— I’ve decided—I’m going to my mom’s on Saturday. Probably for about three months.
The words fell on the table between the plate of fried potatoes and the salad. They fell lightly, mundanely, like breadcrumbs. Artyom said them without breaking from his food, carefully spearing a browned piece of chicken on his fork. To him, it was a settled matter, not requiring discussion. Just a fact stated at dinner. He didn’t even look up, confident that now, as always, he’d hear the usual tired “okay” or, at worst, a few ritual sighs in response.
But there was nothing. Only the sound of his own chewing suddenly became deafeningly loud. He lifted his head. Kira wasn’t moving. Her fork lay on the table next to the plate, which she no longer touched. She wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze was fixed somewhere at the wall, but it was obvious she didn’t see the wallpaper with its faded pattern or the kitchen clock. She was staring into some kind of void that had just opened right in the middle of their kitchen. Her face was completely calm, almost lifeless—and that scared Artyom more than any hysteria.
— Aren’t you going to say anything? — he asked, his voice already carrying a note of irritation. This silence was a challenge. — She needs her fence fixed, the veranda roof replaced. She can’t manage by herself.
He said this confidently, listing solid, “manly” tasks which, in his opinion, couldn’t be compared to their city life. This was his armor, his indisputable trump card, which he’d laid on the table for the third time in their two years of marriage. Three months then, two and a half last year, and now again three. Almost a year of living apart in total. A year given to a fence and a roof.
Kira slowly turned her head to him. She looked at him with a long, studying gaze as if seeing him for the first time. Not as a husband, but as a stranger, an unfamiliar person who had accidentally sat at her table. There was neither resentment nor anger in her eyes. Only cold, detached curiosity.
— Artyom, — she said quietly, but her voice sounded clear and weighty in the frozen air. — The kitchen faucet has been leaking for a month. Remember? I told you three times. It’s dripping. Drip-drip. Especially loud at night.
He blinked confusedly. The faucet? What does a faucet have to do with this?
— Well, I’d call a plumber since my husband can’t get around to it, — he muttered, feeling his confidence beginning to crack.
— I don’t need a plumber, Artyom. I need a husband. Here. In this house. I married a husband, not signed up for the wives’ club waiting months for their captains to come back from sailing. Only your sailing always goes in the same direction.
He started to boil. The conversation wasn’t going according to plan. She dared to contradict him, comparing his sacred filial duty to some dripping faucet.
— You don’t understand! It’s Mom! Who will help her if not me? She has no one else but me! She’s a woman; she can’t patch a roof herself!
That was his main, final argument. Ironclad. Impenetrable. It always worked.
Kira gave a crooked smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
— You’re right. You have to help your mom. That’s sacred.
Artyom exhaled in relief. Finally! She gets it! Now she’ll sigh and start packing his socks for the trip. But Kira continued, and her voice became even firmer and colder, like ice.
— So let’s do it this way. You finish eating, pack your things, and go to her. Help her with the fence, the roof, the garden, with everything she needs. And stay there. Because if you prefer to be a son rather than a husband, then I won’t stand in your way. Consider yourself a free man. I’ll send you the court address by message. You can file for divorce after you finish the fence.
For a moment, Artyom thought he misheard. That this was some bad, inappropriate joke caused by a bad mood or a woman’s migraine. He even tried to force out a laugh, but the sound got stuck in his throat, coming out as a hoarse, bubbling spasm. He put his fork down on the table. His appetite vanished, leaving a nasty metallic taste in his mouth.
— Kira, what’s wrong with you? Are you out of your mind? What divorce? Because I’m going to help my mother?
He tried to put condescension in his voice, as if talking to a foolish child throwing a tantrum over nonsense. But Kira’s calm, her still posture and direct, unblinking gaze destroyed his defense. She wasn’t playing. She wasn’t bluffing.
— I’m in my right mind, Artyom. Probably for the first time in two years. It’s not because you’re going. It’s because you’re staying there. Mentally, physically—it doesn’t matter. You’re not here. You’re not with me. Your life is there, on your mom’s land, with her fence and her roof. And here, you just spend the nights between your filial feats.
He jumped up from the chair. The small kitchen instantly felt cramped, filled with his indignation. He began pacing from the fridge to the window, waving his hands as if trying to shoo away her words like pesky flies.
— What nonsense are you talking? What other life? I’m working two jobs so we can live decently! To keep this apartment! I’m not going to a bar with buddies, not to a resort! I’m going to work! To help the only close person who raised me! And you! You’re sitting here in warmth and comfort and dare to reproach me! You just don’t understand what duty is!
