— “You didn’t wipe down the sink after dinner again, Alina,” said Raisa Petrovna quietly, but with a metallic note in her voice, standing in the kitchen doorway like a shadow from an old Soviet war film.
Alina slowly turned. In one hand she held a mug with half-finished tea, in the other her phone, frozen on a chat with a coworker. The time read 22:47.
— “Raisa Petrovna, I work till eight, rattle around on the metro for another hour, then cook dinner, wash the dishes, and wipe down everything that moves. Do you want me to polish the sink with a toothbrush before bed?” Alina said calmly, but clearly exhausted.
— “Why not, that’s a fine idea,” her mother-in-law shot back with sarcasm. “I scrubbed the tile with my toothbrush back in the day. And guess what—my husband carried me in his arms.”
— “Sure—while moving a rug from one balcony to the other,” Alina muttered, taking a sip of tea.
Raisa Petrovna heard. And ignored it. In her world, sarcasm wasn’t a way of speaking, it was bad manners.
— “You, Alina, are a daughter-in-law, not a bank director. And if you live in this house, you will follow the routine. Everything on schedule. Breakfast at eight, lunch at one, dinner at seven. Clothes arranged by color in the wardrobe. Greet your husband from work with a smile. Wear dresses, not… this.” She threw a glance at Alina’s loose sweatpants. “A man cares about how his wife looks. Dmitry is an aesthete.”
Without looking up from her phone, Alina said:
— “Of course—surrounded by pots and his mother’s control, he’s especially sensitive to beauty.”
Raisa Petrovna measured her with a look. She had two weapons in her arsenal: ignoring and passive aggression. Today the second one took the lead.
— “Tomorrow I’ll print you a list. A normal, human one. How a wife should behave in a respectable family. I got this list from my own mother-in-law when I was young. See? It came in handy. Traditions must be kept, Alina.”
— “Oh yes—especially the kind where a woman is supposed to die in the kitchen,” she snorted.
And she left for the bedroom. No scene, no door-slamming. She just sat on the bed, silenced her phone, and stared at the empty wall for a long time. Her diploma used to hang there—until Raisa Petrovna called the frame “vulgar.”
The next day began according to the well-worn script.
— “I made you a cheat sheet, Alina,” her mother-in-law said with affected lightness, handing over a sheet of bullet points as if it were a cupcake recipe and not an abuse manifesto. “A list of good wife habits.”
Alina took the sheet. Sat down. Read aloud:
— “‘Don’t talk back to your husband. Don’t raise your voice. Don’t argue with your husband’s mother. Don’t wear synthetic clothes. Keep your hair in a bun. Wash the laundry separately. Iron your husband’s shirts daily. Shower no later than nine p.m. so as not to disturb the neighbors.’” She looked up. “You’re serious?”
— “Of course I’m serious. I’ve lived by this list for forty years. And by the way, I didn’t get divorced,” Raisa Petrovna noted proudly.
Alina looked at the paper again.
— “Not surprising. Your husband probably just ran away first.”
— “He died!” the mother-in-law snapped. “God rest his soul. And he was satisfied with me as a wife.”
— “Well, I’m glad at least someone was satisfied. Besides the electric meter.”
— “You’re rude, Alina. If it weren’t for my son, I’d have thrown you out long ago.”
— “And if it weren’t for you, I’d have moved out long ago,” Alina shot back and stood up.
At that moment Dmitry walked into the kitchen. He had that look people get when they’ve spotted a hole in the boat but decided to keep rowing cheerfully anyway.
— “Something happen?” he asked, picking up a mug.
— “Nothing, dear. It’s just that your wife has a different notion of family duties,” said Raisa Petrovna, settling on the stool like a duty officer of happiness.
Alina clenched her teeth. Saying anything in front of her husband was pointless. He’d pretend not to hear. He always pretended not to hear when it involved his mother. Even last time, when she rummaged through Alina’s closet without asking and folded everything “the proper way.”
Two days later, things reached a breaking point.
Alina came home from work exhausted. On the couch—her books in a bag. A note on top. Raisa Petrovna’s strict, elegant handwriting:
“Too much dubious literature. I don’t want my son reading that kind of thing. Put it up in the storage space above the closet. Take it if you need it. —Raisa.”
