Galina Petrovna sat in her favorite kitchen, lingering over a photo of Pavel—her only son, the one she had raised on her own after her husband walked out. He’s finally back under my roof, she thought, pouring herself a third cup of tea that morning. Through the wall came the muffled sound of a TV: Pavel was watching something while she fried his beloved syrniki—soft cottage-cheese pancakes, the kind he’d loved since childhood.

The phone rang—sharp, intrusive—breaking the cozy quiet.

— Hello? — Galina Petrovna answered, clearly annoyed.

— Galina Petrovna, it’s Irina. Could I speak with Pavel?

Her daughter-in-law sounded strained, but Galina caught another note beneath it—hope? desperation? It almost entertained her.

— Pasha’s still asleep, — she lied smoothly, without even a blink. — You know how exhausted he is after work. And honestly, Ira… maybe it’s time you stopped bothering him.

— But we agreed on everything… Pavel promised he’d take Maksim this weekend.

— Maksim? — Galina asked with exaggerated innocence, though she knew perfectly well she meant her grandson. — Oh, right… the boy. Listen, Ira, Pasha said he isn’t ready to see the child yet. It’s too painful for him.

A heavy silence dropped into the line. Galina Petrovna could almost feel her words landing exactly where she wanted. She’d refined that talent for years—saying “the truth,” but in a way that cut.

— But he’s his father… — Irina whispered.

— Of course he’s the father. But you’re the one who destroyed the family, dear. Now you’re living with the consequences. And Pasha… he’s so sensitive, so wounded. He needs time.

Galina knew she’d hit the sore spot. Irina had always blamed herself for the divorce, even though the truth was simple: Galina had been dismantling their marriage piece by piece for three straight years. Every family dinner turned into a fight. Every “helpful suggestion” sounded like a sentence. Every comment about how Irina raised Maksim felt like a slap.

— Please tell Pavel that Maksim asks about his dad every day, — Irina’s voice shook. — Maybe he could—

— I’ll tell him. Of course I will, — Galina promised, already certain she’d keep it to herself.

When she hung up, Pavel wandered into the kitchen—rumpled, unshaven, wearing old sweatpants.

— Who was that? — he asked, rubbing his eyes.

— Oh, some spam call, — Galina dismissed it, placing a plate of steaming syrniki in front of him. — Eat, sweetheart. You’ve gotten too thin.

Pavel ate quietly. His eyes carried a dull ache—an emptiness Galina mistook for devotion. In her mind, it meant he finally understood: no one would ever love him like she did. No one would care for him as perfectly as his own mother.

— Want to go to the movies today? — she offered, sitting close. — Or we could take a walk in the park. The weather’s nice.

— I don’t know, Mom. I don’t really feel like going anywhere.

— Naturally you don’t. You’ve been through so much, my poor boy. But life goes on, Pasha. And it’s good you’ve learned something: family is sacred. And that Irina of yours… forgive me, but she never appreciated what she had.

Pavel lifted tired eyes to her.

— Mom… what if I made a mistake?

— A mistake?! — Galina flung up her hands. — What mistake? She used you! Don’t you remember how she wouldn’t let you come visit me? How she’d make a scene when I tried to help with my grandson?

It was a lie, and somewhere deep inside Pavel knew it. Irina had never stopped him from seeing his mother. If anything, she had endured Galina’s intrusions, her biting remarks, her constant criticism. Irina kept searching for compromises even after Galina declared outright that her son had “married the wrong woman.”

Six Months Later

Half a year passed from that phone call, and Galina Petrovna felt victorious. Her plan had worked: Pavel was living with her again, just like in the “good old days,” when they were a tight pair against the world.

Only one thing spoiled her satisfaction—Pavel seemed hollow. He went to work, came back, ate, and stared at the TV in silence, as if life were happening somewhere far away.

— Pasha, maybe I should introduce you to Nina Semyonovna’s daughter? — Galina suggested one evening. — Such a nice girl—quiet, domestic. And she’s divorced too, by the way. She’ll know how to value a man!

— No, Mom. Don’t, — Pavel answered, drained.

— Why not? You’re forty-two! Are you going to live alone forever? And what about grandchildren—am I just never getting any?

Pavel snapped his head up.

— You already have a grandchild. Maksim.

— Oh, yes… that boy, — Galina grimaced. — But you know how hard it is for me to see him. He reminds me of everything you went through…

— Mom, stop it! — Pavel finally burst. — Stop dragging Irina! She’s a good woman. She’s a good mother!

— If she’s so wonderful, then why are you here and not with her? — Galina fired back.

As always, that line shut him down.

What she didn’t know was that same evening, for the first time in six months, Pavel decided to call Irina himself. A strange man answered.

— Hello?

— Sorry… I think I dialed the wrong number, — Pavel stammered.

— Pavel? Is that you? — Irina’s voice sounded somewhere behind the man. — Andrei, give me the phone.

