— Listen, I just don’t understand, — Varvara froze by the kitchen cabinet without turning to her husband. — This month we’re not putting aside a single ruble again. Do you get that? Nothing. Zero. And you’re just sitting there calmly chewing chicken. How?
Yury tore himself away from his plate and exhaled. He wasn’t angry—no, just tired. As if they’d had this conversation already. Yesterday. And the day before. And a week ago.
— Varya, you’re starting again. What am I supposed to do? This is my family.
— And what am I to you, Yur? A passerby? — Varvara slammed the cabinet door, and a plastic tub of buckwheat tumbled out. — We’ve been saving for a down payment for six years. Six years, Yur! And it’s all gone down the drain. First your mom’s teeth, then a tutor for Katya, now a down parka for fifteen thousand. Where’s she going in it, excuse me? On an expedition to the North Pole?
Yury put down his fork. He looked like a man being led into an interrogation room. Or to the dentist—which, to him, felt the same.
— Varya, what do you want me to say? Katya’s in a tough spot. She’s divorced, alone with a child. Mom helps her as best she can. I want what’s best, too.
— And me? — Varvara turned to him. Her voice went quiet and even—the very tone that always made Yury truly nervous. — I’m also in a tough spot. I make twenty-eight, you make thirty-two. You want what’s best—but why is this “best” never about the two of us?
He stood up and rubbed his neck. Varya knew that gesture: when Yura was at a loss and grasping for something to hold onto so he wouldn’t drown.
— Varya, I get it. But if you just wouldn’t nitpick every little thing…
— Little things?! — She laughed, too shrilly. — Yur, our kitchen faucet is cracked! Yesterday I wrapped it with electrical tape because a plumber is a luxury. A tile has chipped in the bathroom. The hallway wallpaper is peeling. We rent, Yura! Rent-ed! We pay strangers, and we pay Katya, your mom, and their “unexpected expenses,” but ourselves—we don’t pay ourselves anything.
He fell silent, staring at the window. Outside, March snow slithered down—gray, dull, like the mood at the funeral of hope.
— You want me to say no to my mom? — he asked quietly.
— I want you to at least think before you nod. To understand your mom is an adult, and so is your sister. And me—apparently I’m your household’s cash cow in a white blouse with an Excel spreadsheet in hand. Only I don’t moo. I speak. But you don’t hear me.
Yury sat back down and twirled the fork in his hands.
— She just asks for a little help. Her pension is fifteen thousand. Katya still isn’t getting alimony.
— And my nerves are on a pension too, are they? — Varya stepped closer. — Know what I did today? Calculated how much we save in a year. Here it is: if not for your mom and her “little help,” we’d already have a hundred and fifty thousand in the bank. And we have twenty-six. Because last month her neighbor was in the hospital and needed fruit. Because Katya needed money for a trip to Moscow. And because your mom for some reason bought a blood-pressure monitor for nine thousand. With backlight and songs, I suppose.
Yury smirked—but weakly. He knew it was true. Yet something in him resisted.
— Varya, don’t be so harsh. You know my mom. She doesn’t mean any harm.
— Of course she doesn’t, — Varvara nodded. — But the result is perfectly harmful. We’re stuck. We’re not living—we’re feeding other people’s failures and calling it caring. And then at forty you’ll wake up in the same rental, with the same wallpaper the previous tenants hung. And Katya will probably go to the seaside. Because you “can’t say no.”
He looked out the window again.
— What are you suggesting?
She sighed. Then spoke slowly, with measured weariness:
— I suggest that at least this month—we give no one anything. Not a penny. No “till payday,” no “send it to my card, I’ll transfer later.” We just save. You want to be a good son and brother? Great. Be one. But then don’t talk to me about a mortgage. About “Varya, be patient, we’re in this together.” Because we’re not going anywhere. We’re standing still. And you’re the one holding the emergency brake.
Yury was silent. Then he exhaled slowly and said:
— Fine. We’ll try.
— Not “we’ll try.” We either do it, or we keep this circus going.
— Varya…
— What?
He stood, came over, and hugged her. Varya went rigid—not from tenderness, but from surprise. His hand lay on her back, warm, familiar. And still—foreign.
— I love you, — he whispered. — You know that.
She eased away, looking into his eyes for a long moment. Then said:
— I know. Do you know that love is also action?
Yury nodded. Then he went to wash his plate. The old faucet crackled in the sink as if hinting, “Yeah, I could use some action too.”
