Semyon walked into the kitchen without taking off his coat or boots. Wet footprints darkened the pale rug. He pulled off his gloves and dropped his keys onto a plate of sliced bread.
“Start packing,” he said. “My brother has nowhere to live. Pavel is coming here with Olesya. She’s eight months pregnant, and they need a proper apartment.”
Darya stood over the frying pan, a wooden spatula frozen in her hand, staring at the keychain. Water dripped from it and soaked into the bread. The television was playing in the next room, and a kettle sat cooling on the windowsill. Semyon spoke calmly, as though the matter had already been settled.
“And where are we supposed to live?”
“At your mother’s place. She lives alone in a one-room apartment. She can make space for us. It won’t be for long. I already told Pavel they could move in on Saturday.”
Darya had bought the two-room apartment three years before their wedding. She worked as a dispatcher and had taken night shifts for five years to afford it. She had even paid off the mortgage ahead of schedule.
Semyon had helped with the renovation. He had chosen tiles, argued with contractors, and carried building supplies. After they married, he began calling it “our apartment,” and later simply “our home.” Darya never corrected him. She had never wanted their marriage to become a tally of who had contributed what.
Now Semyon stood beside the table, waiting for her to agree.
“You couldn’t have asked me first?”
“What is there to ask? Pasha can’t afford rent after that temporary job fell through. I’m not leaving my brother on the street.”
Darya had heard that tone many times before.
After their father left, Semyon had taken Pavel to school and sports practice. While their mother worked, he attended parent-teacher meetings. At fourteen, he was already checking his younger brother’s homework and warming up dinner for him.
A year earlier, Pavel had asked them for money to buy a car. Semyon suggested canceling their vacation and using the money to cover part of Pavel’s debt. Darya had agreed, even though the trip had already been paid for.
Later, Pavel borrowed their old refrigerator “for a week.” He returned it three months later, stuffed with groceries and dishes that did not belong to them.
Every time, Semyon said the same thing.
“He’s family.”
And every time, Darya gave in. Then she rearranged her own plans, called repairmen, and covered extra expenses from her salary.
She turned off the stove, transferred the food into a bowl, and removed her apron. Semyon was already reaching for his phone.
“Don’t call them until we’ve agreed.”
“Too late. Pavel has already gone to borrow a van from a friend. He’ll bring some of their things tomorrow.”
“I never agreed to leave.”
Semyon looked up from his phone and gave a brief, humorless laugh.
“Dasha, don’t start a scene. They’ll rent a place in a month. Until then, your mother will take you in.”
He poured tea into her mug, drank several mouthfuls, and left it on the table. Darya wiped the wet ring beneath it.
She did not continue the argument, but she did not take any boxes out of the storage closet either.
Semyon went into the other room and called his brother. He did not lower his voice, and every word carried into the kitchen.
“Yes, everything is ready. Don’t worry.”
The next morning, Darya went to her mother’s apartment with a small bag.
Nadezhda Nikolaevna opened the door wearing woolen socks. She had sewing pins between her lips and was hemming a skirt for a neighbor. When she saw the bag, she removed the pins and put the kettle on.
Darya’s explanation came out in fragments. She told her about Pavel, the Saturday move, and the van that had already been arranged.
Her mother listened while slowly smoothing the edge of the tablecloth with her palm.
“Did you give them permission to move in?”
“No. Semyon decided everything without me.”
“Then tell him what you have decided.”
A piece of tailor’s chalk, a spool of gray thread, and a pair of scissors lay on the table. Darya ran her finger over a scratch in the plastic table covering.
“Mom, could both of us stay here for a while?”
“You can. Semyon can find somewhere else.”
“He’s my husband.”
“Exactly. That means he should have discussed it with you. Instead, he invited his brother into your apartment and sent you here.”
Darya wanted to object, but no words came.
She pictured her desk being dismantled and a baby’s crib placed beside her own bed.
“Maybe I’m too attached to the apartment.”
Nadezhda Nikolaevna took Darya’s wet coat from her shoulders.
“You spent five years paying for it. Why should you walk away carrying one small bag?”
They sat in the kitchen for nearly an hour. Her mother sewed while Darya warmed her hands around a cup.
Outside, a neighbor came out with his dog and spent a long time struggling with a stiff leash. The tea went cold.
Darya opened her conversation with Semyon. She wanted to agree to one month, simply so she could return home.
She typed several lines, deleted them, and finally sent two words.
“I’ll think.”
She stayed with her mother that night.
The following morning, Semyon wrote that he would not come to get her. On Saturday, around noon, another message arrived.
“Pasha has moved in. Everything is fine and tidy.”
Darya’s fingers began to tremble.
She reread the message several times before replying.
“I’m coming for my laptop.”
