could walk and talk. Nadya squealed with delight, hugging the toy, while his mother looked at her with such pride, as if she had given her the whole world.
Slava stood aside. At ten years old, he already understood numbers well and knew perfectly: that doll cost much more than his “too expensive” game.
But he said nothing. He had long understood that arguing with his mother was useless.
As the years passed, little changed. Only the words became harsher.
“I feed you, clothe you, and buy your shoes,” she would say. “Earn money for everything else yourself.”
And that same day, she could buy Nadya a new dress, expensive shoes, or jewelry just to make her happy. As if standing before her was not an ordinary girl, but a princess from a real fairy tale.
Gradually, Nadya herself became like that — capricious, demanding, accustomed to getting everything at her first wish. Her own mother once even said to Kira Leonidovna:
“You spoiled her. Now you can fulfill all her whims yourself.”
And Kira Leonidovna did not object. On the contrary, she seemed to accept that role willingly. Expensive clothes, gold jewelry for every birthday, tuition fees — all of it became natural to her.
But to her son she said something else:
“I raised you. Now you owe me help.”
Sometimes Slava tried to understand why everything had turned out this way. He went through different explanations in his head, as if searching for at least some logic to cling to. And in the end, he found the simplest and perhaps the most painful one:
His mother had always wanted a daughter, but he had been born instead.
And then Nadya became that very child for her — wanted, long-awaited. The one who received everything that might have belonged to him.
He was not angry. At least, he tried not to be angry. He convinced himself this was no reason to feel hurt. Yet somewhere deep inside, there still lived a quiet, stubborn pain — one impossible to explain and impossible to fully silence.
When Vyacheslav first decided to bring Lyana home, he was nervous, though he did not admit it even to himself. Not like a schoolboy, of course. By then, he had long been used to relying only on himself. But somewhere inside him, there still glimmered a foolish, almost childish hope:
What if this time everything would be different?
What if his mother looked at him not as an eternal debtor, but simply as her son? What if she smiled, said something warm, supported his choice?
Kira Leonidovna greeted them reservedly, appraisingly. She barely smiled, only gave Lyana a short nod, running her eyes over her from head to toe — too attentively, too coldly, as if before her stood not a person, but an object that had to be quickly examined and judged.
At the table, the conversation did not flow. Lyana tried to keep it going. She answered calmly, sometimes asked questions herself, but everything seemed to vanish into emptiness. Kira Leonidovna replied in short, dry phrases and kept steering the conversation back to Nyusha.
“Nyusha recently returned from a trip…”
The niece’s name sounded in the house like a refrain, like something self-evident, like the center around which everything else was supposed to revolve.
When Lyana left, politely saying goodbye and thanking her for dinner, Vyacheslav did not return home immediately after walking her out. He walked slowly, realizing what was about to begin.
And he was not wrong.
“Well, what can I say…” Kira Leonidovna drawled as she cleared the table. “She’s certainly no match for Nyusha.”
At first, he did not even understand.
“In what sense?”
“In every sense,” his mother shrugged. “Wrong appearance. Wrong manner. If only she were at least half as beautiful as Nyusha…”
Vyacheslav felt irritation rising inside him — rare and unfamiliar for him in conversations with his mother. But this time, it was not easy to hold back.
“On the other hand, Nyusha will never come close to Lyana in character,” he said a little more sharply than he had intended. “I would never tie my life to someone as spoiled as Nyusha. I don’t envy her future husband.”
A heavy, prickly silence hung in the room. His mother pressed her lips together, but did not argue. Only something cold and distant flashed in her eyes — something familiar from childhood.
For Kira Leonidovna, Nyusha still remained the center of the universe, the light in the window, the ideal no one else could match.
After the wedding, Kira Leonidovna made no attempt to build a relationship with her daughter-in-law. She did not call, did not invite them over, did not show interest in their lives. As if Lyana simply did not exist.
Lyana did not suffer over it.
“If she doesn’t want to, then she doesn’t have to,” she said calmly one evening, when Vyacheslav awkwardly tried to make excuses for his mother. “It’s even easier this way. Less interference means more peace.”
And that, too, was her strength. She did not try to earn love at any cost. She did not impose herself, did not break herself for someone else’s approval.
A sharp car horn behind him tore him out of his memories. Slava flinched, opened his eyes, and did not immediately understand where he was. The road stretched ahead of him, cars were slowly moving forward, the traffic jam had already begun to clear, and he was still standing there, holding up the flow.
“Oh, for crying out loud…” he breathed quietly, starting the car.
His hands settled on the steering wheel on their own, but his thoughts still clung to the past.
At that moment, his phone vibrated. Lyana had sent the hospital address. His heart squeezed painfully. Everything else immediately became unimportant. He entered the address into the navigator and pressed harder on the gas pedal.
He ran from the parking lot to the hospital entrance without watching where he was going.
