Then came the photo incident. They were sorting old pictures when Kostia stumbled across a wedding photo — Marina in a white dress, slender, smiling, bouquet in hand.

“—What a figure you had,” he said admiringly. “A true beauty.”

“—I had,” Marina repeated.

He looked at her as if he was just realizing what that meant.

“—Well… you’re beautiful now too, it’s just… different, you see.”

“—I see,” she said, leaving the room so he wouldn’t see her trembling lips.

Kostia probably thought he was joking lightly, without malice. He didn’t see how she examined herself in the mirror every morning, hid her old jeans at the back of the closet, avoided being photographed with Varia to not see herself in the pictures. He didn’t see because he didn’t look.

Saturday began with a cranky Varia — teething, no gel helping much. Marina spent half the day holding her, rocking her, comforting her. By noon, her back ached, and nothing was ready in the kitchen. She hurried to the stove, placed Varia in the high chair, and turned on a cartoon on the tablet — something child development specialists might not approve of, but otherwise she wouldn’t have managed.

Kostia emerged from the shower around three and looked around the kitchen in surprise.

“—You haven’t started cooking yet?”

Marina chopped vegetables so quickly she almost cut herself.

“—Varia has been crying all day. I just managed to calm her.”

“—You should’ve called me, I could’ve taken care of her.”

“—You slept until two.”

“—I was tired after the week,” he said calmly, as if that explained everything. “Alright, I’ll help. What should I do?”

“—Set the table.”

He nodded and brought out the plates. Marina tended to the meat, stirred the sauce, monitored the potatoes, keeping one eye on Varia. The little one had calmed down watching the colorful images, but Marina knew it wouldn’t last.

André and Lena arrived promptly at six, with a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates. Lena looked flawless — gray sheath dress, heels, perfect hair. Marina greeted them in oversized jeans and a loose sweater that hid her curves.

“—Marina!” Lena exclaimed, hugging her, leaving behind a scent of expensive perfume. “It’s been so long! How’s our mommy?”

“—I’m fine,” Marina replied with a forced smile, trying not to notice the contrast between them. “Come in, come in.”

Kostia greeted André, clapped him on the shoulder. They moved to the living room, the usual routine beginning — serving wine, small talk. Varia sat on the rug, occasionally observing the guests with her big curious eyes.

“—How wonderful!” Lena crouched near her. “A real doll. Can I hold her?”

“—Of course.”

Marina watched Lena pick up Varia gently, and unexpectedly, the little one didn’t protest.

“—Wow, she’s heavy!” Lena laughed. “A little warrior.”

“—She eats well, huh, Varia?” Kostia added, winking. “She gets that from her mother.”

A moment of silence fell. André coughed awkwardly. Lena looked at Kostia, then at Marina. Marina froze, fork in hand, unable to move.

“—I’m joking, I’m joking,” Kostia quickly added, seeing the joke had landed badly. “Varia is thriving — she’s a healthy little girl.”

But the words had been said. Marina put down her fork and stood.

“—Excuse me, I need to feed Varia. It’s time.”

She took her daughter from Lena and left without looking back. In the bedroom, it was calm and dim, only the nightlight casting a soft glow. Marina sat in the chair, put Varia to her breast, and only then allowed herself to breathe.

Tears streamed silently. She wiped them, but more kept coming. Varia nursed, sniffing, and Marina stroked her head, feeling something inside her break completely.

“She gets that from her mother.” Spoken in front of guests. In front of Lena, who already watched with barely disguised pity. He had said it casually, like a harmless joke.

Marina fed Varia, changed her, tucked her in. The little girl fell asleep almost immediately — it had been a hard day. Marina stood over the bed, watching her daughter’s peaceful face, and suddenly realized a decision had been made. Perhaps it had been brewing for a long time, and tonight had been the final straw.

She pulled a large travel bag from the closet and began packing — her things, Varia’s things. Calmly, methodically. Diapers, clothes, spare outfits, wipes. Her makeup bag, documents, phone charger.

Voices and laughter came from the living room — Kostia had apparently succeeded in lightening the mood, and the evening continued as if nothing had happened. Marina heard the sounds like something distant, no longer hers.

By the time she finished, it was half past nine. She stepped into the hallway just as André and Lena were leaving.

“—Thank you for coming,” Marina said with a tight smile.

Lena hugged her.

“—Sorry to leave so early, but we have an early morning tomorrow. It was lovely, really.”

The door closed behind them. Kostia turned to Marina.

“—Look, I’m sorry for the joke. I didn’t think, it just slipped out.”

“Mh,” Marina replied, passing him to grab the bag.

Kostia frowned.

“—What are you doing? Where are you going?”

“—To my mother’s. With Varia.”

“—What do you mean, to your mother’s? Now? In the middle of the night?”

“—Now,” Marina said calmly, looking him in the eyes. “And I’m filing for divorce.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he laughed — nervously, like someone hoping it was a joke.

“—Because of what I said? Marina, it’s just…”

“—Just what?” she interrupted, stopping by the door. “What did you mean?”

“—I wish I had that kind of willpower. A grandmother climbing stairs, and others take the elevator and complain about their weight.”

Marina stayed silent, but something pricked her heart. He knew she couldn’t yet do strenuous exercise — the doctor had told her to wait, her body was still recovering from childbirth.

Marina woke at six in the morning to the sound of her daughter Varya’s cries. Pale January light filtered through the curtains. Beside her, Kostya slept soundly, oblivious to the wailing. Marina looked at her reflection in the mirror and saw a body marked by eight months of motherhood, far from the figure she once had.

She lifted Varya into her arms, feeling the world shrink to this small, warm, trusting life. Kostya arrived around eight, fresh and well-dressed, unaware of the invisible weight pressing on Marina. Days passed with his remarks about her body and appearance — “just a joke” to him, but a quiet, daily pain for her.

One Saturday, after struggling to prepare a meal following a long day with Varya, Kostya made a comment in front of their friends: “She takes after her mother,” implying their daughter was already round. Marina felt that it was the last straw.

She took Varya and her things and left the apartment, heading to her mother’s house. Kostya tried to apologize, but Marina had made her decision: she could not stay with a man who saw only a body, and not the woman who had given life to his child.

Safe at her mother’s, Marina felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She rocked her daughter, finally letting herself cry freely, and realized she could face the future alone. Her love for Varya gave her strength and clarity: they would get through this, together.