Semyon did not answer, not immediately and not half an hour later.
Pavel opened the apartment door. He was wearing sweatpants and a stretched-out T-shirt and holding a box of baby clothes.
Behind him, Olesya was arranging tiny infant sleepers on the sofa. Her mug, decorated with lemons, stood on the kitchen table.
“Dasha, come in. Semyon said you were staying with your mother for now.”
Darya walked into the other room.
Her desk had been dismantled. The monitor lay on the floor, and the cables had been tied together with a rubber band. Folders from her professional courses had been packed into a shoebox. Her work schedule had been removed from the wall and placed on top of the wardrobe.
Pavel had begun installing a new shelf.
“Why did you take all of this apart?”
Pavel glanced at Olesya.
“Semyon said you asked us to clear the room for the baby.”
Olesya placed the infant clothes carefully on the edge of the sofa.
“You told me the owner had agreed.”
“Semyon said she had.”
Darya looked around, but Semyon was not there. He had sent his brother ahead and gone to collect the remaining boxes.
A screwdriver lay near Pavel’s feet, surrounded by wall plugs and the calendar he had removed.
Darya had no intention of explaining Semyon’s lie for him.
She picked up her laptop, found the charger, and gathered her folders.
“Everything must be out of this apartment by next Sunday. I never gave you permission to live here.”
Pavel frowned and lowered the screwdriver.
“Dasha, where are we supposed to go? Olesya could give birth any day.”
“Ask Semyon. He’s the one who made you that promise.”
Olesya went into the kitchen. A spoon clinked against a cup, followed by the sound of running water.
Pavel rubbed the back of his neck.
“I honestly thought the two of you had discussed it.”
“We didn’t.”
Darya lifted the box containing her folders. Pavel stepped aside to let her pass.
She left without saying goodbye.
Outside, Darya called Zoya Andreyevna, Semyon’s mother. The older woman asked her to come over. Her building was only a five-minute walk from the bus stop.
Zoya Andreyevna placed a plate of fritters on the table and listened to the entire story.
“Semyon has looked after Pasha since he was a teenager,” she said. “I used to work twenty-four-hour shifts, and their father was already living with another woman. Semyon cooked, did laundry, and took Pavel to doctors. Now he is trying to solve his brother’s problems again. The only difference is that this time he chose your apartment as the solution.”
“He’ll probably say I abandoned the family.”
“Has he said it already?”
“Not yet, but I’m expecting it.”
“Then he’ll say it tonight. When I refused to give Pasha money for the car, Semyon called me a terrible mother for three days.”
Darya did not argue.
Zoya Andreyevna called her son, but Semyon rejected the call.
He arrived at Nadezhda Nikolaevna’s apartment shortly after seven that evening. He did not say hello. He walked into the hallway and handed Darya a sheet of paper.
“Sign this consent form for Pavel’s temporary registration until the end of summer. Then the baby can be registered with him and assigned to the local clinic.”
The document had been written by hand. The date contained a correction.
Darya read it and placed it on the cabinet.
“No. I’m not signing this.”
“Do you even understand what you’re doing?”
“Yes. I understand perfectly.”
“You’re punishing me over one conversation?”
“I’m refusing to register Pavel in my apartment.”
Semyon lowered his voice so Nadezhda Nikolaevna would not hear from the kitchen.
“I didn’t promise him a palace. It’s one spare room. Families are supposed to help one another.”
“You could give him your money for rent. You could help him rent a room. You could even move in with him. What you could not do was promise him my apartment.”
Nadezhda Nikolaevna stood near the kitchen doorway, holding the edge of her apron.
Darya did not look toward her mother or wait for support. She needed to finish this herself.
“I’m returning home next Sunday. The apartment must be empty by then. You can help Pavel find somewhere else, or you can leave with him.”
Semyon took out his phone and called his brother. Pavel did not answer.
“You won’t go through with this,” Semyon said. “By tomorrow, you’ll calm down.”
That night, Semyon sent Darya a very long message.
Pavel was expecting to start work at a warehouse. Olesya struggled with stairs. The first paycheck was still several weeks away. Semyon begged her to give them one month.
Darya read the message three times and typed a reply.
“All right. I’ll give you one month.”
Her finger hovered over the send button.
Then she remembered her dismantled desk and the folders thrown into a shoebox.
She deleted the message.
“The deadline remains next Sunday.”
On Monday, Darya called the local magistrate’s court to ask about the divorce procedure.
They had no children together, but Semyon refused to go to the civil registry office with her.
On Tuesday, Pavel contacted her himself. He asked whether they could stay at least until the baby was born and pay rent for the room.
Darya replied that the apartment was not available for rent.
After that, Pavel asked for the contact details of a real estate agent she knew. The woman had once helped Semyon search for a workshop.
