— Vadik. Listen carefully. I gave birth to you forty-eight years ago. Then for about twenty-five years, I fed you, did your laundry, picked up your socks all over the apartment, walked you to school holding your hand and checked your homework. I did my shift honestly. And now you show up with a backpack and expect me to start all over again?
* * *
The kitchen tap at Tamara’s place dripped with such perfect timing, one night she counted: forty drips per minute. She put a honey jar under it, and by morning it would be half full. She could’ve started a notebook, tracking it like the weather.
Vadim didn’t hear that sound. For the past six months, he hardly noticed anything over his own phone.
It used to be different. At least Tamara remembered it that way. Her husband would come home from work, have dinner, tell her who said what at the warehouse, fix the tilted cabinet door himself, or carry in a sack of potatoes from the balcony. But this spring, something switched in him.
He walked in, took off his shoes, flopped down on the couch. Pillow under his head, charger stretched across the room since the cable was too short, but moving closer somehow wasn’t worth it. And so he’d spend the evening: videos about fishing, about a guy in a garage building a motorcycle from parts, about other people’s renovations. He watched those repairs with such fascination, you’d think he’d just tiled the bathroom himself.
Meanwhile, Tamara managed through sheer stubbornness. Work at the bread factory until five, then the store, lugged home two bags, cooked dinner, did laundry, pressed his shirts at the ironing board. The garbage bag sat by the door until Tamara took it out herself the next morning before work. Vadim would just step over it like it was part of the threshold.
She avoided making a scene. First, she asked. Then reminded. Then stopped and did it all herself. Her friend Inna once told her, “Tom, you’ve spoiled him.” Tamara just waved her hand:
— He’s forty-eight. The only one who could’ve spoiled him is his mother.
Back then, she didn’t realize how wrong she was.
* * *
That evening, October was especially grimy. The heat wasn’t on yet, it was chilly in the kitchen, and Tamara washed dishes in Vadim’s stretched-out sweater. The tap was still ticking away.
On the windowsill, a tiny packet of faucet gaskets had been lying for three weeks. She’d bought them herself at the hardware store, asked the clerk which ones fit. All that was left was to turn off the water and unscrew two nuts.
— Vadim, — she called into the other room. — Can you take a look at the tap? It’ll take five minutes.
— Later.
— You’ve been saying “later” since September.
— Toma, I just got back from work. Can’t I at least relax at home?
— You’ve been relaxing at home since April.
The couch creaked. Vadim sat up, and she could tell from his face what was coming next.
— Oh, here we go! You start again! What am I, an on-call plumber? I’m on my feet all day, and I come home and it’s like: fix this, carry that, attach this! I can’t get a break even here!
— Who’s stopping you? Me? — Tamara dried her hands on the towel and stood in the doorway. — I haven’t said a word to you from that sofa for six months. I’ve carried everything myself. I take out the trash, bring in the potatoes, bought those gaskets myself. I asked you for one little thing.
— One little thing! And tomorrow it’s one more, then a shelf, a lamp, the balcony… You know what? I’m going to my mother’s. At least she understands a man isn’t a packhorse.
He yanked open the wardrobe, grabbed his old university backpack, stuffed in two t-shirts, sweatpants and a razor, pulled his phone charger—the one draping across the room all these months—out of the socket and wrapped it around his fist. At the door, he turned, as if waiting for Tamara to stop him.
She didn’t stop him.
The door slammed so hard the glasses in the cupboard rattled. Tamara stood in the hallway for a minute, then went back to the kitchen, put the kettle on and sat down. The tap dripped. Forty drips a minute. She had zero intention of calling him first.
* * *
Alla Ivanivna lived in the next building, on the first floor of a five-story where there were someone’s houseplants on every windowsill in the stairwell. Seventy-three, long since alone, with a strict schedule: market at nine, soap opera at seven, bed at ten. When the doorbell rang at half past seven, she opened it in her apron, glasses perched on her head.
On the doorstep stood her son with a backpack.