Andrei? Pavel’s stomach dropped.

— Hi, Pavel, — Irina said calmly—almost kindly. — How are you?

— Ira… who was that?

— Andrei. My… my husband, — she said plainly, without shame or provocation—just stating a fact.

Pavel couldn’t speak. Husband? They’d been divorced only six months.

— You got married? — he forced out.

— Yes. Three months ago. Pavel, I know this is sudden for you—

— Three months ago? — he repeated, stunned. — But we… you…

— Pavel, — Irina’s tone softened, — you made your choice. Remember? You said your mother mattered more than your wife. You said I’d never understand “real family values.” You called me selfish—someone who couldn’t compromise.

Each sentence struck like a hammer. He had said those things—on that awful night when his mother started another blowup over how Irina had “dressed Maksim wrong.” Galina cried, accused Irina of disrespect, and Pavel… sided with his mother. Like always.

— And Maksim? — Pavel asked hoarsely.

— Maksim’s okay. He’s… very attached to Andrei. They play soccer together, build construction sets together. Maksim is happy.

Happy without me, Pavel thought, so sharply he nearly dropped the phone.

— I wanted… I wanted to see him, — he muttered.

— Pavel, you didn’t call for six months. You didn’t ask how he was, what he ate, how kindergarten was going. You chose your mother.

— But he’s my son!

— Yes, he is. And if you truly want to be in his life, we can talk. But only if it’s your decision. Not your mother’s. Yours.

The Questions Begin

After that call, Pavel didn’t sleep. He paced the apartment, smoked on the balcony, tried to understand how everything had collapsed. Irina had a husband now—some Andrei. His own son was calling another man “dad.” And he—he was sitting in his mother’s apartment, eating syrniki like a teenager.

In the morning, Galina noticed immediately that something was wrong.

— Pasha, you’re pale. Are you sick?

— Mom, — he said slowly, — Irina got married.

Galina froze with a cup in her hand, then set it down carefully.

— Married? — she repeated. — When?

— Three months ago.

— And? — Galina shrugged, though inside she felt ice spread through her chest. — Why should that matter to you? You divorced her.

— Mom… what if I was wrong?

— Wrong?! — she flared. — What are you talking about? You escaped an ungrateful woman!

But for the first time in six months, Pavel looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time.

The next weeks became torture for Galina. Pavel seemed to wake up from a long trance—and began asking questions. Too many questions.

— Mom, remember when Ira called about Maksim, back when all this started? You told her I was asleep.

— Well… yes. You were asleep. Or… maybe I don’t remember exactly, — she said, fussing at the stove.

— That’s strange. I was in the shower. I heard the phone.

— Maybe that was a different time…

— Mom, how many times did Irina call?

Galina felt the floor tilt under her. She’d always been a master of half-truths, but now Pavel’s eyes were sharp, focused. Lying was becoming harder.

— Maybe a couple times. I don’t know.

— A couple times in six months? — Pavel put down his spoon. — Mom. Honestly. How many times did she call?

— Why do you even need to know? — Galina snapped. — She’s married now! To some Andrei! She forgot you like a bad dream!

— Andrei? — Pavel frowned. — I didn’t tell you his name.

Galina realized she’d slipped. How did she know? Unless she had listened in, or—

— Are you spying on me? — Pavel asked quietly.

— Don’t be ridiculous! It’s just… a neighbor mentioned it. Nina Semyonovna saw them together.

Lie piled onto lie, and Pavel could see it. Maybe for the first time in his life, he was seeing his mother as she truly was.

That night he decided: he wouldn’t call Irina. He would go to her in person. Galina begged him not to.

— Pasha, why humiliate yourself? She’s with another man! She won’t even want to look at you!

— We’ll see, — Pavel said flatly, and walked out.

At Irina’s Door

Irina still lived in the same apartment—the one where their early marriage had once been happy. Pavel stood outside the building for a long time, gathering courage. What could he say? How could he justify six months of silence?

Irina herself opened the door. She looked different—shorter hair, thinner—but more than that, her eyes held a new steadiness, a confidence that hadn’t been there before.

— Pavel? — she said, surprised. — Come in.

Inside, everything had changed. New furniture. New photos on the walls. In one picture, Irina held a tall man with kind eyes; between them stood Maksim—his Maksim—smiling widely.

— Is he home? — Pavel nodded at the photo.

— Andrei? No, he’s at work. And Maksim is with… your mother—sorry, — Irina corrected herself. — With my friend Lena. She has a daughter his age.

They sat at the table, and Pavel suddenly realized he didn’t know where to begin. How do you tell the woman you betrayed that you might have made the worst mistake of your life?

— Ira… I want to apologize, — he started.

— For what, exactly? — she asked evenly.

— For everything. For not protecting you from my mother. For leaving. For not calling my son.