Alina went to the closet and took down the bag. Her favorite psychology book fell out—the one with notes in the margins. She opened it at random—half the pages were creased, some bookmarks torn out. As if it wasn’t a book but a saboteur’s dossier.
— “Raisa Petrovna,” her voice trembled, “did you touch my things?”
Her mother-in-law peeked out of the kitchen. Calm, in a spotless apron.
— “I was putting things in order. You don’t mind, do you?”
— “What if I dig through your pills? Or sort your underwear? I also want to ‘put things in order.’”
— “Don’t be insolent. And don’t compare your junk to my things. There must be order in this house. And self-help books are just laziness. I know how that works.”
Alina slowly stepped closer. Raised her eyes. And said:
— “The disorder in this house isn’t from books. It’s from you deciding it’s yours.”
— “It is mine. I got it from my husband. Dmitry is named in the will. And you are a temporary mistake.”
— “Did you just call me a mistake?”
— “What do you think?” Her mother-in-law lifted her chin slightly.
Alina nodded.
— “All right then. I’m moving out tomorrow.”
Dmitry appeared in the hallway as if someone had summoned him from the other side of the wall.
— “Alina, don’t dramatize…”
— “Tell me what’s more dramatic: living with a mother who makes lists, or with a wife who reads books?”
— “She didn’t mean anything bad…”
— “What do you want, Dima?”
He was silent.
— “Well, that settles it,” Alina said. “Tomorrow I’ll ask a friend from work to come with her car. I’ll pack my things. Don’t worry. I won’t bother you anymore.”
Raisa Petrovna slapped the towel on the table.
— “Then go! As if we’ve lost some genius!”
Alina didn’t answer. She simply went to the bedroom and took out a suitcase. Sat on the edge of the bed.
And for the first time in six months—exhaled.
— “Oh, come on, Lin! It’s not a tragedy,” said Lera on the phone—Alina’s friend, owner of an old Kia, loud music, and three divorces.
— “I’m not calling it a tragedy. I’m saying I got carried out of an apartment where I’m listed as a wife. But in fact—as what?” Alina sat in a café by the metro with a paper cup of coffee and her suitcase beside her. It felt like she was flying to Istanbul, not just moving out from her husband’s place. Only without a ticket.
— “As what—as a woman with a spine,” Lera snorted. “You should be celebrating. Lived with the hubby, saw whose drawers you can’t share—and ran. Born under a lucky star.”
— “Yeah, only this lucky shirt seems full of fist-sized holes.” Alina took a sip, burned her lip, winced. “I was naïve. Thought we’d get married, rent a place, and then somehow… And he goes, ‘Why pay when Mom has a three-room apartment?’ Uh-huh. Mom’s rooms. Mom’s keys. Wife—by written rules.”
— “So are you registered there? Or what?”
— “Nope. Mother-in-law said, ‘No point registering you until you give birth.’ Dmitry nodded like a bobblehead in a car. And me… I was just in love.” Alina laughed nervously. “God, I was such an idiot.”
— “Just like me with my first. I actually lived with his granny. A real she-wolf. Cursed me and then died. Anyway, if you want, I’ve got a room. My son’s. He’s in St. Petersburg with his grandma till the end of the month. It’s free.”
— “Ler… thanks. I’ll probably go to Marina’s first. A couple of nights. I don’t want to jump on anyone’s back right away. Even a beloved witch like you.”
— “As you wish. But call if you need anything. And I don’t want to hear another word about how you’re lonely, unwanted, and miserable. You’re not miserable. You’re a survivor. I’m proud you moved out from under her.”
Alina nodded, though Lera couldn’t see. Then she picked up her suitcase, exhaled, and headed to her friend Marina’s. No time for self-analysis. Time to live.
The next day Dmitry called from a number she hadn’t yet blocked.
— “Hi,” he said quietly, as if afraid even his thoughts might reach his mother. “Are you okay?”
— “Now I am. Slept like the dead. No one peered in at night to ask if I turned on the extractor fan or whether I scrubbed the sink with baking soda too hard.”
— “Lin, don’t start…”
— “I’m finished, Dima. I’m no longer in your family dollhouse with three levels of control. You can cross me off the list.”
