The screen lit up, casting the faint kitchen light in greenish shades. My chamomile tea in the mug cooled slowly, its steam now rising only as wisps into the air. Through the slightly open window, the smell of wet asphalt mingled with the exhaust from the city’s evening traffic,
and in the apartment, only the fridge’s monotonous hum broke the silence.I turned my gaze toward the phone: the family chat, “Relatives,” was blinking.I ran my finger across the glass. The photo opened. A long, snowy-white table with a starched tablecloth, plates with crab claws and oysters on ice.
In the tall glasses, deep red wine shimmered. At the head of the table sat Tamara Ivanovna — my former mother-in-law — in an emerald-green dress she had bought last month. Next to her, Roman, my ex-husband, had his arm around a tall blonde woman’s waist, as if she belonged there, as if she had always been his.
Then came the voice message. Tamara Ivanovna’s voice pierced the silence, louder than the restaurant music:— Well, darlings! We finally got rid of this misunderstanding in the family. Let’s celebrate the start of our new, normal life! Waiter, the best for everyone!
Below, my sisters-in-law, Daria and Inna, left enthusiastic reactions in the chat.I put down the phone. The tea had completely cooled. Four hours ago, Roman and I had stepped out of the civil court office. The proceedings had been quick, quiet.
And now he, along with his family, was holding a banquet to “eliminate the boring daughter-in-law.” All with my money.As an auditor, I lived in spreadsheets: searching for discrepancies, hidden costs, those who thought they were smarter than everyone else. Words? Just air moving.
I had met Roman six years ago. Back then, he was just a simple logistician. But he spoke in a way that made me believe anything was possible. I was thirty-two, tired, alone in an empty apartment. I wanted a family, I wanted a sense of need.
Half a year later, he proposed the company.— Sofia, I have a client base. But I need start-up capital — he murmured, fiddling with the tablecloth.I sold the vacation home I had inherited from my parents and invested all my savings into the company. On paper, we were partners;
in reality, I ran everything. Roman was just the display: the suit, the clients, the handshakes. The dusty office smelled of me; the foreign perfume was his.Gradually, his family seeped in as well.Tamara Ivanovna’s house had always smelled musty.
On the day of our first meeting, she peppered me with questions, placing greasy chunks of meat on my plate:— You handle the finances, but will you also help the family? You’ve become part of the clan — she squinted.Daria and Inna measured me with assessing looks.
— I help where I can — I said.Only Vadim remained silent, and Nikolai Stepanovich, her husband, rarely spoke.As the company began to generate stable profits, the relatives’ appetites grew. First, Roman requested extra cards.
— Just a small thing — he said. — Let’s not be stingy.I agreed. But soon, my phone kept buzzing: Daria with massage subscriptions, Inna with branded handbags, Tamara Ivanovna with gold necklaces and cosmetics.On Sunday, I tried to talk:
— Let’s cut back on expenses…Tamara Ivanovna slammed the table:— You dare to lecture us?! Daughter-in-law! Your job is to make the house feel like home, to make your husband happy! — she shouted. Inna immediately joined in.Roman just looked at the table.
— Eat, Sofia. My mother is tired. —Vadim exploded:— Have you completely lost it?!— Shut your mouth! — Tamara Ivanovna screeched. Vadim stormed out in anger.I endured. If I argued, the company I had built from scratch would have collapsed. I swallowed my grievances.
A month later, Julia, the accountant, came in:— Sofia, I can’t close the quarter. Everything is beyond limits.I opened the dossier. Jewelry, rental fees for country clubs, tickets for noon. All to Anjelika, all signed by Roman, marked as “VIP meetings.”
At midnight, I waited in the kitchen. Roman came in, smelling of foreign perfume.— Are you having dinner? — I asked.— No, I ate with clients.— And your meeting with Anjelika?— What are you looking at in my things? — he froze.
— You’re paying for the affair with company funds — I said.He sat at the table. No apology. Just irritation: a comfortable life at someone else’s expense.— Don’t be hysterical — he muttered. — Let there be peace.— Fine. Let there be peace.
That’s how we divorced. On my phone, I saw the family happily celebrating Anjelika. But they overlooked one small detail: all their cards were linked to my personal account.Four touches on the screen: blocked. Four taps sealed.
Forty-five minutes later, Tamara Ivanovna called.— Why did you block us?! — she shouted.— Good evening. You were using my supplementary cards. You’re no longer part of the family.Roman called too, panting:
— What are you doing?! Turn it back on!— Peace. Keep your part. — I put his number on the blacklist.Vadim also called.— Good decision — he said. — The circus was complete.In the morning, I sat at my lawyer’s office. The apartment where Roman’s family now lived was mine.
Around noon, the courier delivered to Tamara Ivanovna: vacate the property within seven days; it has been sold.Two hours later, Daria stormed in. Her makeup smeared, her face twisted.— Have you lost your conscience?! — she shouted.
— Let Anjelika see — I replied calmly. — Now you’re the happy family. Security, escort the girl to the elevator.At the same time, I launched an internal audit: every transfer to Anjelika, every fictitious invoice went into the dossier.
The effect was immediate: suppliers stopped diesel deliveries, clients terminated contracts. Roman ran between banks, but without my signature, every request was rejected. The perfect display collapsed.A few weeks later, after work, I saw Roman by my car. I barely recognized him.
