Dismissed Unfairly: A Woman’s Fight Against Injustice
“You’re fired! Get out of this company, you useless woman!” snarled the mother-in-law with malicious delight, forcefully pushing her daughter-in-law out of the office.
“Oh my God, I almost laughed myself into a coma during that meeting!” Marina exclaimed, tossing her shoes into the corner as she collapsed onto the couch without even bothering to remove her blazer. “Can you believe it? They publicly accused you of embezzlement right in front of the entire department—even though you’re a seasoned accountant, thoroughly vetted by auditors from Grand Consult!”
Yet, she was speaking to empty space: the kitchen cabinet, the cat Vasya, and the bottle of sparkling wine resting on the elbow of the countertop. Because people grow tired, but cabinets keep secrets.
Everything started, as usual, on a Monday.
“Marina, come in,” Alla Viktorovna spoke monotonously over the phone. Such a tone could only belong to machines or a mother-in-law initiating a full-scale feud.
The office felt colder than a freezer; you could leave without your self-esteem and your career intact.
Marina entered and gave a curt, professional nod. Across the desk sat her mother-in-law. Behind the glass window, towering Moscow City shimmered—and so did the shards of her confidence.
“We have a situation,” Alla Viktorovna began, pressing her lips tight. “A severe discrepancy has appeared in last quarter’s reports—almost six million rubles. And it all bears your signature.”
Marina sank—not into the chair’s backrest but onto the very edge, as if teetering on the brink of an abyss. She couldn’t utter a word, only managing a bitter smile—a nervous one that even the mirror would reject.
“Are you serious, Alla Viktorovna?” she tried to remain calm. “I’m not a novice fresh from retraining courses. I take responsibility for every figure. Check the revision history.”
“We did,” she cut her off sharply. “Everything is verified documentarily—signatures, calculations. You were either careless or… intentional.”
“Is this some kind of provocation?” Marina’s voice broke. “I triple-check every document before signing! Who else—”
“Enough, Marina. You’re fired. For cause.”
“Does Dima know?” she whispered.
“Of course. He agrees.”
In that instant, the floor seemed to fall from beneath Marina’s feet. She hadn’t expected heroism from her husband, but standing with his mother against her? After eight years of marriage and two mortgages?
She silently stood and, before leaving, threw back: “Alla Viktorovna, you don’t need a daughter-in-law. You need a mirror to admire yourself, repeating, ‘How clever, successful, strong… and how lonely, like a tree in a field.’”
There was no answer. Marina left.
What came next felt like a nightmare: a dismissal letter arrived by email, her messenger was blocked, and complete silence from her husband.
He simply vanished, like a cat from the stairwell. No calls, no messages. Only a transfer of five thousand rubles “for food.”
Thank you, my love. Just as I was planning to add some humiliation to dinner and fry it in the pan of disappointment.
On the third day following her dismissal, she received a call from an unknown number. A familiar voice spoke:
“Marina, this is Nikolai Petrovich.”
Her cup nearly slipped from her grasp. The ex-father-in-law—the very man who had left Alla Viktorovna years ago and physically relocated to build houses in the Krasnodar region.
“I heard what happened,” he said quietly but resolutely. “I want to meet, talk. Maybe offer you a job.”
Marina paused, then asked, “Do you trust me?”
“Trust isn’t the issue,” he responded. “It’s a matter of justice… and perhaps your chance to make a move.”
They met on Tverskaya Street, in a cozy café. He wore a grey coat; his gaze was steely.
“I may have left that family, but not my thoughts of it,” Nikolai Petrovich confessed. “Alla is stirring up trouble again. But I have a plan, and I need a reliable accountant. You fit the role perfectly.”
Marina laughed, bitter and almost hysterical. “I’ve just been publicly shamed, fired, and my husband sided with his mother.”
“Precisely why it’s the perfect moment for a knight’s move,” he smiled.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. Analyzing reports and recalling every revision, she grew certain someone had framed her—and she knew exactly how.
The next morning, she meticulously sifted through old correspondence and stumbled upon a copy of an internal document that wasn’t supposed to appear in the final report. Yet it bore her signature, which she swore she never made.
This was no ordinary breach—it was a hack orchestrated by one woman with an economist’s diploma and a heart of ice.
“Nikolai Petrovich,” she said on the phone, “I’m in. And I have something intriguing.”
“Excellent,” he replied without hesitation. “But know this: once we proceed, turning back will be impossible.”
“I’m not looking back,” Marina answered softly. “Only forward.”
The following morning, clad once again in her sharp blazer, Marina entered the new office building. The atmosphere of Nikolai Petrovich’s company was steeped in ambition, coffee, and cinnamon.
She walked with assurance—not anger or despair, but electrified with excitement. It felt like being on the starting line, ready for the countdown: “Three… Two… Revenge.”
“So you’re saying she forged your signature?” Nikolai Petrovich mused, spinning a flash drive in his hand like a grenade’s pin.