— “I don’t want to cross you off. It’s just… you left too abruptly. Mom…”
— “Exactly—Mom. First she reread my books, then she made lists, and now, I suppose, you want me to apologize?”
— “No, no, I’m sorry. I… I just can’t do things so… abruptly. I thought it would somehow work itself out…”
— “And it did. I walked out. And I’m not coming back, Dima. I love you, but I love myself too. When a woman lives in fear that her toothbrush in the cabinet is under surveillance, that’s not love. It’s a prison experiment.”
Silence on the other end. Long. Alina was about to hang up when he suddenly said:
— “I don’t know what the right thing is. I just don’t want to lose you. Mom… she’s a good person. She just has her own way of caring.”
— “A good way is when someone makes you tea, not drips poison in your ear every morning. Your mom wants a daughter-in-law by the State Standard, and I’m a person—with tastes, books, and those very sweatpants she hates. Make up your mind, Dima. I’m not forbidding you to love your mother. But if this is our marriage—it can’t be a threesome.”
He said nothing. Just sighed. And hung up.
Three days later, building management called Alina.
— “Hello, is this Alina Sergeyevna?”
— “Yes, speaking.”
— “Please confirm—you no longer reside at Prospekt Mira, Building 7?”
— “That’s correct. I moved out.”
— “Got it. It’s just that Raisa Petrovna submitted a request to change the entryway keys and indicated that you’ve lost resident status. Wanted to clarify—was that voluntary?”
Alina laughed. Loudly. Not because it was funny—because otherwise she’d snap.
— “Yes, voluntary. Absolutely voluntary. With a song, even.”
Marina took her in like family. Fed her, put her to bed, gave her a towel, toothpaste, and even dumplings with potatoes. Two days later she and Lera organized a “women’s freedom night”—wine, a TV series, and a rundown of husbands they should have fled a year earlier.
On the third day Alina made an appointment with a lawyer. Just in case, to understand her rights—even without registration. The lawyer was businesslike, crisp, no hankies:
— “Formally, if you’re not registered there, you can’t claim the living space. But if you’re married and there’s evidence of running a joint household, purchases, you can file for division of property or at least compensation. But we need to see documents.”
— “What if I don’t want money? I just don’t want them controlling my life.”
— “Then you simply need to get a divorce. That’s it. You’re free.”
Alina nodded. Divorce. An unpleasant word. But here—almost like salvation.
That evening, sitting at Marina’s with a glass of red and her laptop, the doorbell rang.
— “You expecting someone?” Marina asked, surprised.
— “No one,” Alina shrugged.
Dmitry stood on the doorstep. With a bouquet of roses, the look of a beaten dog, and a plastic folder in his hands.
— “Hi. I… brought the papers. For the divorce.”
Alina was stunned.
— “What?”
— “I understand now. You were right. If I can’t be a husband outside my mother’s shadow, then I can’t be a husband at all. This is your freedom. Your victory. I don’t want to be an anchor for you. So… here.”
He held out the folder.
— “You could’ve just mailed them,” she said hoarsely.
— “I wanted to look you in the eye. And apologize.”
She took the folder. The papers were real. Signatures. Stamps.
— “Thank you, Dima. You’re not an anchor. You just never learned to be a captain.”
He nodded.
— “Fair enough. I hope you’ll be happy.”
— “I almost am.”
He turned and left. No scene, no tears. Just—left.
Alina closed the door, leaned her back against it, and exhaled.
— “Well then… almost free.”
A month after Alina signed the documents Dmitry had brought, for the first time in ages she woke up on a Sunday without an alarm and without the smell of bleach that her mother-in-law used to start every morning with. The world outside was ordinary—gray, springlike, drip from the eaves—but inside everything had changed. It felt as if she hadn’t just left an apartment but a parallel life.
In the kitchen the coffee machine burbled, Lera fussed over pancakes and hummed something from the nineties.
— “Got a date?” Alina asked, sitting at the table.
— “Yep. With a man who can wash his own socks. Can you even imagine such a thing?”
— “Barely. I’ve got PTSD after Raisa Petrovna. I now turn off the vacuum cleaner by the manual—so the court won’t nitpick.”
