Natasha stood over the kitchen table holding an empty shoebox. She kept staring into it as if money could somehow cling back to the cardboard.
Four thousand. Six months. A small secret she had built piece by piece, by skipping lunches, by saying “later” to everything she wanted.Four thousand rubles—gone.
This was supposed to be her birthday money. Something just for her. A rare, quiet gift from herself to herself in a life where everything else had already been assigned to someone else.
— Kostya — she called toward the living room.He was sitting on the sofa. He didn’t turn around.— Natasha, mom needed medicine. I’ll return it. I couldn’t say no to her.
Natasha slowly placed the box on the table.— You climbed up to the top shelf and went through my things.— I was looking for the first aid kit… I saw the box.
— It’s in the bathroom. It has always been in the bathroom.Silence.Then Kostya exhaled.— What was I supposed to do? She’s my mother. She has blood pressure issues.
Natasha didn’t argue. She picked up her phone and called her mother-in-law.The woman answered immediately, cheerful.
— Oh Natasha, thank you! I already went to the pharmacy, got some cream and vitamins. Kostik said it was just spare change anyway, you wouldn’t even notice.
Natasha ended the call without a word.She placed the box back on the table. Empty. Upright. Like evidence.
Their apartment in Bezimeanka wasn’t terrible, just worn down. Two rooms, cheap rent, a balcony facing a loud road. Hot water worked whenever it felt like it. But Kostya called it “convenient” because his mother lived just minutes away.
Too close.He had given his mother a key in the first month.“Just in case,” he said.
After that, she came and went as she pleased. She entered in slippers, checked the fridge, ran a finger across shelves, and always left comments hanging in the air.
— Olya from the third floor cooks fresh meals every day for her husband. But she has education, of course.Natasha used to respond. Then she explained. Then she stopped speaking altogether.
She earned 28,000 rubles a month. Kostya earned 34,000. Rent, utilities, daycare, food—it all turned into constant subtraction. Natasha lived like a calculator that never stopped running.
She stopped buying lunch. She brought buckwheat in containers. She stopped buying clothes. She stopped thinking in terms of herself.And that was how the four thousand came into existence.
At work, a call center, everything was noise and repetition. Headsets, complaints, insurance plans.Rinat sat across from her. Around fifty, a former engineer, now in support after layoffs. Every morning he placed a glass of water near her keyboard.
— You forget to drink. Then your head hurts.He didn’t ask many questions. He didn’t invade her space. He simply existed there, steady, predictable.One Monday, their supervisor exploded during a meeting.
— Kravtsova! Zero sales! What are you even doing here?Natasha lowered her gaze.Rinat raised his hand.— Check the CRM. That client upgraded later. Higher plan.
He was right.After the meeting, Natasha approached him.— Thank you.— For what? I just looked at the data.He didn’t look at her when he said it.
But she started noticing him anyway. That he visited his blind mother every weekend and read books aloud to her. That patience was something he practiced, not performed.
And that talking to him felt easier than talking to anyone at home.At home, everything was always “normal.”A few days before her birthday, her mother-in-law announced her plan.
— I’ll bake a Napoleon cake. You’re not going anywhere anyway.Then she entered the apartment with her key.— I’ll come at six. Three candles will be enough. No need for thirty-six, that’s ridiculous.
Natasha felt something tighten inside her.— This is my birthday.— And? It’s for family.Kostya didn’t even look up.— Mom just wants to do something nice.
That night, Natasha slept in her son’s room.The next day, Rinat placed a white envelope on her desk.— For your birthday.— What is this?— A restaurant voucher. Go eat properly.
Three thousand rubles.Natasha couldn’t respond.At home, her mother-in-law called again.— Everything will be ready at six!Natasha said “okay.”
But she didn’t go home.She went to a small restaurant called Tiffany’s. Quiet, half-empty.She ordered tiramisu and prosecco.— Birthday? — the waiter asked.— Yes.
They brought a candle. She stared at it for a moment before blowing it out. She didn’t make a wish.She ate slowly, like she was learning how to exist without rushing.
At 6:12 Kostya called.— Where are you? Mom is waiting!— I’m at a restaurant.— What restaurant? With what money?— My money.Silence.Then her mother-in-law’s voice in the background, sharp and rising:— She’s completely out of control!
Natasha ended the call.She kept eating.At home, the cake sat on the table. Candles burning down unevenly. Three chairs were set. One remained untouched.
Kostya ate without tasting. His mother spoke without stopping.— I could have done better for you than her.Kostya said nothing.
Natasha sat on the bus home later, holding her bag tightly. Inside was the empty container she used for meals. She took it out, looked at it, then put it back.
She didn’t throw it away.Not yet.But for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t completely erased from her own life.