“Not exactly,” Marina paused to enforce clarity. “She copied it—scanning, graphic editing, embedding into a PDF. There are many ways. Don’t you realize what a woman who hates her daughter-in-law is capable of?”
“I lived with her twenty years,” he smirked, squinting. “It wasn’t easy—my hair fled, and so did my nerves. You managed to last longer than I expected. Four years in her kingdom is almost like serving time in a prison camp.”
“Five and a half,” Marina mentally corrected, clenching her hands, while memories of silent dinner reproaches and cutting looks fueled a singular desire—not just to retaliate, but to do so exquisitely.
The workdays transformed. Nikolai Petrovich’s new construction company handled large-scale projects and possessed connections once only dreamed of. Despite her “terminated for cause” record, he appointed her deputy finance director.
“You know,” he said once while they sat alone in an empty conference room, “I wanted Dima to marry a smart woman. Didn’t expect that ‘smart’ would be a problem.”
“Maybe I should have pretended to be dumb,” Marina smirked. “Like Tanya from my old office—her job was fetching coffee and laughing properly.”
“You’re too independent,” Nikolai Petrovich shook his head. “Alla Viktorovna only likes manageable ones, those who nod, agree, and gaze adoringly.”
“I can admire,” Marina sat up straight, “especially when the person opposite holds a check from Mercedes with my name on it.”
He laughed, genuine and hearty. But the amusement ended abruptly.
A week later, Nikolai Petrovich delivered files revealing emails, transfers, and documents previously unknown to her. Alla Viktorovna hadn’t just forged signatures—she had stolen tens of millions.
“See this?” he placed a printout of spreadsheets before her.
“Offshore accounts?” Marina frowned.
“Had you stayed, that would’ve been your ticket to hell,” he grinned. “Now you’re a witness, a victim, and, if you want, a partner in my little plan.”
“I’m already in,” she replied darkly. “Only, this isn’t a play—this is real life.”
The scheme was straightforward: expose the truth loud and clear. Marina wouldn’t return to Alla Viktorovna’s office as a defeated former employee but as a woman armed with documents, lawyers, and preferably cameras.
But first, steel-clad proof was necessary.
“I have an idea,” she said one evening in his office on the top floor. “I need to get into the old office archive; the originals or drafts must be stored there. Alla is like a collector of evil—she hoards everything as souvenirs.”
“You’re serious?” he raised an eyebrow. “That’s risky.”
“Was it safe with you, Nikolai Petrovich?” she smirked.
That day, Marina entered the building disguised—a coat, ponytail, unremarkable glasses—appearing like a visitor seeking legal advice over a personal matter.
The security guard she once shared lunch with didn’t recognize her immediately.
“Marina Sergeevna?”
“To the legal department. Personal issue.”
She wasn’t lying; the matter was deeply personal.
While waiting for a lawyer, she slipped inside. The familiar scent of coffee, the rustle of papers, a quarrel over Excel lingered. Passing the “Finance Department” door, it was locked. Fortunately, she had kept an old key she ‘forgot’ to return.
In five minutes, she found what she sought—a grey folder containing falsified documents, signed electronically after her departure.
“Well, darling,” Marina thought, “looks like I’m still of use to you, even after being fired.”
“What now?” Nikolai Petrovich asked when she showed him the evidence.
“We’ll report to the authorities and lawyers. This is criminal.”
“Ready for the scandal?”
Removing her glasses, Marina rubbed her nose bridge.
“I want to see how Alla will explain signing a document transferring money to Switzerland when I was at the clinic with a 39-degree fever and an IV drip. I have a medical certificate and witnesses.”
That night, Dima called.
“What are you planning?!” he hissed. “Mom’s hysterical! Says you declared war on her!”
“War?” Marina scoffed. “She started it when you both decided I was expendable.”
“You’ll ruin everything! Family! Company! Money!”
“Family is where there’s no betrayal,” she said quietly. “You live where your mother is. I live where I’m valued.”
“Mom says you and Dad schemed! That it’s staged revenge!”
“Dima,” Marina spoke calmly, “if I wanted revenge, I’d show up with a frying pan. Right now, I’m restoring justice.”
He hesitated, then muttered, “You’re nobody without us. Just an ex-wife.”
Marina smiled, “And you’re just your mother’s son.”
Therein lies the truth about you, Dima.
A week later, Marina received a court summons—as a witness and victim in a major fraud case.
Three months later, Alla Viktorovna was arrested, in her office, beneath her own framed portrait.
Nikolai Petrovich arrived that evening with wine and an offer.
“Marina,” he said while pouring glasses, “I think you should stay—not as deputy, but as a partner. Equity in the company. Fair and square.”
She looked at him with an indescribable feeling, as if having been thrown off a train only to awaken in a luxury car, champagne in hand.
“Promise me,” Marina raised her glass, “that I’ll never again see those forged reports. If I do, I’ll throw them straight at your face.”
