“Your son already signed the divorce papers,” my mother-in-law throws the sheets at me in fury, and dragging me by the hair toward the door, snarls: “You are no longer his wife! My son doesn’t need a Russian—he’ll take ‘his own.’ Get out of here!”
I’m simply pushed out the doorway. My husband never comes out, never says a word, never tries to protect me. He erased me from his life, as if I had never existed.
Months pass, and I finally find a job. And then I learn: my ex—now my boss.
“I’m getting married soon. I don’t need trouble because of you. And I don’t take pregnant women. If you want to stay—get rid of what you’re carrying. Otherwise, get out.”
Would you say that if you knew that the “someone else’s” child under her heart is yours? You’ll still beg, dear. And we’ll see who doesn’t belong to whom. You don’t measure up to me.