The tap water trickled sluggishly—rust‑colored and foul‑smelling. Lyuda set the kettle under the spout. Outside, dusk was falling, the April evening invading the city earlier than usual. She watched the kettle fill and thought, “Eighteen years… Eighteen years I’ve been drinking this stinky water—wish someone would install a filter.”
“Lyudka, where have you disappeared to?” came her mother‑in‑law’s voice from the living room. “When’s the tea?”
“When the water’s hot,” Lyuda wanted to answer, but stayed silent. She didn’t have the energy for talking. Work had been insane today; her eyes stung from staring at numbers all day.
The kettle clicked off. She brewed two mugs—one for herself and one for the mother‑in‑law. Nina Petrovna liked bergamot tea, the pricier kind Lyuda had bought with her last paycheck, even though it cost one and a half times more than the usual brand.
“Here you go,” she placed the cup on the small table beside the sofa, where Nina Petrovna lay half‑reclining with her knitting.
“Ugh, I can’t drink this muck,” Nina Petrovna grimaced. “Tastes like chemicals.”
Lyuda sighed. If it wasn’t “chemicals,” it was “water” or “medicine”—Nina Petrovna was never satisfied.
From the street came footsteps. Her son. The key turned in the lock sharply—meaning he was in a bad mood again.
“Denis, are you going to eat dinner?” Lyuda peeked into the hallway.
He shrugged off his sneakers without untying them. Fifteen years old, and his hands were bigger than his father’s. His eyes were just like Vitalik’s—gray and stubborn, with that same sidelong glare.
“I don’t want to,” he grunted, passing by into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, pulled out a sausage, and bit right off the stick.
“At least eat something hot,” Lyuda said, putting the kettle away. “I made soup.”
“You always make soup… I’m sick of it. I won’t!”
Denis retreated to his room, leaving the fridge door wide open.
And so the evenings passed: between the fridge and the bedrooms, between “I’m sick of it” and “always,” between exhaustion and irritation.
Her phone buzzed: a message from her husband.
I’ll be late. Don’t wait for me.
Lyuda closed her eyes. The third time this week.
At night she lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Denis was long asleep. Her mother‑in‑law too. And Vitalik still wasn’t home. Maybe with friends. Maybe with Larisa—that same service‑center coworker who always called “on work matters.” Lyuda didn’t ask. She simply didn’t have the energy.
Two A.M. Lyuda sat on the bathroom mat, muffling her sobs by covering her mouth with her hand so as not to wake the household. The sound of running water hid her quiet weeps—a tried‑and‑true trick she’d perfected over years.
“Thirty‑nine years old, Lyuda. Why are you crying like a schoolgirl?”
Behind the thin wall, Vitalik snored on the sofa—contentedly, with a slight whistle. And beside him, on their marital bed, lay his mother. “So it’s more convenient for me,” Nina Petrovna had explained two years ago when she moved in after her fracture. And she’d stayed. It seemed forever.
Lyuda slept in her son’s room, on a folding cot. Denis, fifteen, grumbled that his mother was invading his space, but he tolerated it. He was the only one still tolerating her in that apartment.
At work, Petr Sergeyevich had summoned her after lunch. Lyuda walked down the corridor, mentally checking every report for mistakes she might have made. The past month she’d worked in a fog—sleepless nights, endless mother‑in‑law nagging, her husband’s silence.
Her boss sat by the window, tapping a pen against the desk.
“Lyuda,” he said—he never used patronymics for her, though he addressed everyone else formally—“sit down.”
She perched on the edge of a chair, clutching her planner.
“I’ve reviewed your calculations on the tax deductions,” Petr Sergeyevich adjusted his glasses. “You caught a serious error in the documents.”
Lyuda looked at him in disbelief. An error? She’d been staying up nights cross‑checking every figure to avoid thinking about home, her husband, her life.
“If not for you, we’d have been fined—two hundred thousand.”
He pulled an envelope from his desk drawer.
“A bonus. Sixty thousand net. You’ve earned it.”
She took the envelope, hardly believing her eyes.
“Take a trip somewhere,” her boss said, unexpectedly gentle. “Go rest. You haven’t used your vacation in a long time.”
Lyuda was speechless.
On the subway, Lyuda clutched her purse to her chest. The envelope warmed her hand through the fabric. Sixty thousand. It felt as if, for the first time in years, God had heard her.
She usually turned left exiting the station—there was a supermarket with cheaper groceries. But today, for some reason, she went right. She didn’t understand why.
At the corner, in a small travel‑agency office with a faded sign reading “Travel with Us,” she stood for five minutes staring at photos of the sea in the window. Blue, endless ocean—so unlike the gray April sky.
She went inside.
