The kitchen smelled of mint tea, with a hint of slightly burnt toast. Yekaterina sat by the window in her favorite stretched-out T-shirt that read “I need more coffee,” watching the yard where an elderly woman in leggings was pumping her arms energetically. It was noon on a Friday, yet instead of new orders, clients, or at least an interior-design marathon on YouTube, Katya slowly stirred her tea, listening to the muffled thuds coming from the next room—Natalya Petrovna was putting the closet in order.
It must be said the closet was perfectly organized. Contrary to Yekaterina’s supposed habit of “not even being able to put a pot back where it belongs,” as her mother-in-law had declared emotionally a week earlier, slamming the door so hard it rang in the girl’s ears.
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Outside, a gray crow was dragging a piece of bread across the lawn. Katya set down her cup, rose slowly, and opened the fridge, where jars of some indecipherable homemade preserves took up about half the space.
“Whether you want to or not, we’ll get through it all by winter,” said Natalya Petrovna, carrying boxes of groceries into the house. “Katya, you’re not used to running a household, of course, but while I’m here, no one will go hungry.”
Yekaterina’s silence wasn’t new. And it might stay that way. But the thought was coming more and more often: wasn’t it time to put a period to it?
From the bedroom came the sound of a closet opening and a sharp remark:
“Dmitry asked for the pajamas, the ones with buttons! Where are they? You mixed everything up again!”
Katya smiled to herself a little—the pajamas with buttons, so it would be easy to change at the sanatorium. She took a deep breath, went over to the doorframe, and said softly, almost gently:
“Natalya Petrovna, are you sure which suitcase you put the first batch of clothes in?”
“Don’t stick your nose where you don’t understand,” she replied without turning around. “I’ve been running ragged since morning, and you, in case you didn’t know, are on vacation, while I’m hauling everything for the two of you by myself. A disaster of a housekeeper.”
Katya sighed heavily, headed to the kitchen, and turned on the kettle. It was all like a scene in a theater: action, pause, another line—the same script repeating every day. Only there was no comedy in this production, just a bitter domestic drama with a touch of the absurd. The kind of moment when you want to burst into tears but only a quiet chuckle comes out.
The front door banged—Dmitry was back, her spouse, legally her husband, but increasingly a stranger.
“Girls, how are we doing?” he tossed out, taking off his sneakers without even peeking into the kitchen. “Ma, you didn’t tear the bag, did you? It’s heavy.”
Katya stayed silent.
Natalya Petrovna cried out:
“Do everything myself! While your wife sits in the kitchen like a lady of the manor, I’m running around with the things. Without me you two would be left without underwear!”
Dmitry smiled:
“Mom, you’re really funny! Katya, why so gloomy? Look, the tickets! We’re flying out tomorrow!”
He came in, brandishing a printed document.
“All of us?” Katya asked cautiously.
“What do you mean, ‘all of us’?” Dmitry frowned.
“You said we’re flying out. Did you mean with your mom?”
“Of course! We agreed. You said you wanted a break, warmth, and the sea. There it is—peace by the water. A sanatorium nearby, the beach two steps away. Mom’s coming with us; she needs a change of scenery.”
“What I need more is a therapist,” Katya muttered under her breath.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just cute that you decided everything, as usual, without me.”
He came closer and took her by the shoulders, but Katya felt a surge of discomfort.
“Katya, don’t be mad. We discussed everything. Mom’s paying her own way, an apartment for three, convenient for everyone. You get along with her just fine…”
“Oh really?” she cut him off, stepping away. “That’s exactly how we live: you, me, and your mother. Except your mother organizes other people’s closets, critiques my cooking, and comments on the color of my underwear.”
“Here we go again…” muttered Dmitry, rolling his eyes. “Katya, don’t ruin the mood.”
“I didn’t have one to begin with. Tell me, did you notice I went to a therapist last week?”
“Why?” he was surprised. “You seem fine.”
“Of course. Perfect on the outside: bags under my eyes, nerves shot, and a man-child of a husband who can’t sew on a button without his mommy. Everything is just great.”
