Sonya stood by the window, watching her husband Kirill fussing around in the yard with his father. It didn’t seem like anything special—an ordinary Saturday—but a heaviness kept building in her chest. She tried not to show that she was tired, that she was angry, that she didn’t like what was happening—but inside, she’d been boiling for a long time.
Three months earlier, Kirill’s parents—Pyotr Ivanovich and Valentina Petrovna—had moved into their house. “Temporarily,” because they supposedly had problems with the heating in their old place outside the city. Sonya didn’t believe it from the start—knowing Valentina Petrovna, she understood: if that woman moved in somewhere, getting her out wouldn’t be easy.
Sonya and Kirill had been together almost seven years. He had always been soft, hated conflict. At work he was responsible; at home he seemed to try too—but the moment it came to his parents, that was it: his will simply vanished.
Sonya closed the window and went to the kitchen. There, at the table, Valentina Petrovna was peeling apples. Slowly, with the expression of a martyr.
“Sonya,” her mother-in-law drawled without looking up, “you should marinate the chicken for dinner. Pyotr Ivanovich likes it juicier. And don’t forget the mashed potatoes—you made it all lumpy yesterday.”
Sonya wanted to say something, but held back. She knew: if she started now, it would turn into a fight, and Kirill would again ask her to “just endure it.”
She cleared the peels off the table and went to get potatoes. The shelf was a mess—Valentina Petrovna loved to take charge in someone else’s kitchen.
That evening, Kostya—Kirill’s brother—showed up. Young, well-groomed, always with a phone in his hand. He’d settled in too: supposedly his apartment renovation had dragged on. It had been dragging on for two months now, to be precise.
Kostya didn’t come alone—he dragged along his new fling, Inna. A girl of about twenty-two, loud laughter, nails ten centimeters long.
“Sonya, do you have something to snack on?” Inna announced from the doorway, and without waiting for an answer, dug into the fridge.
Sonya stood at the stove, stirring soup. She could hear Kirill and his father discussing some bits of metal behind the garages, Kostya cackling at memes, Inna slamming the refrigerator door. And she was cooking soup that they would probably call “tasteless” again.
Their neighbor Galya—an old friend of Sonya’s mom—sometimes stopped by in the evenings. She understood everything, sat down silently on a stool, and watched Sonya dart between the stove and the dishes.
“You should tell them to go to hell,” Galya muttered once. “They’ve gotten too comfortable. No shame, no conscience.”
But Sonya only shrugged.
“Kirill asks me to. He says it’s all temporary.”
That evening Galya came again, bringing a jar of pickled tomatoes. She sat quietly, then said:
“Are you really going to carry all this alone? You won’t break?”
Sonya sighed and waved it off.
“Oh, come on. I’ll manage.”
At night she lay next to Kirill, listening to his calm breathing, thinking: how much longer? A month? Two? Half a year? Or “until she kicks them out”?
Outside, a fine drizzle fell, and inside Sonya’s chest scraped the feeling that this was going to last. Way too long.
A week later, nothing had changed. Except Inna started showing up more often—now she didn’t just eat their dinners, she stayed over in Kostya’s room. In the mornings Sonya would wake up to Inna’s bright laugh in the kitchen—Inna would take juice, sausage, leave everything on the table, and leave. Cleaning dishes wasn’t her thing.
Valentina Petrovna didn’t loosen her grip either—she added new orders to the old ones: all the towels needed rewashing “properly,” the windows needed washing, men’s underwear had to be folded “the right way.” Sonya swallowed the resentment and kept quiet.
“Kirill, talk to them,” she said softly one evening when they finally ended up alone in the kitchen. “I’m not made of iron. I come home from work—half the house is turned upside down. I’m like a servant. I’m tired.”
Kirill lowered his gaze, pulled his cup of tea closer, turned the spoon in his hands for a long time.
“Just hold on a little longer. Mom said specialists will come soon, they’ll fix everything for them. Kostya promised he’d deal with the renovation too.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Sonya almost raised her voice. “‘Soon,’ ‘promised’… They live with us, eat at my expense, I wash their clothes, I cook! Have you ever seen your mother wash a single dish after herself?”
“Why are you starting again?” Kirill sighed. “It’s hard for them, you know that…”
She stood up, took a container of soup from the fridge, and held it out to him.
“Heat it up yourself tomorrow. I’m leaving early for work.”
Kirill muttered something but didn’t argue.
The next day Sonya stayed late at work on purpose. Her coworker Tanya invited her for coffee after the shift. They sat in a small café by the bus stop and talked about nothing—new orders, kids, the prices in the store.
Then Tanya suddenly asked:
“Why have you gotten so skinny? Who’s chewing on you?”
Sonya gave a crooked smile.
“I just don’t want to go home, that’s all.”
Tanya, older and tough, understood right away. She listened to everything—about Kostya, about Valentina Petrovna, about Inna. She fell silent.
“What are you doing, Sonya? You can’t live like this. You’re not a slave. Kick them the hell out—let them rent a place or go to Kostya’s apartment.”