It smelled of coffee and flowers. The young woman at the desk looked up from her computer.
“Hello,” she smiled. “How can I help you?”
“I just want to look,” Lyuda felt absurd, as if she had no right to be there.
“Have a seat,” the girl motioned to a chair. “Any particular destinations you’re interested in?”
Lyuda stayed silent, twisting her bag strap in her hand.
“The sea,” she said at last. “I need to go to the sea. Alone.”
They discussed options: Anapa, Sochi, Gelendzhik… Lyuda couldn’t tell the names apart—they all blurred into one: the sea.
“Fifty‑two thousand for a week,” the girl concluded. “Economy option, but right on the water. Single room, breakfast included.”
Lyuda touched her bag, where the envelope lay. Almost the whole amount. Nothing left for a gift for Denis, or medicine for her mother‑in‑law, or a new suit for Vitalik.
“When can I go?”
“There’s availability in two weeks.”
Lyuda pictured the sky and the sea, herself walking alone along the shore. No one asking “when’s the tea?”, no one muttering “sick of it,” no messages saying “don’t wait.”
“I’ll take it,” she said, pulling out the envelope.
She hid the voucher under a pile of bedding in the wardrobe. For two weeks she lived in a dream. She cooked, she washed, she worked, she smiled. A strange feeling grew inside—neither joy nor fear exactly, but something in between. She’d never done anything like this before.
She thought her family had noticed the change, but no one said a word. Nina Petrovna kept complaining about health issues, Denis locked himself in his room, Vitalik came home late from work as always.
Three days before departure, Lyuda packed while everyone slept. Her heart pounded with fear and a childlike excitement. She found her old swimsuit—bought before Denis was born—two dresses, slacks, and a pair of sandals cracked at the flex points but still sturdy. She smoothed them with her fingers—once she’d danced in them with Vitalik at a friend’s wedding. He’d whispered that she was the most beautiful. When was that?
She found a sealed tube of sunscreen in the closet, bought three years ago for a trip that never happened. Then her mother‑in‑law had suddenly “had a heart scare,” and the money for vacation went to expensive clinic tests—only to reveal Nina Petrovna’s heart was healthier than the doctor’s.
Clinking in the kitchen startled her. Who was up at two in the morning?
“What are you doing?”
Vitalik stood in the doorway, tousled, half‑asleep, holding a mug. Suspicion glimmered in his eyes.
“Packing,” she replied, deciding not to lie.
“And where to?”
They looked at one another in the dim light—strangers, weary, having lost something important over the years of shared life.
“To the sea,” she finally smiled. “I’m going to the sea. Alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got a bonus at work. I bought a trip.”
He stared at her as if she’d spoken a foreign language.
“At work? A bonus? And you didn’t say a word?”
“Was I supposed to?”
“We’re family!” His voice rose, but Lyuda motioned toward the sleeping household.
“Family,” she nodded. “So what?”
Vitalik set down his mug on the nightstand and stepped closer.
“Show me the voucher.”
She retrieved the papers from under the linens and handed them over. Vitalik read them, lips moving.
“You spent all the money? On yourself?”
His astonishment made Lyuda smile.
“Yes. All. On myself.”
“And us?”
“What about you?” Lyuda asked. “You have a salary. Your mother has a pension. Denis can live on sandwiches from the fridge. You’ll manage for a week.”
Vitalik’s face reddened, his jaw clenched. He waved the papers accusingly.
“You’re a miser—got your bonus and didn’t tell me!”
Lyuda felt the last thread of hope snap. Eighteen years together, and he only cared about money. Not her tired eyes, not her graying temples—only money.
“And who do you think you are?” she replied calmly, as if someone else were speaking. “Trying to share my bonus?”
Vitalik opened his mouth, snapped it shut, opened it again.
“You… you…”
“I,” Lyuda nodded. “I’m the one who’s spent eighteen years making you borscht, washing your shirts, listening to your mother. I saved for this vacation for three years and then gave the money to fix your car. I’m the one keeping this home afloat while you ‘get held up’ with Larisa from the service center. Yes, I am. And I’m going to the sea. Without you.”
He stood there, stunned.
“How do you know about Larisa?” was all he managed.
Lyuda laughed—light, pure, almost youthful.
“Is that what bothers you? That I know about your ‘late shifts’? Not that your wife is finally going to the sea for the first time in her life?”
A rustle came from the other room. In the doorway stood Nina Petrovna in her nightgown.
“What’s all the shouting? Lyudka, another fight?”
“Mother,” Vitalik rushed to her like a child seeking protection, “she got a bonus, spent it on a trip—alone!”
Nina Petrovna threw up her hands.
“Are you out of your mind? And what about me? My medicines?”
