The illustration was created by the Nano Banana Pro neural network.
Maria's story began in a setting that seemed frozen in time. Childhood in her parents' old house: a bathtub that had long since surrendered to black mold, wallpaper hanging from the walls in tired shreds, and a creaky wooden floor that hadn't seen paint in decades. The toilet didn't have a cistern—you had to flush from a bucket.
Father just waved his hand: “In the 90s, everyone lived like that. Times are like that.” It was a convenient armor, a universal answer to all questions. Although Maria saw that even in that all-encompassing poverty, the neighbor’s house shone with cleanliness, and her cousin’s house always smelled of fresh whitewash. But in their house, any conversation about renovations ended with the mantra: “There’s no money.” That’s why they didn’t invite guests. Only the closest ones risked crossing the threshold.
It seemed that this gray gloom would never end. But in the early 2000s, the street began to wake up. One neighbor sheathed the house with fashionable siding, another built a new porch. The world was changing, but not for Maria's family. Her father stubbornly stood his ground: “If we're going to do something, it's going to be major. And what sums are these…”. These words were not so much a lack of money as a deep, paralyzing fear of change.
Then Maria first formulated a thought for herself, which became her personal diagnosis for the family. She remembered a quote from a famous writer and thought: devastation is not in the closets, but in the heads. It was an attempt to understand: why, when a chance arises, some grab it, and others do not?
She broke away from her parents' home and went to the capital, to the world of rented apartments. Together with her friends, they rented a home that was not much different from her childhood home — the owners did not pamper the tenants with European-style renovations. But it was temporary. It was freedom.
Maria started earning well and saved her first serious sum. She proudly brought the money home, imagining how her parents would finally make the repairs. Her father's reaction was not just negative—it was hysterical. He shouted for an hour that he would not allow “outsiders”—electricians, plumbers—to make a mess in his house. Behind his anger was panicked shame. “What will they think? That I'm not a man? That my hands are in the wrong place?” “Take your money and go!” he told his daughter.
It was not fear of the masters, but of the verdict. Fear of admitting his own incapacity, which for years had been disguised as “lack of money.” His aggression was a defense mechanism for a fragile ego. His house, although neglected, was his fortress, his usual zone of control. And the renovation was an invasion that would reveal everything he wanted to hide. Maria silently left her mother some of the money. And while her father was in the hospital, a small revolution took place in their house – a flush tank appeared in the toilet.
A few years later, Maria got married. First, rented housing, and then a “gift of fate”: an apartment that her husband inherited from his grandmother. And again, the same scenery. The same smell of stagnation.
At first, Maria enthusiastically went to hardware stores, dreaming of laminate flooring and new wallpaper. And then she stopped. Tears welled up in her eyes when she saw others equipping their nests. Her mother-in-law, the owner of the apartment, clearly outlined the boundaries: “Save up for yourself, and then take charge.” From a legal point of view, she was right. But for Maria, it sounded like a sentence.
Maria started saving money. By herself. The man was already doing well. He grew up in similar conditions, and for him it was the norm. Psychologists call this habituation – the brain simply gets used to constant stimuli (ragged walls, dim light) and stops noticing them in order to save resources. His threshold of sensitivity to discomfort was atrophied. “Why waste money? We are not gentlemen. Be thankful that we don’t have to pay a mortgage,” this phrase became his life credo.
It became embarrassing. It was embarrassing to call my son's friends. It was embarrassing to call a doctor. When they came to check the meters, it seemed to Maria that their gazes were burning through the tattered walls, and a mixture of surprise and disgust could be read on their faces. She felt how the environment was destroying her. And this is not fiction. Psychology proves: visual chaos, poor lighting, and decay increase the level of cortisol, the stress hormone. Living in such conditions literally depletes your cognitive resources, leaving no strength for dreams and development.
In the end, she decided to take out a mortgage. She collected a huge down payment, decorated a two-room apartment. Her own. Here it was, a chance! But no miracle happened. The man, having moved into new walls, did not change. Rolls of wallpaper and glue lay in the corner for months. Instead of chandeliers, “Ilyich’s light bulbs” hung on wires. The external decorations changed, but his internal “norm” moved with him. He recreated the family scenario learned from childhood, where a home is just a roof over your head, not a space for life and joy.
It was unbearably painful for Mary to realize that she was the only one in this family who yearned for the light.
“I envy. I envy those who live in cleanliness and comfort. Those who love their home and have the strength and money for it.”
Friends advise her to get a divorce. But this is a trap. By law, a mortgaged apartment is joint property. Divorce means selling it, dividing the remainder, and starting over again. Psychologists call this the sunk cost fallacy. She has invested so much money, emotions, and years of her life that she psychologically cannot “fix the losses” and start from scratch.
Over the years, according to her observations, the man has become embittered. He despises those who are more successful. Those who can afford dinner in a restaurant, quality clothes, and a vacation at the sea. It seems to Maria that it is not poverty itself that makes a person like this, but the daily “decorations of life.” When you look at the tattered walls for years, you begin to feel the same way — tattered, worthless. And anger at the world, this resentment of a powerless person, becomes the only defense.
Sometimes she catches herself having a naive, childish thought: people who grew up in spacious houses with fireplaces and nice furniture can't be evil. They simply have no reason to be. Of course, she herself understands that this is an idealization. That wealth does not insure against cruelty or neuroses. But this fantasy is her mental aspirin, a way to escape from reality, at least for a moment, where her closest people, living in disarray, have themselves become an inseparable part of her.
And the most terrible question she asks herself at night: Has she become the same? Has this slow poison of the environment already seeped into her blood?
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