“But Kirill won’t understand,” Sonya said tiredly. “He listens to them more than he listens to me.”
“And that’s exactly the problem. Who are you to him—his wife or his housekeeper?” Tanya spoke softly, but there was steel in her voice. “As long as you stay quiet, they’ll keep riding you.”
That evening at home everything was the same: Valentina Petrovna sat by the TV, pushing a bundle of dirty clothes away with her foot. Kostya and Inna were laughing somewhere in the hallway. A mountain of dishes in the kitchen. Kirill wasn’t home—he’d gone to the garage with his father.
In silence Sonya grabbed a washbasin and went to collect dirty laundry from the rooms. In Kostya’s room, T-shirts, socks, even Inna’s tank top lay tossed on a chair. On the floor—an empty energy drink can.
Sonya stood there holding the basin, looking at the mess, and suddenly realized she couldn’t breathe. Something inside snapped.
That evening she tried to talk to Kirill again:
“I can’t do this anymore. Let them at least do something themselves. Let them clean up after themselves. I can’t keep up with everyone.”
Kirill hugged her, patted her back, said the usual: “Just endure it.”
And in the morning Valentina Petrovna was at it again, dripping with contempt:
“Sonya, you mixed up Kostya’s socks. He can’t have synthetics washed with cotton—don’t you know that? And you pour too much fabric softener. It smells awful afterward.”
Sonya wanted to answer, but Tanya’s face flashed before her eyes. You’re not a slave.
All day she moved on autopilot. At work she cut her finger while slicing pies—blood dripped onto her white apron. Sonya stared at that blood and thought it looked like her life: dripping, but nobody hears it.
That evening, when she came home, Inna and Kostya were in the hallway. Inna held a new bag of clothes.
“Sonya, could you steam my dresses? I have a date, and your iron is kind of sketchy—I don’t know how to use it.”
Sonya walked past without a word.
“Sonya, what’s with you?” Kostya called after her. “Come on, help—no big deal.”
She set her bag down on the floor, turned, looked him straight in the eyes.
“I’m not your maid.”
And she went into the bedroom. She latched the door—for the first time the whole time.
Morning began as if nothing had changed overnight. Valentina Petrovna clanged pots in the kitchen, Kostya and Inna laughed loudly in the hallway, Kirill pulled on his jacket—getting ready to go out of town with his father again.
Sonya sat on the edge of the couch and listened as, behind the door, Valentina Petrovna grumbled about “ungrateful young people.” The words about ungratefulness landed in Sonya’s head like a lump of snow down the back of her collar. She took a breath and went to the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” Valentina Petrovna didn’t even turn around—she just scraped the knife harder against the cutting board.
“To work,” Sonya answered calmly.
“And that’s right. Money’s needed. You know, everything here depends on you. So no theatrics—marinate the meat before you go. Kostya will grill it tonight.”
Sonya looked at her mother-in-law. At her hunched back, the greasy stains on the old robe. At the way the knife slid sluggishly along the chicken skin. And for the first time in a long while she felt neither anger nor hurt—only emptiness.
She took her jacket from the closet, threw her bag over her shoulder, and said quietly:
“You’ll do the marinating yourselves.”
Valentina Petrovna turned around.
“What nonsense are you talking? Who’s going to do it?”
“Not me,” Sonya repeated, and walked out of the kitchen.
On the stairwell stood their neighbor Galya. She’d heard the door and looked at Sonya questioningly.
“So?” Galya asked.
“That’s it, Galya. Time to end this circus.”
That evening Sonya came back before Kirill. The apartment was quiet. In the kitchen, Inna and Kostya sat in offended silence, on their phones. Valentina Petrovna lay on the couch under a blanket, sighing loudly.
Sonya walked past without looking. In the room she pulled a suitcase out from under the bed and started packing her things. She heard Valentina Petrovna rustling outside the door, Kostya whispering with Inna. Nobody came in.
An hour later Kirill arrived. He found Sonya sitting in the middle of the room with a half-packed suitcase. He froze in the doorway.
“What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Sonya lifted her eyes. “You decide—who matters more to you. I’m not going to serve them anymore.”
Kirill stared at her like she was a stranger. His shoulders slumped. He walked over and sat beside her.
“Sonya, come on… You know… Just hold on a little longer…”
She laughed—short and hollow.
“Kirill, do you even hear what you’re saying? Your ‘hold on’ has already eaten me alive from the inside.”
He tried to take her hand, but she pulled away.
“If you want to live like a herd—then live like one. If you want to wash for them, cook for them—go ahead. But I’m not part of this circus,” Sonya told her husband.
He opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything. Valentina Petrovna stood in the doorway—silent, her mouth twisted. Kostya peeked out from the kitchen and ducked back.
Sonya zipped up the suitcase, stood up, and looked at all of them.
Silence hung in the apartment—dull and sticky. It felt like even the air wasn’t moving. Behind the wall someone flushed the toilet—neighbors were coming home.
Sonya picked up her bag, gave Kirill one last look—and walked out. The door shut softly.
No one ran after her