— Mom, I’m here. For good.
Alla Ivanivna looked at the backpack, then at her son, then back at the backpack.
— Did you even ask me, son?
But she let him in. Poured tea, set a plate of soup in front of him, sat across and listened. Vadim told a long, heartfelt story: about how they nag him, never let him catch his breath, how he comes home and there’s always some chore waiting. His mother didn’t interrupt. Only once did she ask:
— How long’s the tap been dripping?
— Well… about three weeks.
She nodded, like she ticked a box in her mind. Then she took her phone, put on her glasses, and for twenty minutes scrolled through something, squinting and occasionally making notes in pencil on a piece of grid paper from an old student notebook. Vadim assumed she was watching her soap opera without sound, so as not to disturb his suffering.
Then she took off her apron and said:
— Get your things on. Walk me somewhere.
— Where are we going?
— You’ll see.
* * *
Tamara’s phone rang just as her tea had gone cold. On the screen: “Alla Ivanivna.” Tamara took a deep breath, ready to hear all about what a terrible wife she was.
— Toma, dear, — her mother-in-law’s voice was calm and almost cheerful. — Step outside for a minute, would you? Your husband’s at my place with his bag, and I want you to hear something.
Tamara stepped out. Outside under the dim light by the entrance, Vadim stood with his backpack—like a fifth-grader kicked out of class. Next to him, tall and upright, was Alla Ivanivna in her favorite, almost festive, blouse.
When he saw Tamara, Vadim lit up immediately.
— Mom, tell her! Tell her how she’s driving me out of the house.
His mother turned slowly to her son, with the same look teachers use on a class when someone in the back row gives a wrong answer.
— I will, Vadik. Listen carefully. I gave birth to you forty-eight years ago. Then about twenty-five years I fed you, did your laundry, picked up your socks, walked you to school, checked your notebooks. I did my shift honestly. And now you show up with your backpack and want me to start all over? No, son. I’m retired, not on maternity leave.
Tamara couldn’t help herself and snorted with laughter. She covered her mouth, but it was too late.
Vadim looked at her, hurt, then at his mother. Clearly, this wasn’t the conversation he was expecting.
— Mom…
— I’m not done yet. — You can’t fix a tap for three weeks for one woman, and you can’t get along with one woman. So what makes you think you’ll manage with two? You’d wreck not just the tap but the whole plumbing in a week at my place. And unlike her, I won’t tolerate it.
It went quiet under the entrance canopy. Somewhere on the third floor, someone laughed out a window, and Tamara thought the whole building would know about this exchange by morning.
Vadim shifted from foot to foot, straightened his backpack strap and jutted his chin.
— Fine. I’ll just rent a place then. I’ll live on my own. Nobody will nag me anymore.
Alla Ivanivna seemed just to be waiting for this…(continued in the comments)
Tamara’s kitchen faucet dripped so steadily that one night she finally broke down and counted: forty drops per minute. She kept an old honey jar beneath the tap, and by morning, it would be exactly half full. It was so precise, she could start a notebook and record it like the weather report.
Vadym never heard the sound. For the past six months, he barely heard anything except the ring of his own phone.
Things used to be different. At least that’s how Tamara remembered it. Her husband would come home from work, have dinner, share stories about what happened at the warehouse, and would even fix the cabinet door when it was crooked or bring a sack of potatoes in from the balcony. But this spring, it was like someone flipped a switch in him.
He’d come in, take off his shoes, lie on the couch. Pillow behind his head, his phone charger stretched across the room because the cord was too short, and he couldn’t be bothered to move closer. And he’d stay there all night: watching fishing videos, or a guy restoring a motorcycle in his garage, or home renovation clips. He watched those DIY projects so intently, as if he’d just installed new tiles himself.
Meanwhile, Tamara was running on pure stubbornness. She worked at the bread factory until five, then went grocery shopping, carried home two bags, made dinner, did laundry, ironed his shirts. The bag of trash would stand by the front door until she finally took it out herself on her way to work. Vadym just stepped right over it, like it was the threshold.
