At five months pregnant, Lika couldn’t bend over without pain in her lower back — but she still dragged herself out to the garden.
Her husband’s mother, Aunt Vera, would be up in the morning making borscht, muttering something to herself under her breath.

Then she’d plop a bowl in front of Lika and say:
— “You eat when you’ve finished sweeping.”
So Lika swept. One day, while working in the garden, her head started spinning so badly she collapsed straight into the dirt.

Vera came out, looked down at her and said:
— “Pregnant women aren’t made of glass either, and there’s no time to sit around.
The potatoes sure won’t dig themselves up…”

Lika lay there, blinking against the harsh sun, one hand on her belly, the other sunk into the soil like it might give her some strength. And all she could think was: Why did I let him send me here?

Her husband, Miran, was off tanning somewhere in Antalya with his coworkers—“team-building,” he called it. Meanwhile, she was getting yelled at for folding laundry the “wrong way.”

Aunt Vera had always been hard-edged. Traditional, proud, the kind of woman who didn’t believe in sitting down until the day was done. But this? This wasn’t tradition. This was punishment.

That night, Lika called Miran. She kept her voice even, even as her hand shook holding the phone.

“I fainted today,” she said.

“Again? You’re probably not drinking enough water. Don’t stress Mom out, okay? She’s trying to help you toughen up.”

Toughen up. Like she was some weak link in the family chain.

The next morning, Lika didn’t go outside. She stayed in bed and waited.

Vera banged on the door. “The weeds are growing while you rest like a queen!”

Lika didn’t move.

Vera finally stomped in, arms crossed. “Is this how you’ll raise your child? Lazy and spoiled?”

Lika looked at her, and something shifted. She didn’t cry. She didn’t yell. She just said, “My child deserves better than this.”

And that’s when Vera said something that stunned her:
— “Then leave. Go back to your soft little apartment and cry into your throw pillows. But don’t expect my son to follow.”

That night, Lika packed a small bag. She didn’t tell Miran. She didn’t even call a cab. She walked half a mile to the bus stop, belly aching, feet swollen, back screaming. But she didn’t look back.

When she reached the city, she called her cousin Marel, who lived in a studio above a bakery. Marel opened the door and didn’t ask questions—just made her tea and rubbed her feet.

Lika cried that night. Not because she missed Miran. But because she felt free—and that terrified her.

Two days later, Miran showed up at the bakery, sunburned and irritated.

“You left? Seriously? You embarrassed me.”

Lika stared at him, speechless. Not “Are you okay?” Not “What happened?” Just ego.

“You’re the one who sent me away,” she said quietly.

“That was my mother, Lika.”

“And this is our baby,” she said, placing a hand on her belly. “I’m not raising this child in a place where collapsing in a field is called ‘tough love.’”

He blinked. Maybe he didn’t recognize this version of her—firm, clear, unmoved.

He left. And she didn’t hear from him again for over a week.

Then came a message:
“I’m sorry. I talked to Mom. I had no idea it was that bad. Can we talk?”

But by then, something had shifted. She realized she didn’t need permission to take care of herself. She didn’t need to wait to be rescued. And she definitely didn’t need to “toughen up” to be a good mom.

She met with Miran eventually. They talked. She listened. But she didn’t move back in.

Instead, she found a tiny two-room rental with a window that overlooked a plum tree. She started prenatal yoga. She found a local moms’ group. Marel helped her paint the nursery in soft, chalky greens.

And when her son—Niko—was born three months later, she held him close and whispered, “We start fresh. Just you and me.”

Sometimes people tell you you’re fragile when you’re simply tired. Sometimes they call it love when it’s just control. And sometimes the hardest thing you can do is walk away—especially when no one expects you to.

But walking away gave Lika her strength back.

And she’s never looked back.

If you’ve ever been told to “toughen up” when what you really needed was compassion—this story is for you.
Please share it with someone who needs to hear it. And don’t forget to like this post if it spoke to your heart.