“Your medicines, Nina Petrovna,” Lyuda calmly retrieved the bag from the bedside table, “are in the drawer where they were yesterday and the day before, when you managed to go to the pharmacy yourself. And if you run out, you have your pension. Or maybe Denis will help.”
“Shameless!” her mother‑in‑law screamed. “I’m a sick woman!”
“You’re healthier than I am,” Lyuda replied evenly. “Your blood pressure is 120 over 80. Mine goes up to 200 just living like this.”
“Mom, what’s happening?” Denis appeared in the doorway—sleepy, clad in pajama pants, a pillow imprint on his cheek.
“Your mother,” Vitalik began.
“Your mother,” Nina Petrovna echoed in unison.
“I’m going to the sea,” Lyuda interrupted, looking straight at her son. “I got a bonus at work and bought a trip. For one. For myself. In three days. For a week.”
Denis blinked, trying to wake up fully.
“To the sea? You?”
“Just imagine,” Lyuda smiled, “first time ever.”
“She stole money from the family!” Vitalik protested. “My money!”
“My money?” Lyuda raised an eyebrow. “These were my bonus earnings—my work, my reports, my sleepless nights.”
“We’re a family!” Vitalik yelled. “Everything should be shared!”
“Is it?” Lyuda turned to her son. “Denis, remember when Dad and I took you fishing last year? Or the year before that? When was our last family dinner? When did your father ask me what I wanted for my birthday?”
Her son shifted his gaze between her and his father, clearly bewildered.
“My money,” Lyuda said firmly, looking at Vitalik, “has always been ours. Yours has been yours alone. And hers”—she gestured at Nina Petrovna—“hers is hers alone. I buy groceries, pay the rent, buy clothes for my son. You change the car’s tires, go to the bar with friends, and buy…what were they? Butterflies—for dates with Larisa.”
“Don’t you dare!” Vitalik’s face went ashen.
“I’m leaving,” Lyuda closed her suitcase, “for the sea. That’s not up for discussion. I’ll be back in a week. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” her mother‑in‑law repeated.
“Maybe,” Lyuda nodded. “I haven’t decided yet.”
She softened when she looked at her son.
“Don’t worry. I’ll come back. And I’ll bring you something from the sea. A shell. Or maybe a dried crab.”
Denis stared at her with wide eyes.
The three days before her departure were a real trial. The house was so tense it felt like the air itself was ringing. Vitalik wouldn’t speak to her, sending all requests through Denis: “Tell your mother to find my socks.” Each evening he blasted sports channels at full volume. When she entered a room, he would turn his back.
Nina Petrovna outdid herself. Twice she “fainted,” summoning an ambulance. The doctors measured her and shrugged: “Madam, you’re perfectly healthy.” She wailed so loudly the whole building heard: “Abandoned old woman… nobody cares for me… my own son won’t help… daughter‑in‑law off on vacations…”
Lyuda silently swallowed a painkiller and counted the hours until departure.
The only bright spot was Denis. He suddenly seemed different—as if awakened from a long slumber.
On departure morning, she woke before her alarm. Checked her bag, then went to the kitchen. Her hands automatically reached for the stove—to cook porridge for everyone, to wash last night’s dishes… But she stopped herself. No. Today she would have coffee—just for herself.
Denis woke too and came into the kitchen as she finished her second cup.
“Mom, can someone walk you to the taxi?”
“I ordered a taxi,” she smiled. “You need to get to school.”
He hesitated at the table, shoving his hands in and out of his pockets.
“You’ll definitely come back?”
Lyuda nodded.
“Is it really beautiful there?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “But I’ll tell you all about it. And bring pictures.”
He hugged her impulsively, burying his face in her shoulder.
“You… um… swim, okay?”
She stroked his hair, a lump in her throat at his sudden tenderness.
Downstairs the taxi arrived. Vitalik returned from his night shift and saw his wife with her suitcase. He smirked crookedly:
“So you really are leaving?”
“Yes,” she said without explanation.
He hesitated in the doorway, clearly wrestling with something.
“Lyud,” he finally said, “you could’ve taken me with you. My back hurts too—I need a rest. And you didn’t even think of it.”
“This is my bonus, Vital,” she picked up her bag. “For my work. And my vacation. First in three years. I want to spend it alone.”
Her phone beeped: a final message from Vitalik:
I hope you at least left a list of what to cook. I’m hopeless at it.
She looked at the screen and laughed out loud for the first time in years. She was going to the sea. A whole week of freedom lay ahead. And let them all sort out the frying pans themselves.
Her phone rang again. Vitalik—she declined the call and turned off the ringer. Two hours until the plane. She wanted to spend them in silence.