She never made a scene. At first, she would ask. Then she’d remind him. Then she just stopped and did everything herself. Her friend Inna once told her, “Tom, you’ve spoiled him.” But Tamara just waved her off:
“He’s forty-eight. The only person who could’ve spoiled him is his mother.”
Back then, she had no idea just how wrong she was.
* * *
That evening, October was particularly dreary. The heat hadn’t been turned on yet, and it was chilly in the kitchen as Tamara washed dishes in Vadym’s stretched-out sweater. The faucet kept up its relentless drip as always.
For three weeks, a little bag of mixer gaskets had been sitting on the windowsill. She’d bought them herself at the hardware store, even asked the clerk which ones would work. All that was left was to turn off the water and unscrew two bolts.
“Vadym,” she called from the kitchen, “could you please take a look at the faucet? It’ll only take five minutes.”
“Later.”
“You’ve been saying ‘later’ since September.”
“Toma, I just got home from work. Don’t I deserve a little rest in my own house?”
“You’ve been resting at home since April.”
The couch creaked. Vadym sat up, and it was clear from his face that this was about to escalate.
“Oh, here we go! Same old story! Am I your on-call plumber? I’m on my feet all day at work, and then I come home and you want me to fix, take out, or screw something in! I can’t even relax for a minute in this place!”
“Who’s stopping you? Me?” Tamara dried her hands and stood in the doorway. “I haven’t said a word to you about any of this for six months. I do everything myself. I take out the trash, I carry the potatoes, I bought those gaskets. I only asked for one little thing.”
“One little thing! And tomorrow there’ll be another one. And after that—the shelf, the light fixture, the balcony… You know what? I’m going to my mother’s. At least she understands that her son isn’t a work horse.”
He quickly yanked his old university backpack out of the closet, threw in two t-shirts, some sweatpants, and his razor. He yanked out the charger—that same one that’s been trailing across the room for half a year—and wrapped it around his fist. At the door, he turned back, almost expecting someone to stop him.
Tamara didn’t stop him.
The door slammed so hard that the glasses in the cabinet rattled. She lingered in the hallway for a minute, then went back to the kitchen, set the kettle on, and sat down. The tap dripped—forty drops a minute. She had no intention of calling him first.
* * *
Alla Ivanivna lived in the neighboring entrance, on the first floor of a five-story building where someone’s houseplants sat on every staircase window sill. Seventy-three years old, on her own for ages, with a strict schedule: market at nine, TV series at seven, bedtime at ten. When the doorbell rang at seven-thirty, she answered in her apron, glasses perched on her forehead.
Her son was standing on the doorstep, backpack in hand.
“Mom, I’m here. For good.”
Alla Ivanivna looked at the backpack, then at her son, then back at the backpack.
“Did you even ask me, son?”
But she let him in. Made him tea, set a bowl of soup in front of him, sat across, and listened. Vadym talked at length, pouring out how he’s constantly nagged, never given a chance to breathe, how he comes home to yet more chores. His mother didn’t interrupt. Only once did she ask:
“How long has that tap been dripping?”
“Well… about three weeks.”
She nodded, as if mentally checking a box. Then she picked up her phone, put on her glasses, and spent the next twenty minutes scrolling, squinting, and occasionally jotting something in pencil onto a sheet of checkered school notebook paper. Vadym figured she was just watching her TV series silently, so she wouldn’t interrupt his moping.
Then she took off her apron and said:
“Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”
“Where to?”
“You’ll see.”
* * *
Tamara’s phone rang just as her tea had gone cold. The screen lit up: “Alla Ivanivna.” Tamara took a deep breath, ready to hear about what a terrible wife she was.
“Toma, dear,” her mother-in-law’s voice was calm, even a bit cheerful. “Could you step outside for a moment? Your husband’s here with a bag, and I’d like you to hear something.”