He dumped on her everything he had stored for such occasions: his fatigue, his work, his sacred duty. This was his shield, his tested weapon that always made her shut up and feel guilty. But today it misfired.
Kira didn’t even flinch. She kept sitting at the table, and her stillness spoke louder than any of his pacing around the kitchen.
— I understand everything, Artyom. I understand that your mom is your mom. I’m not asking you to choose. You made your choice long ago, just afraid to admit it to yourself. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t notice. Tired of being second place after the roofing and fence boards.
— What nonsense are you talking, Kir? Maybe enough already…
— If you’re going to spend three months with your mother, maybe it’s better for us to divorce? Because I’m tired of you spending most of your time there!
His face twisted. He stopped and stared at her, and in his gaze there was not just anger but sincere, childlike bewilderment. He truly didn’t understand. In his world, he was a hero, a knight torn between duty and home. And she, the ungrateful one, didn’t appreciate it. He realized his arguments didn’t work. He hit a dead end, and in that dead end, as always, there was only one way out, one saving call.
He sharply turned around, grabbed the phone from the windowsill, and, demonstratively turning away, dialed a number. He spoke quietly, but in the tense silence of the kitchen, every word sounded as if he was shouting through a megaphone.
— Mom, hi. Yeah, everything’s fine… almost. Listen, here’s the thing… Kira threw a tantrum. Yeah, because of the trip. Can you imagine? She says if I go, we’re getting divorced… No, I’m not joking, she’s serious… She says I’m choosing you, not her… I don’t know what’s gotten into her! Out of the blue! Yeah… Yeah, of course. I think so too. Okay, Mom. Waiting.
He hung up and put the phone on the table with the look of someone placing a chess piece, declaring checkmate. He looked at Kira again. His eyes no longer showed confusion. Now there was cold, borrowed confidence. He was no longer alone in this battle. He called for backup. Heavy artillery.
They didn’t wait long. Twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. That time wasn’t filled with ringing silence or awkward quiet. Artyom, having caught a second wind, demonstratively poured himself some tea, loudly placed the kettle on the stove, and sat down, showing by his whole appearance that life goes on, and petty female whims are just a nuisance. He no longer looked at Kira. He looked at his phone, on whose screen some schematics were displayed, as if he was already planning the repair of his mom’s roof. He was in his element, in the world of men’s business and clear tasks, where her petty complaints had no access.
During this time, Kira didn’t move. She didn’t touch the cold dinner, didn’t get up to clear the table. She just sat straight as a string, turning into a silent part of the interior. Her calm ceased to be passive. It became active, offensive. It was the calm of someone who had made a decision and now simply watched the fuss of those still trying to change the inevitable.
The doorbell rang briefly and authoritatively. Not questioning, but asserting. Artyom jumped up as if on command and hurried to open. Valentina Pavlovna stood on the doorstep. She did not look like a frail old lady in need of help. Tall, stately, with tightly pressed lips and a sharp, assessing gaze, she entered the apartment not as a guest but as an inspector arriving for an inspection. She silently took off her good-quality coat, hung it on a hook, and without even glancing at Kira, walked into the kitchen. Her bag—a large leather satchel—thudded heavily onto a stool. The territory was marked.
— Well, tell me, son, what happened here? I was just visiting Elena Petrovna, thought we’d go home together tomorrow, and here’s this… — she said, addressing only Artyom, as if Kira were invisible.
Artyom, having received the long-awaited support, began to speak. He told his version of events, where he was the victim, and Kira was a selfish and ungrateful woman who didn’t understand simple human things. He talked about duty, about help, about how mother is sacred.
Valentina Pavlovna listened, slowly nodding. Then she turned to Kira. Her gaze was cold, like a surgeon before an operation.
— I’ve always told Artyom that a family must be built on respect, Kira. Respect for parents, for duties. A man is defined not by how he sits on the couch, but by how he cares for his loved ones. All of them. And the wife must be his support, not a stone around his neck.
Kira was silent. She looked at them both—the son seeking approval in his mother’s eyes and the mother ready to protect her child from the whole world, including his own wife. They were a single whole, a monolith, of which she, Kira, was simply an extra, a broken-off piece.
— Mom, I explained everything to her! — Artyom interrupted, feeling completely justified. — That it’s not a whim, it’s a necessity! That the faucet can wait, but the leaky roof can’t! But she doesn’t hear!
— That always happens when a person thinks only of themselves, — Valentina Pavlovna sighed sympathetically, looking again at Kira. — When one’s own comfort is above all else. Your husband isn’t going on vacation; he’s going to work for prosperity, including yours. And you’re putting obstacles in his way.
