“Are you serious?” Vlad’s voice trembled, not from surprise but from the effort to hold back words he might regret later. He sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the untouched sushi takeaway he and Christine had ordered. “You actually bought yourself a Porsche?”
“Not a Porsche—a Taycan. Electric. At least learn the name if you’re going to lecture me about it,” Christine replied without looking up from her phone. Her Instagram feed showed a colleague’s post from a conference in Geneva—everyone in blazers, sipping champagne. Typical.
The flat smelled of wasabi, irritation, and the faint bleach scent of a recently scrubbed bathroom—Christine had automatically tidied up before Vlad arrived, though she already knew it wouldn’t help.
“I just don’t get why you’d need a car like that,” Vlad stood abruptly, pacing the kitchen. “You’re not a racer. You’re not a millionaire. Do you really think people will respect you more for driving that… spaceship?”
“Yes. Exactly. And I won’t have to park in the middle of nowhere—there are charging spots right in town. And guess what? No more traffic stress because the Taycan has adaptive cruise. This isn’t about showing off, Vlad. It’s about comfort, safety, and—ta-da!—my money.”
“Did you hear what Dad said?” Vlad pressed, as though reciting a line he’d rehearsed all night.
“Unfortunately, yes. My hearing’s still intact.” Christine finally set her phone down. “He said it’s ‘unseemly’ for a woman to own that car because it ‘stirs up unhealthy excitement among men.’ Direct quote, by the way.”
“He’s just worried. He’s from a different generation.”
“He’s from a fossilised generation, Vlad. And you’re heading the same way if you don’t say something even remotely supportive right now.”
Vlad opened his mouth, then closed it again—like a Soviet-era TV with sound but no picture.
“Why couldn’t you discuss it with me? We’re family. I could’ve—”
“What? Suggested a Kia Ceed like your mum’s? Or talked me out of it and bought yourself some ‘granddad’ estate car?”
He smirked, but there was no joy in it.
“Yeah, thanks for the trust.”
Christine sighed, looking at him the way one might eye a wobbly chair—technically still functional, but nerve-wracking to sit on.
“Vlad, have you ever felt like you could do what you wanted? Without worrying about opinions, expectations, or tantrums?”
“I don’t earn as much as you, if that’s what you mean.”
“It’s not about money. It’s about freedom. Inside.”
He shrugged, as if the words were an allergy trigger.
“You knew my parents weren’t like that. You knew what you were getting into.”
“I hoped they’d at least learn to respect me. Or that you would.”
The silence thickened, denser than yesterday’s dodgy takeaway rice. Vlad slumped back onto the sofa.
“They just think you should be more… feminine.”
“Ah yes. Preferably without opinions, a licence, or anything but gratitude for a wedding ring?” Christine gave a bitter laugh. “Sorry, I’m not a side dish to borscht. I’m a person. With autonomy.”
He looked away just as a knock sounded at the door—too firm for a delivery driver, too quiet for a neighbour.
“It’s Mum,” Vlad exhaled, standing. “She wanted to drop by, see how we’re living.”
“She just happened to be nearby? Or does she have a tracker on my car now?” Christine arched a brow, straightening her blouse as she stood.
“Just… go easy, alright?”
“I’m already shower-gel soft. You’re the one who needs to stop being a sponge.”
The door opened. Anna Mikhailovna stepped in with a bag from Waitrose, looking less like a guest and more like an inspector.
“Hello, lovebirds. Brought you a healthy salad—no nitrates. You could use it.” Her gaze flicked to Christine’s heels. “Why so dressed up? Off to a ball?”
“I always look like this. Can’t afford to dress like a pensioner on maternity leave,” Christine replied evenly.
“Who’s that aimed at?” Anna frowned.
“An abstract concept. But if it fits…”
“Vladik, you let her speak to me like that?” His mother turned to him, ignoring Christine like an office printer on holiday.