Varya’s messenger blinked. A message from Anastasia Lvovna:
“Varenka, hello, dear. We’ve got a situation here… We urgently need help. I’ll explain everything later. Could you transfer ten?”
Varya stared at the screen like it was a land mine. And realized: the explosion had already begun. No one had yet noticed what exactly was blowing up.
— Varya, this is just… I don’t know… inhuman, — Yury stood with his phone pressed to his chest as if feeling for a pulse there. — Mom can’t buy Katya clothes herself. You know prices are jumping after winter. Katya doesn’t even have a decent coat.
— What she does have is your salary, my salary, and a season pass to endless shopping at our expense, — Varya didn’t even raise her voice; on the contrary, she spoke softly, like a surgeon before an operation. — Let’s clarify right now: what does “can’t buy it herself” mean? Why do we always have to do it?
Yury, already in his jacket and holding his keys, pretended, out of habit, to be in a rush. He always started getting ready to leave when Varvara heated up, as if he believed that if he slammed the door, she’d be left alone with her emotions and he’d somehow sort it out on the way.
— Because she doesn’t work. You know that. After Katya’s ex disappeared, Mom took on her grandson. Katya doesn’t even have time for a side job.
— Yur, how about I write on the fridge with a marker: “Katya is an adult. Varya is not an ATM.” Maybe that’ll stick better?
He froze on the threshold and scratched the back of his head.
— Look, how about I just decide for myself how to spend my share of the money?
She turned to him. Slowly. There was no anger in her face—only tiredness steeped in bitter sarcasm.
— Excellent. Then I’ll start managing mine separately, too. Starting this month. I’ll open a separate account. You can give Katya the entire amount for her coat if you like. I’ll put mine toward housing.
Yury shook his head.
— Do you even hear yourself?
— And do you see yourself? — Varya stepped right up to him. — We’re not a family. We’re a bookkeeping office. Only we have one budget—and three clients drawing on it. Your mom, Katya, and you. And I’m like the chief accountant without authority. I sign, I transfer, I smile. But no one asks me.
He yanked his zipper up, irritated.
— Varya, you’re turning into an adding machine. You calculate everything, weigh everything…
— And you’re turning into the spineless “beloved son” whose “decline” button is broken. Your mom, by the way, has no such qualms.
— Don’t start.
— Too late. I’m mid-chapter.
Yury stopped. Inhaled. Exhaled. His voice was muffled:
— Do you understand that my mom has high blood pressure? That she got upset yesterday because you refused to transfer the money? That she cried, for your information?
— Great. We’ll put that under “emotional blackmail.” Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Varvara? — she mimicked her mother-in-law, lips pursed. — She has high blood pressure, and I, for your information, also have a toothache. Because I didn’t go to the dentist—again. Guess why? Because Katya’s coat wasn’t the right cut.
Yury stepped forward. Not sharply, but with tension in his shoulders.
— Don’t. Just—don’t. Mom’s trying. Katya isn’t to blame either.
— I’m not saying they’re to blame, Yur. I’m saying we have to think about ourselves. Not about others—every time. And at our own expense. That’s it. I can’t anymore. If you want—send the money. But then I’m not playing this game.
— This isn’t a game, Varya. It’s life. People get sick, get divorced, lose jobs.
— Uh-huh. And I lose dreams. Little by little. Quietly. Because you always choose them. And me… I’m just a line item in the family budget.
For the first time he snapped:
— Do you have any idea how hard it is for me between you two? You pressure me, Mom complains, Katya is silent but still needs things! I’m being torn apart!
She looked at him with unexpected calm.
— Then choose. One side. One priority.
— What, an ultimatum?
— No, Yur. Just logic. Either we live for ourselves and save for the future, or we remain a mutual-aid cash desk. Just don’t call that a family. And don’t ask me to dream with you about the future if you keep pouring everything into the past.
He was quiet. For a long time. Then suddenly spoke again:
— Fine. What if it’s like this? Mom asks—I don’t transfer? Katya asks—I refuse? And then I live with guilt?
— Better guilt than complete financial impotence, — Varya shot back. — Seriously, though—yes. Exactly that. Otherwise—you’ll lose me.
He didn’t answer. He left. Slamming the door.
Varvara stood by the wall. Then slid down to the floor, leaning her back against wallpaper the color of “beige-of-hopelessness.” Her stomach churned. One phrase kept looping in her head: “you’ll lose me.” She’d said it. She had. The one who had put up with it, swallowed it, believed in “later.”
That evening Yury didn’t come home. He sent only a voice message:
— “I need to think. I’m at Mom’s. I don’t want to fight.”