The pressure mounted. They spoke in turn, complementing each other, creating a tight circle of accusations. They didn’t shout. They spoke calmly, with righteous condemnation in their voices, which was much worse than any shouting. They tried to trample her in the dirt, to make her feel worthless, guilty, wrong. And at that moment Kira raised her eyes. She didn’t look at her mother-in-law. She looked straight at Artyom, at her husband, who now stood next to another woman and, in unison with her, destroyed their family.
— I said already: you leave — divorce! What’s not clear?
She said it neither as a question nor as a threat. It sounded like stating a fact. A final diagnosis that was no longer up for discussion.
Valentina Pavlovna’s face stiffened. Her lips turned into a thin, angry line.
— So that’s it… — she hissed. — Ultimatums. You decided to set conditions for my son?
— Did you hear that, Mom? — Artyom exclaimed bitterly. — That’s her gratitude for everything I do for her! She just wants to get rid of me and my obligations to you!
— So that’s how you decided, huh? — Artyom stepped toward her, his face flushed with a mixture of offense and righteous anger. — If something isn’t your way, it’s immediately divorce? You think you scared me?
Valentina Pavlovna backed her son up, stepping forward and standing shoulder to shoulder with him. Their united front became almost physically palpable. — Your husband’s father and I lived together for forty years; all sorts of things happened. But for a woman to tell a man whether to go to his mother or not… There was never such shame. He’s not going to strangers; he’s going to his own home, from where you took him!
They waited for a response. Arguments, excuses, screams. They were ready for a long siege, for a night of moralizing and accusations, after which the broken Kira, as before, would give up and start packing his bags. They were confident in their strength, in their righteousness, in the immutability of their “mother and son” alliance.
But Kira didn’t answer. She didn’t engage in a quarrel. Instead, she slowly, without a single unnecessary movement, got up from the table. There was no anger or despair on her face. Only some empty, burned-out focus. She silently walked around them, standing in the middle of the kitchen, and went out into the hallway.
— See, Mom, she ran away! — Artyom whispered triumphantly. — Nothing to say!
Valentina Pavlovna only snorted disdainfully, confident that the opponent retreated to the bedroom—to cry and feel sorry for herself.
A minute later Kira returned. In her hands was Artyom’s large travel bag. Not the one he used for rare business trips, but the old, worn, well-used one, the very one he always took on his long trips to his mom. She silently placed it on the floor in the middle of the kitchen, unzipped it. The loud, dry sound made Artyom and his mother fall silent.
Kira went out again and returned holding a pile of clothes. She didn’t rummage through the closet or empty drawers. She took exactly what lay on a separate shelf, carefully folded by herself for “mom’s needs.” She threw into the bag his old work pants with faded knees, a thick wool sweater he only wore there, a couple of faded T-shirts. She did it methodically, without fuss, like a nurse preparing instruments for surgery. Her movements were precise and measured.
— What are you doing? — Artyom’s voice trembled, losing all confidence.
Kira didn’t answer. She went to the hallway and returned with his heavy hiking boots, still carrying traces of last year’s mud. She casually tossed them on top of the sweater in the bag. Each of her gestures was a blow, hitting much harder than any word. She wasn’t throwing out his things. She was packing him for a journey. The very journey from which, for her, he would never return.
— Stop this circus! — Valentina Pavlovna exclaimed, realizing the situation was getting out of control. — Kira, I’m telling you, stop immediately!
But Kira seemed deaf. She zipped up the bag. Then she went to the key rack by the kitchen entrance. Two sets of keys hung on the hook. Hers and his. She took his set. The metallic clink in the ensuing silence sounded like a sentence. Artyom looked at his keys in her hand, and it finally began to sink in. This was not a bluff. It was not a performance. It was an execution.
She went to the bag, calmly unzipped the side pocket, took out a second set of house keys, and zipped it up. That was it. The final stroke.
Picking up the heavy bag, she carried it without bending to the front door. She unlocked the door, swung it open, and placed the bag on the landing. Then she turned around. She looked not at her husband but at both of them, standing there confused, having lost all their arrogance, stunned by this cold, cruel methodicalness. Her gaze was calm.
— Well, now you’re ready, — she said in an even voice devoid of any emotion. — You can go. Mom’s waiting.
And she closed the door. She didn’t slam it or lock it. She simply shut it, cutting them off from her life. The click of the lock was quiet, almost mundane. But for Artyom and Valentina Pavlovna, left standing in the half-light of the stairwell next to the lonely travel bag, it sounded louder than any explosion. They had won. He was free to go to his mom. Only now, he no longer had a home…