At that moment Natalya Petrovna peeked into the kitchen:
“Another scene? Katya, either you accept our family, or you go live with your mother. You do have a mother, don’t you? Then go stay with her.”
“Excellent advice,” Yekaterina answered with a cold smile. “Only, you know… I’ve already decided everything.”
“Decided what exactly?” the mother-in-law asked suspiciously.
Katya took an envelope from the drawer and placed it on the table.
“This is for you, Dima. Read it when you have time. Better not on the plane—before you fly.”
He took the envelope, unfolded it, and froze. A couple of seconds later his voice broke:
“This is… a divorce petition?”
“Bingo,” Katya nodded. “And without your mother’s involvement.”
“Wait! Is this a joke? Katya, are you out of your mind?”
“I’m perfectly fine. It’s you two who have been out of your minds for a long time.”
He looked at her as if she were a stranger.
Natalya Petrovna sighed:
“That’s that. I said from the start she was unreliable. She’s not right for you, Dimochka.”
Katya put on her jacket and sneakers and picked up the small suitcase she had packed the day before.
“I’ll stay with a friend. For now. And you… go enjoy your vacation. The sea, the sand, the pajamas with buttons.”
She walked out, leaving behind silence and the scent of mint. The light in the stairwell flicked on, and a feeling of relief arose inside Yekaterina. Scary, but free.
“Now I’m on vacation too. From you.”
Katya moved in with Anya, her college friend, who, unlike her, had realized early on that marriage isn’t an amusement ride or a rehabilitation station for grown men.
Anya’s place was cozy, with two rooms and an astonishing sense of open space, as if the air itself knew that no one here would be rummaging through closets or scolding you for having no sugar in your coffee.
“Well, you certainly were a little fool,” Anya said candidly, pouring wine. “But at least now you’re being smart.”
“I’m not a fool,” Katya answered, taking a sip. “I just put up with it for too long.”
“That’s one way to put it,” her friend shrugged. “Did he even try to stop you?”
“At first, no,” Katya said, showing her phone screen with ten unread messages from Dmitry.
In the last voice message he said:
“Katya, I don’t understand what’s going on. Mom and I arrived and checked in; it’s warm and beautiful here. You ruined everything. I don’t recognize you. Why are you doing this? Give me a chance to explain.”
“He’s really vacationing?” Anya was surprised. “After you left? He’s, damn him, more fish than man.”
“He’s got his mommy and a pot of compote with him,” Katya smiled wryly. “Just the way he likes it.”
“You’re lucky you ran. I thought you’d keep suffering till retirement.”
Katya couldn’t find words. Inside she felt empty—no pain, no joy. As if it were all happening to someone else. Only the memories tried to take over, like cockroaches: how she cooked dinner, heard her mother-in-law’s criticism, how Dmitry reproached her for sleeping late while his mother washed the dishes.
And then—the vacation she herself had come up with and planned, and chose the hotel for. And then—suddenly “we decided,” without her.
“Has he called?” Anya asked.
“Three times. I didn’t pick up.”
Her friend was annoyed by this silence and advised her to be ready for his return, for his “you misunderstood everything.”
On the fourth day, Dmitry was already waiting for Katya near the store.
“Can we talk?” he asked quietly.
“Just don’t start with ‘Mom is worried,’” she answered, walking past.
He followed her:
“Katya, I didn’t want it to turn out like this. We thought it would be a family vacation.”
“And I thought I had a family, not a curfew under your mother’s command.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” Dmitry defended himself. “It’s care…”
“Dmitry, when someone checks your fridge every week, rearranges your pots, dictates what time to get up, and constantly tells you you’re not good enough—that’s not care, that’s control.”
“But you could have said something!”
“And you could have noticed. I’m not a thing. I was a wife. Until I realized that ‘we’ meant you and your mom. And I was the service staff.”
He fell silent, then said quietly:
“She wanted us to have a strong family.”
“Us? Or you two?” Katya asked, looking him in the eye. “Did you ever once think about what I want? How I feel when you both ignore me in your plans?”
He lowered his eyes.
“I didn’t know any other way.”
“Well I do. Another way is when you ask: do you want my mother to come with us? When you say: you matter, instead of: we decided.”
