— Why are you tense again, Sveta? — Misha came into the kitchen as if nothing had happened and loudly opened the fridge. — Mom just popped in. To say hello. And to look at the dress.
Svetlana was standing by the sink, peeling potatoes as if it wasn’t potatoes but a symbol of collective family rudeness. She didn’t even turn around.
— Misha, I’m going to tell you something now, and try not to drop your sausage.
— Now I’m interested.
— Your mom is not a customer. She’s family. And if she comes to my boutique one more time with that expression on her face like I owe her for life, and starts demanding “this silk one, it goes perfectly with my purse,” then, sorry, I’ll say everything I think. Out loud. In front of the customers.
He snorted, shoved the sausage in his mouth, and sat down at the table.
— Listen, don’t be so harsh. It’s mom. Not a stranger.
— What? I thought she just accidentally wandered in from the street. I’m telling you: she’s not a customer. And I’m not a free clothing warehouse.
Misha pushed his plate away and rubbed his forehead as if a dusty fan was inside his head and needed cleaning.
— But you do give her gifts sometimes. Like on her birthday — you gave her money. That was fine.
— Yeah, “fine.” Later she told me, “You should’ve given me a dress, not these papers. You have a shop.”
— Well… that’s logical.
Svetlana turned slowly. Spoon in hand, wet hands, hair in a bun — a pure Carmen from Novokosino. Only instead of castanets — a whisk and a chef’s knife.
— Logical, Misha, is when a person goes to the pharmacy and buys themselves some analgesics because they have a headache. Not when they break into their daughter-in-law’s pharmacy and yell, “Give it, you’re not losing anything from this anyway!”
He raised his hands:
— Okay, okay. Don’t shout. Just… well, I don’t know. Tell her gently somehow. She’s not doing it to be mean.
Svetlana sat down at the table and stared at her husband for a long time. Not angrily. Not tiredly. Just… like at a person who failed their last exam in their shared life. And failed spectacularly.
— Misha, do you realize I built this all from scratch? Without your money. Without her “tips.” I’m there from morning till night, picking, driving, ordering, calculating. And all for the sake of one fine Tuesday when your mom and Anna burst in — and started trying on clothes like they’re in their own dressing room.
— Sveta…
— And Anna, by the way, is great too. Last time she took a jacket. Said, “I’ll return it later.” It’s been two months of “later.”
Misha coughed as if suddenly tasting the jacket.
— I’ll talk to her.
— Don’t bother. I’ll talk to her myself. Only next time, I’ll do it not in the back room, but right in the hall. In front of everyone.
He looked at her like a boy at his older sister whose TV remote was confiscated. There was something pathetic in that look. And infinitely tired.
— Listen, maybe we shouldn’t make a war out of this? You’ll just quarrel… Why? Mom is an older person, forgive her a little. She has her own views.
— And I have mine. The difference is that I don’t impose mine on her wardrobe. And “whatever,” Misha, that’s not forgiveness anymore. That’s about principles.
He got up, approached, tried to hug her, but she just stepped away. No drama. No tears. Just turned slightly.
— I love you, Sveta. It’s just… all this is complicated.
— You don’t love me, Misha. You just want things to be “without scandal.” Quiet, calm, and convenient for everyone. But I — I feel uncomfortable. It’s hard for me. It’s unpleasant. It hurts. You understand?
He didn’t answer. And it was clear: he doesn’t understand. Doesn’t feel. Doesn’t hear. And won’t hear.
The phone vibrated on the table. Svetlana glanced at it. A message from Anna:
“Tomorrow we’ll drop by with mom. Look out for something stylish but not too flashy. You know the size ;)”
Svetlana hit “delete.” Then got up, went to the sink, and turned on the water. The sound of the flow covered the silence of the kitchen like the fridge door — the remnants of old milk.
No explosion happened. Yet. But everything was ready: the fuse was lit, the gunpowder hadn’t gotten wet, faces were tense. It wasn’t a storm — it was the pause between thunder and lightning.
And tomorrow at ten a.m., by all signs, two hurricanes in sneakers and cardigans would come to her boutique.
The boutique “Laska” opened right at ten. Svetlana turned on the coffee machine, checked the mannequins’ poses, adjusted the hangers on the jacket in the window. The hall smelled of expensive textiles, coffee, and, strangely, inevitable conflict.
At 10:07, the door opened with a delicate chime. As always — without a bell, without warning. As if it weren’t a store but their bedroom with Misha, where family reasons allow you to barge in.
