I stood in the hallway holding my one-year-old son. He whined, rubbing his wet cheek against my shoulder, and my fingers trembled with fatigue and anger.

His diaper was soaked, there wasn’t a clean one left in the house, and the baby formula was running low. I instinctively pulled out my phone, opened the delivery app, and selected a package of diapers and jars for tomorrow.

When it came to payment, the screen flashed red: “Transaction declined.” I tried a second card. Then a third. A fourth. All—blocked.

“That’s it,” my husband said lazily, rubbing his belly. “Now you’ll understand what it means to be dependent on your husband.”

My mother-in-law giggled happily and immediately picked up her phone.

“I’m filming,” she said to herself, pointing the camera at me. “Let’s make a video for the memory. How my daughter-in-law will beg for money for diapers.”

My husband left the bedroom and returned with a small metal safe. He deliberately placed it in the middle of the room and slowly entered the code. The door clicked shut. Inside was a thick wad of bills.

“Look and remember,” he said, counting the money with deliberate slowness. “Here it is. Your old money.”

My mother-in-law filmed, occasionally commenting in whispers and giggles, as if it were a performance. My husband counted out a few bills and tossed them onto the coffee table. The money scattered.

“That’s enough for today. Tomorrow you’ll account for every kopeck and ask for more.”

I silently picked up the money. My son started crying again, and I started feeding him, trying not to look at their happy faces. A clear plan was already forming in my head.

What I did next, they’ll remember for the rest of their lives. 😢😲

They were sure I wouldn’t go anywhere. That I’d stay in this apartment, beg for every penny, and abjectly explain why I needed diapers, food, and baby formula.

My husband looked at me with satisfaction, and my mother-in-law continued filming, as if she could already see me breaking down.

But they were wrong.

When my husband went into the kitchen and my mother-in-law, still giggling, was sending the video to someone, I dialed my brother’s number. My voice was calm, even too calm. I said only one thing:

“Can I stay with you with the baby?”

He didn’t ask any questions over the phone. Forty minutes later, he was already standing at the entrance. I left with a backpack, a stroller, and my one-year-old son in my arms. My husband didn’t even come out to see me off—he was sure I’d be back by evening.

In the car, my brother finally saw the video. He watched it to the end without interrupting, then simply said,

“Okay. I understand. I’ll resolve this.”

I didn’t know exactly how he was going to “resolve” it, and I didn’t ask. We arrived at his place, I put the baby to bed, and fell asleep next to him.

And in the morning, something began that they were completely unprepared for.

First, my husband’s payment at the store didn’t go through. Then, his card didn’t work at the gas station. An hour later, the second account was blocked. By evening, that was it. My mother-in-law was calling screaming, my husband was texting me one after another.

My brother worked at a bank. And when he found out what had happened to me, he simply closed all their accounts—legally, quickly, and permanently.

Now they were calling and begging. They were asking why, how to regain access, what to do next. And I didn’t answer the phone anymore.