“He’s not my minder. Or a translator from English to Family,” Christine said, grabbing the sushi from the kitchen. “Tea? Or shall we skip straight to discussing my disgraceful car?”
“You’ve got the right idea,” Anna smiled. “Nikolai and I need that car more—we visit the countryside, the dacha. What’s it for you? A status toy?”
“Ah. And revenge. On you.” Christine said it softly. Like a surgeon noting a ruptured appendix.
A pause. Even Vlad seemed to sense the shift. Christine set the sushi back down.
“Sorry, but I’m done pretending this is normal.”
“Pretending what?” his mother snapped.
“All of it. You dropping by like a shift supervisor. Vlad staying silent as a memorial to his childhood. Being told how to live, dress, spend my money. I’m finished.”
She kicked off her heels, like shedding armour, and walked to the bedroom. Vlad stood dumbstruck while Anna turned to him, fury simmering.
“She humiliates me in front of you, and you just stand there! This isn’t how a marriage works!”
“Not anymore,” Christine called from the bedroom. Calm. Steel beneath.
Christine woke to a sound like an earthquake—or at least a broken lift. The wardrobe had been yanked open hard enough to rattle the pipes. Vlad was rummaging. Not for his things. Hers. The car documents.
“Are you serious?” Her voice was hoarse, yesterday’s fight still lodged in her throat.
“Where’s the V5?” Vlad didn’t turn. He wore those stretched-knee sweatpants he usually reserved for router repairs or grudging pasta cooking.
“Same place as your backbone. Buried under layers of parental fear,” Christine pulled on her robe, brushing past him. “You won’t find it. It’s with my solicitor. Surprise—the car’s in my name only. No transfers. No permissions. No Dad.”
“You can’t do this! We’re family!”
“And you can rummage through my things because you’re having a masculinity crisis and Mum’s whispering in your ear?”
He straightened, staring at her like he was seeing her for the first time. For a second, she almost pitied him. Almost.
“Dad says you’re acting like… like a feminist.”
“How dreadful!” Christine clutched her chest in mock horror. “Did he faint? Or just need smelling salts?”
“They’re worried. They want stability. Respect. For you to be a proper wife!”
“Proper? Like what? A lace handkerchief? Serving soup on command? Vlad, I have a job, business trips, people relying on me. I’m not a debutante—I run European logistics.”
“I don’t care! I want you home! Not globetrotting or buying bloody tanks!”
“It’s not a tank. It’s a ship. And I’m the captain. You? No boarding pass.” She turned to the window, where her silver Taycan glinted, taunting the row of hatchbacks below.
He stepped closer. His face was unfamiliar—mouth tight, eyes dark.
“You think you’re better than us? You looked down on my parents, on me! But you joined our family, not the other way round.”
“Right. Except your ‘family’ is a guilt trip with deadlines. I’m an add-on. Not even a name anymore—just ‘the wife,’ ‘the one with the car.'”
He grabbed her wrist. Hard. Not a lover’s grip—a cornered man’s.
“Vlad. Let go.” Ice in her voice. A 999 operator’s calm.
“We’re going to my parents. Today. To talk. Properly, as a family.”
“First, you let go of my wrist. Then you leave. And then—if I can be bothered—I might text you. Or not.”
He released her like she’d burned him. Stepped back.
“You’re insane. You’re destroying everything!”
“‘Everything’? Two years, Vlad. One good, one under your mother’s surveillance. You think I didn’t notice your hallway whispers? Her ‘how to handle a difficult woman’ tips?”
“Who do you even think you are?!”
“A person. Choosing my own life. And you?”
Silently, he grabbed his jacket and keys. At the door, he turned:
“You’re just selfish.”
“And you’re just a son. Or rather, a sonny.”
The door slammed. Silence rang after it.
That evening, a text from Anna:
“I always knew you weren’tTwo years later, Christine drove past Vlad and his new girlfriend—riding the Tube, huddled under an umbrella—and realised the only thing she’d lost was the weight of someone else’s expectations.