Darya found the number and forwarded it without comment.
On Thursday, Pavel wrote that Olesya had arranged for them to stay with her aunt.
On Friday, Darya submitted a divorce petition and a copy of the marriage certificate to the magistrate.
She did not tell Semyon.
On Sunday, she arrived at the apartment shortly before noon.
Boxes, a baby chair, and the dismantled shelf stood on the landing. Pavel was carrying an old floor lamp downstairs. Olesya sat on a suitcase, stroking the top of a pet carrier containing their cat.
“We found a room at my aunt’s place,” Olesya said. “We’ll stay there for now and then look for something of our own.”
Darya silently nodded and adjusted the strap of her bag.
She did not apologize for refusing them.
Semyon came out of the apartment in a wet coat. A drop of rain clung to his collar.
He looked at the boxes and then turned toward his wife.
“Are you satisfied now?”
“No. I simply came back to my apartment.”
“You don’t care at all where they go.”
“I gave you a week. In that time, you found them a room. I’m not giving up my home again because of promises you made.”
Pavel placed the floor lamp on a stair and straightened.
“Did you really tell her that Dasha had agreed?”
Semyon looked away.
The entrance door slammed downstairs.
Pavel waited several seconds for an answer, but his brother remained silent.
Olesya rose from the suitcase.
“Pasha, let’s go. I don’t want to live here.”
Semyon stepped toward her.
“You would only have stayed for a short time. I had almost arranged everything.”
“You didn’t arrange anything with anyone. You told each person a different story.”
Pavel picked up the suitcase. Olesya lifted the cat carrier, and they started down the stairs.
The floor lamp remained on the landing. Pavel returned for it a minute later and looked at his brother again.
“Call me when you’re ready to tell the truth.”
Semyon entered the apartment last.
Darya removed her coat and went into the kitchen. She placed Olesya’s lemon-patterned mug into a bag with the rest of her belongings.
“Pack your things and leave by this evening,” Darya said.
“Are you really planning to divorce me?”
“I filed the petition on Friday.”
“You’re ending our marriage over one argument?”
“Not over an argument. You threw me out of my own apartment and lied to your brother by telling him I had agreed.”
Semyon sat on a stool and placed his hands on his knees. For several seconds, he stared at the floor.
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“You can stay with Pavel or your mother tonight. After that, make your own arrangements.”
Darya went into the other room. She returned her folders to their places and reconnected her laptop.
Semyon opened the storage closet and took out empty boxes.
The court hearing was scheduled for the following month.
Semyon took his clothes, tools, and books. Darya did not argue over dishes or towels. He packed while she noted in a notebook what had already been removed.
At the first hearing, the judge gave them time to reconcile. Semyon requested two months, and Darya did not object.
During those two months, Semyon never offered to cover any of Pavel’s housing costs. He also never admitted that he had tried to dispose of property that did not belong to him.
He wrote only about how inconvenient it was to rent a room near his workplace.
At the second hearing, the marriage was dissolved.
Outside the courthouse, Semyon asked whether she had met someone else.
“No,” Darya replied. “Now I live there alone.”
He nodded and walked toward the bus stop.
A few days later, Darya found a set of keys to his garage hanging on a hook. She wrapped them in paper, wrote his name on it, and left the package near the door.
Then she sent him a message.
“Collect them by Friday.”
He came that evening, rang the bell, and took the package.
He did not ask to talk.
After he left, Darya listened to his footsteps fading along the landing.
In the evenings, she sat at her desk and looked at the pale mark on the wall where Pavel’s shelf had been mounted.
A week later, she bought a small can of paint and covered it.
Nadezhda Nikolaevna brought over curtains with thin blue stripes. She had sewn them for herself but miscalculated the length.
“They’re too short for my windows, but they should fit yours,” she said.
Darya took the package and unfolded the edge of the fabric.
“Will you help me hang them?”
Her mother pulled a small electric screwdriver from her bag.
Together, they secured the curtain rod, arranged the fabric, and stepped back toward the doorway.
The right curtain was two centimeters longer than the left.
“I’ll hem it tomorrow,” Nadezhda Nikolaevna said.
“Leave it. I like it the way it is.”
A month later, Semyon sent Darya another message.
“Pavel got the warehouse job. Olesya and the baby are still staying with her aunt. I rented a room near work.”
Darya read it and placed her phone on the table.
Green onions lay on the cutting board. She rinsed them, trimmed the dry ends, and added them to the salad.
At the beginning of April, Darya bought a small pot of rosemary.
She placed it on the kitchen windowsill and poured a little water into the tray beneath it.
One slender stem leaned against the glass.
She gently straightened it with her finger, closed the window, and switched on the light above the stove.