The next morning Varvara left the house. She rode two stops toward work and suddenly got off. Bought coffee at the corner kiosk. Sat on a bench. And for the first time in many months thought: “What do I want? Me, personally? Without all these ‘we have to help’ and ‘family is sacred’?”
There was no answer. Just a bitter cappuccino and a slight chill.
Then a message from Anastasia Lvovna arrived:
“Varenka, if Yura hasn’t sent it yet, could you? It’s urgent. Katya’s already picked out the parka. There’s only one left.”
Varya’s fingers trembled. She hit “reply” and typed three words:
“Let her pick brains.”
When Yury came back, he smelled of someone else’s perfume. Not a woman’s—no; this “perfume” smelled like an apartment with carpets on the walls, tightly shut windows, and mothballs. Varvara recognized the scent of his childhood: Anastasia Lvovna, jasmine tea, the cat Paw, and that stern, “and who do you think got him ready for school?”
He came in as usual—no doorbell, with his own key. Took off his shoes, hung his jacket. Didn’t say “hi” or “sorry.” Just laid an envelope of cash on the kitchen table and quietly said:
— This is for the loan payment. For March. I picked up a side job. Unloading at the warehouse in the evenings.
Varvara sat down across from him without a word. She didn’t meet his eyes. Didn’t ask where he’d been. It was obvious—“went to think” had turned out to mean “went so Mom could decide for me.”
— Got it, — she said at last. — So now we have two budgets. One—from Mom, one—from the warehouse. Nothing shared. Beautiful.
He rubbed his eyes like he’d just woken up.
— Varya… I don’t want us to fight. I just don’t know how to be cruel.
— It’s not cruelty, Yur. It’s responsibility. You can’t grow it if you keep running to your mom—under her wing, into socks knitted out of the past.
— Are you going to blame her again? She’s just trying to help.
— She’s helping you not to grow up. And she’s turning me into a cranky, angry, wrung-out woman who’s always counting. And you know what’s awful? I’ve started to hate myself. Because I feel like I’m turning into someone I don’t recognize.
He sat. In silence. Elbows on the table. Hands clasped. Lips a line. Varvara watched him struggle not to say something, his tongue itching like a schoolboy’s in class.
— Mom said, — he began, — that if you’re set on this, then… maybe we should live apart for a while. Think. Cool off.
Varvara laughed. Nervously, almost hysterically.
— Mom said. Of course. Mom is our family mediator. And Katya is logistics.
— You’re overdoing it. She’s just worried.
— And you? Are you worried about me? About us? Or only about your mom sleeping well?
This time he raised his voice:
— What do you want from me?! To erase my mother? To tell Katya, “sorry, live on the street, Varvara’s against it”? Life doesn’t work like that!
— It does, Yur. It does when a person knows where his family is and where the childish ballast begins. I’m not against your family. I’m against us living for their comfort and not our own.
He shot to his feet. Irritated, sharp.
— Fine, I get it. I don’t know how to be the man you want.
— And I no longer want to be the woman you want, — Varvara answered quietly. — I want to be myself. And live like a human being. Not wait to be allowed to buy a pillow without reporting to my mother-in-law.
A week later Yury moved out. Said he’d stay at his mom’s. “Until things are clear.” He just didn’t say what exactly needed to clear up: his courage? Varvara’s exhaustion? Or the card balance?
Katya sent an angry message:
“You actually destroyed our family. Mom is crying, Yura feels awful. And you’re selfish. It’s because of people like you that marriages fall apart.”
Varvara didn’t answer. She deleted it. And went to see a studio in a new building. Small, no elevator. But with a view of the railroad. Still—hers.
Yury showed up for the divorce signing. In a stiff jacket and with the face of a worn-out clerk. Signatures—a formality. But Varvara’s hand felt like it was shaking, like a junkie’s on detox.
— Varya… — he said before she left. — I… maybe in time… we could…
— Yura. We’re not a loan. We don’t come up for review in six months.
He wanted to hug her. Didn’t dare. Varya nodded—and left.
A month later she sat in a café by the metro. It smelled of pastries and freedom. Varvara took a sip of cappuccino and, for the first time, wasn’t thinking about Katya’s parka or Yury’s mom. Only about herself.
Her phone buzzed. An email from the lawyer:
“Confirmed: your assets are not subject to division. You are free to dispose of your savings.”
She tapped “Archive.” Took out a notebook. On the first page she wrote in big letters:
“Saving for yourself isn’t shameful.”
And for the first time in a long while, she smiled.