— Good morning, Svetočka! — Valentina Sergeevna stepped inside confidently, like a prosecutor entering a courtroom. Behind her, with a slightly superior expression, followed Anna. — We’re just for a minute, don’t worry.
Svetlana took a sip of coffee, nodded politely, and said in the same calm tone:
— Morning. Want to pick something?
— Oh, Svetočka! — Valentina Sergeevna was already holding a blouse worth eight and a half thousand rubles. — Just looking. Passing by. Decided to visit a kindred soul.
— Passing by? From Yasenevo to Maryino?
Anna snorted and, without even bothering with a “hello,” was already holding two dresses on her arm.
— I want this one, and if you have it in blue, that one too. And check in the computer — you have everything recorded, you promised me last time…
— Me? — Svetlana turned. — Promised you a dress? For free?
— Sveta, enough. — Valentina Sergeevna interrupted. — We’re family, not strangers. Why do you say it like that? You have a business, we have a family. Family supports each other. Right?
— Exactly. Family should support, not rob.
Anna chuckled:
— You’re exaggerating. We’re not stealing. Just taking for fitting. Then wearing. Sometimes. Don’t be such a bore.
Svetlana set down her cup carefully. Like a bomb.
— Anna, you took a jacket last month. “For a shoot.” Then you said, “It’s with a friend.” Now, judging by your stories, it’s at your cousin’s wedding. And yesterday it was at your bachelorette party. That’s not fitting. That’s renting. But free.
— God, Sveta, have you always been this touchy? Or did you start counting every thread after forty?
At that moment Svetlana really felt something inside her snap with a crunch. Not just a click, but like a catapult lever was triggered.
— And have you always been such a brazen woman, Anna? Or is it a family trait, taught in childhood? To take what’s badly lying around?
Valentina Sergeevna straightened sharply, as if adrenaline was injected into her spine.
— Svetlana, I ask you to control yourself. We didn’t come to cause a scandal. We just wanted to support your business, wear your things, advertise you — how don’t you understand? You mark up everything insanely anyway!
— Are you serious? — Svetlana stepped closer, almost nose to nose. — You really think I’m here to dress you? For free? And because “you’re not losing anyway”?
— Don’t shout, — Anna snapped. — There are people around. Your saleswoman hears everything.
— That’s not a saleswoman. That’s a manager. And you — family member who forgot I’m not a home seamstress.
Silence hung thick like jelly.
— Fine. — Valentina Sergeevna put the blouse on the counter as if throwing down a challenge. — If you don’t want to, don’t. We’ll leave. Just know: in the family, you’re not Svetočka anymore. You’re a businesswoman. And remember, dear: money isn’t everything. One day you’ll be very lonely.
Svetlana sighed. Long. Through her nose. As if gathering strength not to scream.
— I’m not lonely now. I’m hurt. That in ten years I couldn’t make you understand one simple thing: I am not a function. Not a free warehouse. Not an obligation. I am a person.
— Your problem is you think too much of yourself as a person, — Anna said. — In our family, that’s not accepted. You’re either with us or out.
Svetlana nodded slowly. Went to the door, opened it, and looking straight at her mother-in-law said:
— Out means out. Thanks for the visit. Good luck… with your family.
The door closed softly. Almost silently. But it was the loudest door slam of her life.
That evening at home, Misha met her with a gloomy face. She barely had time to take off her shoes.
— You made a circus. Mom and Anya are shocked. Yelling at me all day.
— Let them yell. I gave them their walking papers today. Not a step into the shop.
— Sveta… couldn’t you handle it differently? Without scandal? They’re family.
Svetlana was silent. She stood by the window looking into the darkness as if it held something clearer than this kitchen.
— Family? And are you family, Misha? Or just their mouthpiece? When was the last time you were with me, not between them and me?
He hesitated. All he could do was sit on a stool and whisper:
— I’m tired.
— And I’m disappointed.
She went over, took some documents from the cupboard, threw them on the table.
— I’m filing for divorce. And no, it’s not a heat-of-the-moment thing. It’s been burning inside for a long time. Just today — it flared up.
Misha looked at the folder for a long time. Then at her. Then at the folder again. Said nothing.
Svetlana went to the bedroom. No tears. No hysteria. Just closed the door.
Behind the wall in the hallway, an old light bulb flickered. It should have been replaced long ago. But Misha always forgot. Like so many other things.
Two weeks passed.
Svetlana lived alone. And you know, she didn’t die. Neither from loneliness nor from sadness. No organ failed from Misha’s absence — neither kidneys nor heart. Only the iron stood lonely because there was no need to iron other people’s shirts smelling of other people’s compromises.