— “Speaking of court. You said the papers came, but there’s still no divorce?”
Alina shrugged:
— “He disappeared. Like in a movie. Handed over the papers and vanished. No calls, no messages. I suspect Raisa Petrovna is praying he marries a librarian or someone with a respectable moral profile.”
— “Maybe he’s just upset? Or went away somewhere?”
— “Went back into the womb. Raisa Petrovna is at the controls again.”
Lera smirked, flipped a pancake onto a plate, and jerked her chin toward the window:
— “Then go finish it. Divorce is like a parachute jump. Better to pull the cord yourself than wait to be pushed.”
Alina went to the public services office to put a period on it. A queue, boring announcements about mask rules, pensioners sighing—real life. Window No. 14, a girl in a blue vest with makeup covering tattoos on her wrists.
— “Divorce,” Alina said calmly.
— “Mutual consent?”
— “Well… yes, now it is.”
The girl checked the database, nodded:
— “The other party—your spouse—did not appear to sign within thirty days. The documents are considered invalid. Would you like to refile?”
Alina blinked:
— “He brought them himself. With stamps. Signatures!”
— “Apparently he didn’t submit them properly. It doesn’t count as a legal act until the application is correctly filed. Would you like to file again?”
Alina wanted to swear. Hard. Colorfully. Humanly. But she just exhaled:
— “I’ll file.”
On her way out of the office she ran into Raisa Petrovna. Classic coat in the shade “raw concrete,” pursed lips, a folder under her arm. A face like at a memorial service—only no one had died.
— “Well, hello, Alina,” the mother-in-law said coldly. “Or is it not Alina anymore? Perhaps you go by something else now? In the spirit of a ‘free woman’?”
— “You can just say ‘former daughter-in-law.’ Though soon not even that.”
Raisa Petrovna gave her a look that held everything—hurt, contempt, fatigue.
— “I thought you were smart. Turns out you’re just cocky. Women like you don’t build families. They run from one rented room to another, blaming everyone but themselves.”
— “I’d be happy to take the blame—if I had even one chance to make a choice myself. But every step was under a scope. You even picked my slippers.”
— “Because you have the taste of a market stall girl!”
— “And you have the taste of a prison warden. So we’re even.”
Raisa Petrovna stepped closer. Her tone dropped to a hiss:
— “You think he’ll forget you? You’re wrong. Dmitry is suffering. He doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep…”
— “Maybe he’ll finally lose some weight,” Alina slipped in with a smirk. “You’ll achieve a second goal too—get rid of his belly.”
— “You’re vile.”
— “I’m alive. And, by the way, divorced. Almost.”
Raisa Petrovna spun on her heel and left, in her perfect coat and spotless shoes. As if she’d just been pulled from a catalog called “A Woman Who Still Hopes.”
Alina watched her go with a kind of tired pity. There was so much pain in that woman, twisted into a knot of control, morals, and disinfectant wipes.
The divorce went through a month later. Calmly, on schedule. No tears, no hysterics. Dmitry came, looking older, thinner, but still—silent.
After the signatures, he lingered at the exit.
— “Do you want to have dinner afterward?” he asked quietly.
Alina looked at him. Nothing stirred inside. Not memory, not longing, not resentment.
— “No, Dima. I have a meeting with a realtor. I’m renting a place. On my own. And you know what? That’s happiness.”
He nodded. Smiled somewhat bitterly, but without malice. And left.
A week later Alina stood on the balcony of her new apartment. Tiny, a studio, with crazy wallpaper and a miniature stove. But hers. No “mom’s shadow,” no bans, no dull feeling that she was a guest in someone else’s life.
Lera came over with wine and pizza.
— “Well, mistress of the house, show me the palace?”
— “Come in. Here’s the kitchen, here’s the bedroom, and here—personal sovereignty and inviolability.”
— “God, you did it. You survived Raisa Petrovna.”
— “Almost. Sometimes I dream she comes up to the sink and says, ‘Soap doesn’t belong here!’” Alina snorted.
— “Main thing is don’t dream you’re going back.”
— “Never. If I do—tase me.”
They laughed.
Alina raised her glass and made a toast:
— “To the women who left. And to those who are about to.”
And she drank. To the last drop.