He took a step toward her:
“Do you really want to end it all?”
“It’s already over; all that’s left is to sign.”
Dmitry nodded in understanding, realizing for the first time it wasn’t a joke.
“Mom said you’re a traitor.”
“Let her add me to her list of disappointments. She’s number one, I’m number two.”
Dmitry looked as if he’d been pulled out of someone else’s life. And Katya felt an extraordinary lightness, as if she had shed someone else’s tiring cloak, and underneath was her own fresh dress—loose, with no buttons.
“Katya, I still don’t want to lose you.”
“Too late. You lost me when your mother came ‘temporarily’ and then stayed forever.”
He opened his mouth but said nothing. He turned and left without drama or promises.
Katya stood in the courtyard with a shopping bag in her hands and suddenly realized: no one was holding her. If no one is holding you—the way is clear.
In less than a week Yekaterina was already signing the divorce papers at the registry office. Beside her was a stern woman in glasses who smelled of glue and dry mint. The divorce would be registered in a month and could be contested—but Katya said:
“I won’t. Thank you, understood.”
Walking out and sitting on the steps, she felt calm. Inside there was no hurricane, no volcano, no tears with ice cream—just a simple emptiness, as if a nail that held up the roof had been pulled out, and suddenly it was bright.
Anya had already texted that she’d bought tickets: they were flying—without any moms or pots, just the sea, alcohol, and Katya’s return.
Katya packed with confidence and without the usual fear that Dmitry would call or come back.
He did write on the third day:
“I understand. Let’s just talk once.”
She replied briefly:
“Okay.”
The meeting took place at a café near their old building—small, with shabby flowerpots at the entrance. They had once eaten there, laughed, and argued over who would go get the milk—now it all felt distant and alien.
Dmitry arrived on time, shaved and in a clean shirt, but tired, as if he hadn’t slept for a week.
“Hi,” he said, sitting down across from her. “Thanks for coming.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Katya replied, taking a sip of water. “I’m not back. I just want to understand what you want.”
“I’ve realized a lot, Katya. Probably too late. But without you it’s hard. You were the best thing in my life. I believed my mom for too long.”
“Yes, too late,” Katya said, looking out the window. “You didn’t just keep quiet, you took her side—even when I was sobbing.”
“I’m an idiot…”
“No, you’re a mama’s boy. And it suited you that I was accommodating—until I left.”
He sighed and shrugged:
“I don’t want to lose everything; I want it back. I’m ready for therapy, to move, even for my mom to move out, if needed. Separate vacations.”
“Want to know what I want?” Katya smiled. “For you to suffer, to wake up in the middle of the night, remembering how I looked when I realized you’d betrayed me. And then to let me go, because I’m no longer yours. Even if you end up regretting it.”
He froze, then slowly nodded:
“I understand. Or at least I’m trying.”
“Thanks for everything. Especially for the compote on the plane,” Katya stood up.
He smirked, almost sincerely.
“That was Mom’s idea.”
“Of course. Tell her her daughter-in-law filed for divorce. I hope she doesn’t choke on her borscht.”
Katya walked out and saw a taxi; the driver waved and honked. Her suitcase was already in the trunk.
Anya was singing in a voice message:
“Get ready, woman! We’re flying to freedom!”
Katya laughed—genuinely and for the first time in a long while. Not from amusement, but from the fact that she was alive. An end to “we decided,” an end to “Mom said.” No more dinners for six where only three people eat.
The taxi pulled away. Twenty minutes later—the airport. Katya held her passport and ticket in her hands. For the first time in a long time, everything felt real: freedom, sky, hope, and a life where no one compares you, instructs you, or shuts you down. Where you can be loud, honest, and love for real. Only for love.
Conclusion
This story shows how hard it can be to preserve yourself in a relationship where third-party interference undermines personal boundaries and creates pressure. Yekaterina chose an uncompromising step for her own well-being, opting for freedom and self-respect instead of suppression and control. Her path is a reminder of how important it is to heed your own feelings and needs, without fearing difficult choices made for your own happiness and peace of mind.