They didn’t speak to Misha. At all. As if the communication channel was turned off. He didn’t call, didn’t write, and she didn’t remind him. He also seemed to delay with the divorce documents — probably looking for a lawyer to explain that moral support from a wife is not an article in the family code, but normal human behavior.
The boutique prospered. Orders increased. Svetlana threw herself into it: new deliveries, selecting assortment, autumn collection. She even hired another saleswoman, Nastya — young, sharp, a bit cheeky, but with lively eyes and good tact. Although once Nastya allowed herself to say:
— Why are you, Svetlana Nikolaevna, always so tense? Like someone betrayed you.
Svetlana smirked.
— Someone? There were three of those. Wait, maybe the fourth just arrived.
Nastya crossed her legs and said chewing gum:
— My grandmother was like that. She carried everything inside until she cracked. Not from anger — from loneliness.
— I won’t crack. I’ll rust away. And rot slowly like a Soviet radiator. But silently.
One day, when Svetlana was handing over a delivery, Valentina Sergeevna rushed into the shop. This time without Anna. But with a face that showed all signs of an approaching storm: lips a thin line, eyes like a sniper’s sight.
— We need to talk.
Svetlana didn’t even flinch.
— When you say “we,” who do you mean? Yourself and your lawyer? Or me, who you no longer count in the family?
— Svetlana, don’t be sarcastic. I came as a woman to a woman.
— And I’m talking as a former daughter-in-law to a person who has a cash register in their eyes instead of love.
— Mikhail disappeared, — Valentina Sergeevna interrupted. — Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t live at mine. Doesn’t show up at work. And rumor has it he stayed overnight with some… well, you get it.
Svetlana was silent. For a minute. Maybe two. Then said:
— And you decided I’m responsible for him?
— He’s your husband.
— Legally only.
Valentina Sergeevna fell silent. Then sat down sharply, as if her legs gave way.
— I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He was nothing. Last week he drank. Said everything fell apart. That nobody needs him. That… he betrayed you. And himself. I thought he was yours.
— I only have brains. And coffee.
— He’s no saint, I know. But you could have… well, not right away. Suddenly like that. Knife.
Svetlana got up and went to the showcase. Her figure reflected in the glass. Straight. Tired. Straight as a power line — and just as tense.
— You know, Valentina Sergeevna, I tried to please you for ten years. Ten. I baked, called, came, invited. Gave, was silent, swallowed. And you didn’t even say “thank you” — like I was collecting debts. And now, when you lost him, you decided I have to fix something again?
— I’m not asking…
— No. You are. You’re asking to take back a man you raised to suit yourself. You gave him to me like ready dough — but it was raw dough. And now that he’s drifting in other hands, you want me to wash him, dry him, and warm him up? And you — with a new jacket next season? No. Thanks. Enough.
Valentina Sergeevna stood. Silently. Didn’t cry. Didn’t apologize. Just said:
— Then consider yourself dead to us.
Svetlana sat on a chair. Smiled. Very humanly. Without mockery.
— Oh, come on. You already said that. Twice even. But you know what? No one dies from being considered not family anymore. But from stopping to consider yourself a person — yes. That kills. Slowly.
Later that evening, the phone rang. The old city phone Svetlana didn’t disconnect out of habit.
— Hello?
— Sveta, hi. It’s… Anya.
— Listening.
— I wanted to… No, really listen. I didn’t know things were so bad with you. Mishka is at Oleg’s. At the dacha. All snotty. Says you hate him.
— Are you surprised?
— You know… I was a jerk. I realized it. Not right away. But I did. You’re stronger than all of us. And… sorry. Really. I wanted to say, if you decide to forgive him — don’t rush. Check if he’s changed. Even one millimeter. And if not — don’t take him back. You’ve already done too much yourself. Don’t give up.
Svetlana was silent. Then asked:
— Did you come up with that yourself? Or did mom say it?
— Me. Mom, on the contrary, yells that you’re our enemy now. And I… am just tired of pretending everything’s fine. Thanks for tearing off the masks.
And hung up.
A month passed. The divorce was finalized.
The boutique expanded. Svetlana rented a second hall, now dealing with accessories and shoes.
And in the evening, after closing, she would sit by the window with tea and look at the Moscow rooftops. And think that you don’t need someone next to you to feel whole. Sometimes, to feel alive, you just need to finally choose yourself.
And you know, loneliness is not emptiness. It’s a pause. Before new music.