Irina was silent for a long time, staring at her hands.

— You know, Pavel, I waited a long time to hear those words. In the first months after the divorce, I thought only one thing: you’d come to your senses. You’d show up, tell me it was all a mistake.

— And now? — Pavel asked.

— Now I understand we were never truly a family. Because there were always three people in our family: you, me… and your mother. And she was always the most important one.

Pavel wanted to argue, but Irina lifted a hand.

— Let me finish. Your mother hated me from day one. She did everything she could to make us split up. And you know what? I’m grateful to her.

— Grateful? — Pavel blinked.

— Yes. Because if she hadn’t interfered, I might never have learned what a real family can feel like. Andrei… he protects me. He’s on my side—always. And Maksim sees that.

— And me? — Pavel asked quietly. — Is there really nothing left between us?

Irina looked at him with sadness.

— Pavel, you’re not a bad person. But you’re weak. You still can’t stand up for yourself—let alone for me or Maksim. Tell me honestly: if I agreed to come back, could you tell your mother that your wife comes first now—above her opinion?

The silence stretched. And in that silence, the answer lived.

— That’s what I thought, — Irina sighed.

The Truth Comes Out

When Pavel came home, Galina Petrovna was waiting in the kitchen, eyes red from crying. One look at his face told her the visit hadn’t gone the way she wanted.

— Well? Convinced? — she asked bitterly. — She wouldn’t even listen to you, would she?

— She listened, Mom. And she understood everything correctly.

Pavel sat down across from her and stared for a long time. This small gray-haired woman had controlled his life for forty-two years. Only now was he grasping the size of what it had cost him.

— Mom, tell me the truth. How many times did Irina call during those six months?

— What does it matter?! — Galina flared.

— How many? — Pavel repeated, steady and hard.

— Fine… maybe ten. Or fifteen. I wasn’t counting!

— Fifteen times in six months. And you never once told me my ex-wife called—about my son.

— I was protecting you! — Galina started crying. — You were suffering! She wanted to drag you back into her web!

— She wanted me to see my child.

— What child is he to you? He’s her son! She turned him against you! Did you see how he looked at me—like I was a stranger?!

Pavel remembered the last scandal before the divorce: five-year-old Maksim crying in a corner while Galina screamed at Irina for “making porridge wrong.” The child was afraid of his grandmother—that was the truth Pavel hadn’t wanted to face.

— Mom, did you ever think I might actually want to be in my son’s life?

— You were silent! You never asked about him!

— Because you convinced me he didn’t remember me, didn’t love me!

Galina understood then: she was losing. Her greatest weapon—“motherly love,” used to cover possessiveness—no longer worked.

— Fine! — she snapped. — What now? You’ll go crawling to that saintly woman? She’s married! She’ll laugh in your face!

— I’m not begging Irina for anything. It’s too late. But I will see my son—if she allows it.

— And what about me? — Galina asked weakly. — What will happen to me?

— What should happen? You got what you wanted. You wrecked my marriage. Now it’s just the two of us—like you dreamed.

His voice held something Galina had never heard from him before: cold distance.

Everyone Gets What They Earn

A month passed. Pavel started seeing Maksim on weekends. At first the boy kept his guard up—half a year was a long time for a child. But little by little they found a way back to each other. Maksim talked about school, about Andrei teaching him to ride a bike, about how Mom laughed more now.

— Dad, why didn’t you come before? — Maksim asked one day.

— I thought you didn’t want to see me, — Pavel answered honestly.

— Why did you think that?

How do you explain to a child that Grandma lied? That his father was too weak to fight for him, and chose a comforting lie instead of a painful truth?

— I messed up, buddy, — Pavel said quietly. — I was wrong.

Galina Petrovna watched those meetings with growing dread. She could feel her son slipping away. He stayed later at work. He spoke less at home. He looked through her more than at her.

Finally, she couldn’t take it and went to Irina herself. The conversation was short—and brutal.

— What do you want? — Irina asked coolly, not inviting her in.

— I… I want to apologize, — Galina forced out.

— To me? Or to yourself?

— I thought I was doing the right thing…

— You thought only about yourself. About your fear of ending up alone. And you destroyed your son’s life.

— But he’s unhappy! He’s turning away from me!

Irina studied her with unexpected pity.

— You know, Galina Petrovna… congratulations. You got exactly what you were terrified of. You’re alone now.

The door shut.

Galina stood on the stairwell for a long time, finally understanding: her “victory” was complete defeat. She wanted to keep her son for herself—and lost him for good. Irina built a new, happier home. Maksim gained a stepfather who truly loved him. And Pavel… Pavel looked at his mother now with the eyes of someone who had finally learned the price of that so-called “mother’s love.”

That evening, sitting at her kitchen table with a cup of tea, Galina Petrovna thought that life had turned out far more just than she ever believed. Everyone had received what they deserved.

Even her.