“Go to work! How long do you plan to rely on me? I work tirelessly every day while you stay home and rest!”
“And don’t say you’re taking care of the kids! Your mom helps, and our oldest will start school soon—you don’t need to watch him all the time. It’s time for you to find a job and end your maternity leave.”
I met Dima when I was twenty, and he was twenty-five. He had graduated with a promising career in the gas industry and a stable job with growth potential. I was in my fourth year of university, studying to become a civil servant.
We first met at a lively party through mutual friends. While others enjoyed the event, I sat quietly, not fond of large gatherings but there at a friend’s invitation.
“Why aren’t you joining in the fun?” a young man approached me. “We don’t do boring here. My name is Dima, and you?”
“I’m Liza,” I replied. “I’m not bored; I just don’t enjoy noisy parties much.”
“Honestly, I don’t either,” Dima admitted. “But I needed a break from work. How about we step outside for a walk?”
I agreed, and we spent a wonderful evening together—walking through the city, eating ice cream, listening to street musicians, and talking for hours.
Dima continued to reach out, inviting me to movies, cafés, and strolls. One day, he surprised me with an invitation to a family gathering. I hesitated.
“Maybe you should go without me? Your whole family will be there, and I don’t know anyone.”
“Nonsense,” Dima reassured me. “I’ve wanted to introduce you to my parents for a while now. They keep wondering where I disappear to.”
Despite my initial reservations, I enjoyed the evening. Dima’s mother, Margarita, stayed by my side, helping me feel comfortable. By the end of the night, I was dancing with Dima’s father and enjoying the celebration.
Before long, we were a couple, and a year later, we got married. We moved into Dima’s two-bedroom apartment, a gift from his parents after graduation. After renting it out for a few years, we renovated it and moved in together.
Six months later, I became pregnant, and we eagerly prepared for our first child. That summer, I received my diploma and soon gave birth to our son, Roma.
Our life settled into a routine—Dima was promoted to department head, increasing his salary, while I stayed home to care for our son. I enrolled Roma in sports and English classes, managed household chores, and ensured everything was in order.
Five years later, I became pregnant again, something we had been planning. We were excited about welcoming another child into our family.
One day, Dima came home with unexpected news.
“Honey, I have to go on a long business trip—six months, maybe even a year.”
“What? But the baby is coming soon! How can you leave now?” I was shocked.
“I don’t want to leave, but I have no choice. I’ve been assigned to set up a new branch up north. The pay will be better, and this could lead to a big promotion.”
Though disappointed, I had to accept it. I was six months pregnant when Dima left.
“To make things easier, why don’t you move in with your parents for now? Your mom can help, and we can rent out our apartment for extra money.”
“So you’ve already decided everything for me?” I sighed.
I moved in with my parents, who were willing to help but not entirely happy about the arrangement. They were used to a quiet home, and Roma’s energy was overwhelming for them.
Three months later, I gave birth to our daughter, Misa. Dima was able to visit briefly to meet our daughter and pick us up from the hospital. I hoped he would stay, but he left again after a week.
My daily routine became exhausting—taking Roma to kindergarten, caring for Misa, and managing household chores, all without much support from my parents. My mother gradually stepped back, leaving most of the responsibilities to me.
When Misa turned three months old, my parents began pressuring me to return to work.
“There are daycare centers that take babies as young as three months,” my mother said. “Roma is starting school and can stay in after-school care. You need to start earning.”
“Mom, Misa is still a baby! She needs me, not strangers!” I protested, but they insisted that money was necessary.
I hoped Dima would support me, but his call was even more upsetting.
“That’s enough, Liza! The baby is big enough for daycare. Your parents said you won’t listen. You need to start working.”
“Go to work! How long do you plan to rely on me? I work tirelessly every day while you stay home and rest!”
“And don’t say you’re taking care of the kids! Your mom helps, and our oldest will start school soon—you don’t need to watch him all the time. It’s time for you to find a job and end your maternity leave.”
Look for a job and finish your maternity leave already.
“Dima, I’m still breastfeeding! How can I leave her for an entire day?” I cried.
“I’m the only one earning money right now. Your maternity benefits barely count. It’s time you contribute.”
Hurt and frustrated, I sought help from my in-laws, but they agreed with Dima. Only my friend, Lena, supported me.
“Are they serious? Daycare for a three-month-old? Do they even know how crowded those places are? And what about Roma? He’ll need help with schoolwork!”
“Lena, what should I do? Everyone is pressuring me,” I sobbed.
Lena’s words opened my eyes. Dima had been distant, rarely calling or expressing affection. Had he found someone else?
Realizing I needed to take control of my life, I found a small rental apartment and moved out with my children. I used my savings to support us, with occasional help from Lena.
I filed for divorce and requested child support. Dima, unsurprised, did not argue. Later, I learned from mutual friends that he had indeed started a new relationship during his business trip.
The transition was difficult—money was tight, and balancing everything was tough. But with child support and benefits, I persevered. I found remote work and, when Misa turned two, enrolled her in daycare and secured a stable job.
Life wasn’t easy, but I was independent, making my own decisions and ensuring my children were well cared for. That, for me, was worth everything.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.