Tamara came down. Under the awning outside, with just one light out of three working, stood Vadym. With his backpack slung over his shoulder, he looked like a fifth grader kicked out of class. Beside him, tall and steady as a candle, was Alla Ivanivna in her favorite—maybe even festive—blouse.
The moment he saw his wife, Vadym perked up.
“Mom, tell her. Tell her how she drives me out of the house.”
His mother slowly turned toward him, using her whole body, just like teachers do when a student gives the wrong answer in the back row.
“I will, Vadym. Listen closely. Forty-eight years ago I gave birth to you. Then for about twenty-five years, I fed you, did your laundry, picked up your socks all over the apartment, walked you to school, and checked your homework. I did my shift honestly. Now you show up at my doorstep with a backpack and want me to start it all over again? No, my boy. I’m retired, not on maternity leave.”
Tamara couldn’t help it and burst out laughing. She quickly covered her mouth with her hand, but it was too late.
Vadym looked at her with hurt in his eyes, then glanced at his mother. It was clear he had expected a very different sort of conversation.
“Mom…”
“I’m not finished yet. You’ve been unable to fix one woman’s leaky faucet for three weeks, and you can’t make it work with one woman. So why do you think you could possibly handle two? In my apartment, you’d ruin not just the faucet, but the whole pipe in a week. And unlike her, I won’t stand for it.”
Everything went quiet beneath the building’s awning. Somewhere on the third floor, someone laughed by an open window, and Tamara realized that soon the whole apartment block would know about this conversation.
Vadym shifted from foot to foot, adjusted his backpack strap, and stuck out his chin.
“Fine. I don’t need to. I’ll just rent my own place then. Live by myself. And nobody will be getting on my nerves anymore.”
Alla Ivanivna seemed like she’d been waiting for exactly this. She unbuttoned a pocket in her coat, pulled out a sheet of graph paper folded in quarters, and handed it to her son.
“Here. While you were eating soup and complaining, I looked it all up. A one-bedroom near the market—nine thousand, utilities extra. By the train station—seven and a half, but the landlady wants two months upfront and no guests after ten. On the outskirts it’s cheaper, but the bus only runs until eight. And the realtor takes half a month’s rent as a fee.”
Vadym unfolded the sheet. Written in his mother’s tidy handwriting were addresses, prices, phone numbers, and even a note, double-underlined: “Washing machine—bring your own!”
“And one more thing, son,” Alla Ivanivna added, her voice a bit softer now. “I read these ads carefully. Not a single one says the borscht cooks itself. And shirts don’t iron themselves, either. That’s just how it is.”
She adjusted her blouse, took Tamara’s arm, and nodded toward the store.
“Daughter, will you walk me? Let him stand there and think. It’ll do him good.”
* * *
On the way to the store, they hardly spoke. Only when they were by the bus stop did the mother-in-law suddenly squeeze Tamara’s hand.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love him. But loving someone doesn’t mean carrying them around on your back until retirement. I mean until his retirement, of course.”
When Tamara came back, no one was under the awning. The apartment door was unlocked. The backpack was in the hallway, still packed. The kitchen light was on, the faucet was shut off, and on the table lay some unscrewed nuts, a wrench, and a now-empty little packet from the windowsill.
Vadym was standing at the sink with his back to her, not turning around.
“The gasket is completely worn out,” he muttered. “How did it even hold together this long?”
“Somehow it managed,” Tamara said. “Forty drips a minute.”
He snorted. They didn’t say another word about it all evening.
That night the kitchen was so quiet, Tamara woke up a few times—she missed the usual sound. In the morning, while pouring water into the kettle, she noticed something new on the fridge. Under the seahorse magnet—a souvenir from the neighbors’ vacation—was the folded piece of graph paper with his mother’s handwriting.
“Why did you put that up?” she asked.
Vadym, already in his jacket, picked up the garbage bag standing by the door.
“So I remember how much rent costs,” he said. “And that there, the borscht doesn’t cook itself.”
That same day, Tamara washed out the empty honey jar and put it on the shelf. She didn’t need it anymore.