“Nothing serious,” the doctor reassured him. “You came in on time. We need to observe her for a couple of days, and everything will be all right.”
Those words seemed to lift a heavy weight off him.
“Can I see her?” was all he asked.
Lyana was lying in the ward, pale and exhausted, but when she saw him, she smiled faintly.
He sat beside her, took her hand, and only then finally allowed himself to breathe out. They barely spoke. They simply stayed close to each other.
Until the phone rang again.
He stared at the screen for several seconds, deciding whether to answer or not, and finally picked up.
“What kind of behavior is this?!” an irritated voice fell upon him. “I asked you to meet Nyusha! She can’t find a taxi, they’re all busy! How is she supposed to get home now? She’s tired after the flight!”
“Mom,” Slava said tiredly but firmly, “that is not my problem. I didn’t promise anything.”
“What do you mean, not your problem?!” she raised her voice.
But he had already pressed “end call.”
A minute later, a message came. Then another call, which he did not answer. Then a voice message followed, in which Kira Leonidovna coldly declared:
“You can forget about counting on my help with the baby, since this is how you treat my request.”
Slava smiled joylessly.
They had not been counting on it anyway.
After that, his mother did not get in touch for a long time. When he called her himself to share the news, he said:
“Mom, our daughter was born…”
A brief pause hung on the line.
“Well done,” she replied without much emotion. “We’re busy right now. Nyushenka’s wedding is coming up. Preparations, you understand.”
“I see,” he said quietly and hung up.
He was glad things were going well for her, sincerely glad. And the fact that she had not come to the discharge from the maternity hospital, had not seen her granddaughter, had not even congratulated them, did not hurt him.
He had long grown used to it.
Used to living without her participation, without her approval, without her love. And strangely enough, now, standing beside Lyana and looking at their tiny daughter, he felt for the first time that he no longer needed it.
Two months passed. Life gradually settled into a new rhythm.
Then, on one ordinary day, the doorbell rang. They were not expecting guests. When Slava opened the door, he froze for a moment.
Kira Leonidovna stood on the threshold.
Without her usual confidence. Without that cold detachment he was used to. She looked different somehow.
“Will you let me in?” she asked after a slight hesitation. “I… came to meet my granddaughter.”
He silently stepped aside, letting her into the apartment. In the room, Lyana was gently rocking the crib. Kira Leonidovna came closer and suddenly, as if someone had flipped a switch, her face changed. It literally lit up, stretching into a smile.
“My God…” she breathed. “She… she looks like me. When I was a child… exactly like me…”
She leaned over carefully, almost reverently, studying little Sonya, and for the first time in a long while, real, living warmth appeared in her voice.
“What happiness…” she whispered. “Son… forgive me. For everything. For those words… that I wouldn’t help… I blurted it out without thinking. I… I would be happy to help you with Sofushka…”
Vyacheslav tensed almost imperceptibly.
“Mom,” he said calmly, “our daughter’s name is Sonechka. Let’s not invent other names for her… like it was with Nadya.”
“Yes, of course… Sonechka…” Kira Leonidovna hurriedly agreed.
And suddenly, as if remembering something important, she sighed heavily.
“By the way, about Nadya…”
She sank onto a chair, and her voice changed. It became brittle, trembling.
“I did everything for her…” she began, and tears glittered in her eyes. “I bought her the very best wedding dress… helped with everything… ran around, solved problems… And she… At the last moment, she said her fiancé had high status, that he was known in certain circles… and that they would not be inviting our relatives. ‘Later, Aunt Kira, we’ll sit down and have tea’…” She gave a bitter laugh. “Can you imagine?”
Now everything fell into place. The sudden visit, the softness, the desire to “help.” Vyacheslav exchanged a brief glance with Lyana. They had already talked about this before Sonechka was born. As if they had sensed that this moment would one day come.
“Mom,” he said, “Lyana and I are very glad you came. Truly. And the fact that you decided to meet Sonechka is important. But… we don’t need help.”
Kira Leonidovna raised surprised eyes to him.
“What do you mean… you don’t need it?”
“We’ll manage ourselves,” he continued calmly. “You can come whenever you want. See your granddaughter. We are not against it. But… we don’t want her to grow up the way Nadya did. Without boundaries, without limits. Forgive me… but we will not allow anyone to spoil our child.”
The words were spoken quietly, but they held the very firmness he had lacked for so long. Kira Leonidovna was silent for a long time. Her face reflected everything — offense, confusion, and perhaps, for the first time, understanding.
She slowly exhaled and lowered her gaze to little Sonechka, who was sleeping peacefully in the crib.
“Yes… of course…” she said quietly. “Perhaps you are right.”
And there was no longer any of her former stubbornness in those words. Only exhaustion and the belated realization of what blind, reckless love can lead to.
Thank you for reading and for your kind comments.