“Deal,” he smirked. “You’re a dangerous woman, Marina.”
“No, Nikolai Petrovich. I just stopped being convenient.”
“I’m burned out,” she snapped her laptop shut as if it owed her not only salary but two decades of emotional damage.
“Are you sure it’s over?” Nikolai Petrovich teased, setting a cup of aromatic coffee in front of her. “Or should we call an exorcist? Maybe he’ll cast Excel into hell.”
“Bring two validol tablets and shave me into a monk. But make the monastery male-only and forbid women, especially those with -ova surnames.”
“Got it. That was a hint. By the way, Alla Viktorovna sends her regards from the detention center, via her lawyer.”
“I hope with a dry biscuit. No notes saying ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist.’”
Two months passed. Nikolai Petrovich’s company flourished. Business rose like a stock index on a good news day. Marina was now an official partner, with shares, documents, an office, and the headache that accompanies real authority.
Alla Viktorovna remained under investigation. The trial hadn’t started, but public opinion had already passed judgment: falling in a small business town was like plunging into a concrete block—there’s no washing off the dirt.
But when it ended, silence began. The kind that unnerves—no screams, no tears, just an empty, ringing quiet.
Marina often caught herself thinking: she had everything now—freedom, money, respect… and an emptiness inside. Even anger had dissipated. No burning, no hurting—just calm, like an empty house during vacation.
Key Insight: Sometimes victory brings unexpected silence, revealing what truly matters beyond conflict.
“Do you know what’s worst?” she said one evening, staring into her wine glass. “When your enemy’s defeated, but you don’t feel relief.”
“So, you’re not happy?”
“Happiness is when you’re wrapped in a blanket with a fever, eating potato pies. This… feels like winning the Olympics with no one watching.”
He was silent for a long while, then surprisingly said, “I’ve been alone too, for five years. My house is like a museum—beautiful, but empty.”
“We’re like two exhibits on display,” Marina sighed. “Only my price tag was removed long ago.”
“You’re not an exhibit. You’re a woman who survived hell and didn’t break. You have guts.”
“How old are you?” she squinted, suddenly curious.
“Fifty-nine.”
“Hmm. So there’s still time to build a new business, plant a tree, and divorce three times.”
“Also,” he paused, “to marry again. To a smart woman who hates nonsense but loves cinnamon coffee. You dreamed of that, right?”
Marina looked at him, contemplating a complex equation.
“Only if it’s without a white dress and with separate bathrooms.”
Whispers soon filled the office. Some saw them dining together; others overheard him calling her Masha (though he always said Comrade Partner).
Once, Dima called—the voice like a crumpled letter.
“Mom says you and Dad live together?”
“Tell Mom we even share a bed. So yes,” Marina replied calmly, “but with an orthopedic mattress. A healthy spine is the key to success.”
“Is he really getting back at her?”
“He’s getting back by not regretting the divorce.”
“Does that make you happy?”
“No, Dima. I’m simply living—truly living for the first time.”
Then came the trial.
The courtroom was packed. Alla Viktorovna wore a sharp suit, lawyer and cold mask in place, refusing to meet Marina’s gaze.
Marina was composed, calm, clutching a folder of papers, a lawyer by her side, and an inner silence—no anger, no revenge, just facts. Because the verdict was already decided.
On the witness stand, she stated plainly:
“Yes, I was dismissed based on forged documents. And I forgave. But forgiveness doesn’t negate responsibility—especially if you’re a director and a mother.”
After sentencing (4 years probation and a ban on management), Alla Viktorovna finally looked at her and softly asked:
“Do you think you won?”
Marina smiled.
“I don’t think. I’m simply no longer afraid.”
That evening, Nikolai Petrovich waited outside the courthouse, dressed sharply, a bouquet in hand, and a shy smile.
“This is for you. For your courage and for not becoming her.”
“I almost did,” Marina admitted, taking the flowers, “but you pulled me out.”
“Then allow me to offer not a date…” he extended his hand, “but a shared life. Calm. Without intrigues. With chess and morning coffee.”
Marina gazed at him thoughtfully.
“Only if I can wear a robe at home, with curlers and bear-print socks. And you won’t run away.”
“I’ll stay—even if you curse the sausage wrapper.”
She laughed.
“Alright. Let’s try. But no schemes or betrayals—next time, you’re going to jail.”
That summer, for the first time in years, she traveled south—not with a husband or laptop, but alone.
Sitting by the sea, drinking wine, she reflected on how she had once stopped believing laughter was possible.
She was wrong.
Life was just beginning, even at 48—especially when beside you stands someone who fears your strength no more.
In conclusion, Marina’s journey illustrates the resilience of the human spirit when confronted with betrayal and injustice. Despite facing manipulation and loss, her unwavering determination led to triumph, restored dignity, and personal growth. This story reminds us that even amid darkness, new beginnings are within reach for those brave enough to seek them.