Maria stared at the message on her phone, rereading it like a bitter echo:
“Transfer 50 thousand for mother’s anniversary, I’m tight on money. Doesn’t matter. It’s your family — you’re the son, so you pay.”
The message was from Andrey — her ex-husband. The same man who, just a year ago, had said:
“We’re grown-ups, Masha. Why do we need courts, alimony, all this circus? I’ll help. I promise.”
She had believed him.
Twelve years of marriage — did it mean so little?
Their divorce had been calm, almost civilized. No screaming matches or battles over property. He packed his belongings quietly, placing shirts into a suitcase, removing diplomas from the walls, gathering books.
“The apartment is yours,” he said without looking up. “I’m moving in with my mother temporarily, then I’ll find a place of my own.”
That temporary had now stretched into a year.
Maria sat on the couch, feeling her life unravel. The children — Maksim, seven, and Anya, ten — were at school, still unaware their father was drifting away.
“How do I tell them?” she wondered aloud.
“We’ll say he’s helping grandma for now, but he’ll visit often,” Andrey had suggested, trying to sound reassuring.
“And what about alimony?” Maria asked hesitantly.
“What? No courts. We’re not enemies. I’ll send what’s needed — about thirty thousand a month, same as before.”
His voice was calm, practical.
“But if you go to court,” he shrugged, “you get only the minimum. No vacations, no extras. You get it, right?”
Maria nodded, swallowing the bitterness. The kids loved their father — it was her who was betrayed.
For a while, it seemed like it would work. Andrey sent money on time. He came for the kids on weekends, took them to movies and parks, bought ice cream and toys. Anya talked excitedly about their summer trip to Turkey.
But Maria’s life was changing. Expenses multiplied. Utilities were now her responsibility. Groceries, clothes, school supplies. She took freelance work after the kids slept, pushing through exhaustion.
Her mother-in-law, Lidiya Stepanovna, called weekly with “concerned” questions that hid sharper judgments. Once, Maksim accidentally overheard a conversation where Lidiya expressed doubts about Maria’s ability to manage alone — about her supposed new freedom and “men visiting the apartment.”
Maria laughed bitterly. When? Between managing two jobs and kids? Impossible.
By September, things shifted. Andrey’s visits grew rare. His promises to take the children out were broken repeatedly.
Maria watched her kids’ hopeful faces grow sad. She pleaded with Andrey; he always had “work” or “plans.”
Money still came regularly — but children needed more than money.
One cold October day, Anya got sick. Maria called Andrey, asking for support. He was busy, had meetings, dacha plans, excuses.
She realized the truth: money wasn’t the problem.
Andrey was absent.
Maria’s heart ached. The promises of a “better future” now felt like cruel words.
And yet, she held on — for the children, for herself — determined to redefine what family really meant.