The evening was the kind when the sky hangs low like a wet blanket, and even the cat—this eternal little engine on paws—suddenly decides life isn’t all that fun and dives under the throw, pretending to be a decorative pillow.
Victoria was walking home from work as if she were reporting back for duty—only now it was home, where instead of silence and a cup of tea she was met by a permanent grudge in a skirt calling itself her mother-in-law, and a husband whose sense of dissatisfaction had long since been stamped into his passport, neatly between surname and place of residence.
Her phone rang, right on schedule, exactly at the turn toward the house.
She glanced at the screen and sighed.
“Of course… Nina Pavlovna.” Her personal alarm clock for bad moods.
“Victoria, hello, it’s me,” her mother-in-law’s voice—slightly smoky, slightly weary, as if she’d spent half the day roasting sunflower seeds over a campfire. “You remember tomorrow is my birthday?”
“I remember,” Vika answered evenly. “Happy birthday in advance.”
“Good. Artem and I were thinking—it would be more convenient to host the guests at your place. Spacious, cozy…”
She stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk. The snow crunched under her boot, as if backing up her silent protest.
“And is it okay that I work until eight tomorrow?”
“Well, you’re the hostess! You’ll do everything quickly. We’ve already sketched out a guest list.”
“Sure—and I bet you’ve got the grocery list ready too?” Vika wanted to say, but swallowed it. Instead she said coldly:
“Nina Pavlovna, there won’t be any celebration at my place tomorrow. Host it at yours.”
There was a pause on the other end—thick as jelly. The kind after which people don’t agree; they pick their words more carefully so they hurt more.
“Victoria, you’ve changed. A woman should be happy when the whole family is at one table. But you’re always going on about your work, that business of yours…”
“As soon as my business starts feeding you, I’ll think about it,” she replied, and hung up.
Snow settled on her hair; her mood fell at the same speed as the balance on her card after the utility bills.
Artem was already waiting at home. He looked like a judge who’d handed down the verdict in advance.
“Mom says you were rude to her,” he began, not even letting her take off her boots.
“No, I just refused. Those are different things.”
“But it’s her anniversary! You could’ve met her halfway.”
“And the apartment is mine,” Vika said calmly.
He snorted like a kettle at the last degree before boiling.
“Here we go again…”
“It started when you decided my home was a cafeteria with service.”
He stepped forward, blocking the way.
“Why make it so complicated? It’s easier to agree.”
“Of course it’s easier. Especially for the people who don’t cook and don’t pay.”
She walked past him, tossed her bag onto the couch. She didn’t even have the strength to be angry—inside there was only a steady hum. It was all repeating: the same conversations, the same reproaches, the same “you understand.” And she understood one thing—her home had stopped being a home a long time ago.
The next morning, Vika had barely managed to brew coffee when the door swung open. Without a bell.
On the threshold stood Nina Pavlovna—in full battle gear, with a bag and the face of a winner.
“Victoria, I bought a chicken! We’ll roast it at your place—your oven’s good.”
“Can’t you do it at your place?” Vika asked evenly, lifting her mug.
“It’s cramped at ours, and here it’s convenient for everyone. Artem, tell her!”
Artem was already in the kitchen doorway, tie crooked, looking tired.
“Vika, well, Mom said…”
“Artem,” Vika looked at him in a way that made even the cat wisely evaporate under the bed, “no guests. We already talked about this.”
Her mother-in-law gave a theatrical sigh.
“It’s always like this. I do everything for the family, and you do everything for yourself.”
“Well, at least someone does something for herself,” Vika murmured and took a sip of coffee.
By evening, she wanted only one thing—silence. But at the entrance she was met by three dressed-up ladies with bouquets and a cake.
“We’re here for Nina Pavlovna! It’s her celebration!” they announced cheerfully.
Vika went upstairs and, opening the door, froze.
The apartment was buzzing. Laughter, the smell of champagne, salads, her mother-in-law in a new dress, Artem pouring drinks.
“Are you out of your minds?!” Vika shouted.
“Well, you come home late anyway,” Nina Pavlovna said unbothered. “So we decided to gather here right away.”
Vika slowly took off her coat, set down her bag, straightened up.
“Alright. Everyone—out. The party is over.”
“What the hell are you doing?!” Artem hissed.
“Taking out the trash,” Vika said, and tossed him his jacket. “We’ll start with you.”
Her mother-in-law went pale.
“Victoria, that’s rude!”
“No, that’s order. Everyone has their own home. Yours isn’t here.”
The guests froze, exchanged glances, then hurriedly began to gather their things. Five minutes later the door closed behind the last one.
Artem stood in the hallway, pale, stunned.
“You’ve lost your mind,” he whispered.
“No, Artem. I just took my home back.”
She pulled out his suitcase and set it at his feet.
“Pack. Tonight.”
And for the first time in a long while, the air in the apartment felt light.
He stood in the middle of the room staring as if he hoped this would turn out to be a bad dream. But the suitcase was already open, and his things—the very ones that had lain in the closet for years, faintly smelling of an old life—were flying into it one after another. Victoria packed them calmly, without shouting, without reproaches, with the same expression you use when you throw out expired yogurt: unpleasant, but necessary.
An hour later everything was quiet. The suitcase left with its owner, the door shut, and the apartment filled with silence—dense, real. The cat cautiously crawled out from under the bed, sat beside Vika, and looked at her as if it had finally understood who was in charge.
She took out a wineglass, poured a little, sat on the couch and suddenly felt—for the first time in many years—that this was her home. Without other people’s shadows, without чужие smells, without the constant “in our house we don’t do it that way.”
A week passed. Seven days of quiet. Seven evenings without the shouting “Vika, where are my socks?” and mornings without her mother-in-law’s vigilant whisper: “Coffee is bad for you at your age…” Paradise, really. Though Victoria felt it: the storm was only pretending it had gone.
And sure enough—on Sunday, around lunchtime, the doorbell rang. Long, anxious, like a tocsin. Vika looked through the peephole and couldn’t help smiling. There stood Artem—unshaven, holding a bouquet of carnations. Carnations! Flowers used to decorate not celebrations, but their opposite.
“Hi,” he said, dropping his eyes. “Can we talk?”
“Of course,” she answered. “Outside.”
“Vika, come on, no circus.”
“Artem, the circus ended last Friday. The performers left. The clowns too.”
He stepped inside as if testing whether she’d let him further.
“I’ve been thinking… maybe we both overreacted?”
“We?” she raised an eyebrow slightly. “I, by the way, put up with it for seven years, and you call that ‘overreacted’?”
Artem set the flowers on the shelf like he was marking territory.
“Mom’s worried. Says maybe you’re having some kind of crisis…”
“My crisis ended, Artem,” Vika said. “A crisis of patience.”
He nodded, not knowing what to do with his hands.
“Maybe I’ll… come back?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because your suitcase and your mother have already found each other. Don’t get in the way of their happiness.”
A couple of days later Nina Pavlovna came. With a bag of tangerines and the face of someone summoned for interrogation.
“Victoria, of course I understand. Work, fatigue… But you’re family.”
“Family, Nina Pavlovna, existed until you decided my kitchen was your vacation home.”
Her mother-in-law carefully arranged the tangerines, as if oranges could beg forgiveness.
“I just wanted Artem to live in warmth. He’s not really adapted, you know.”
“How old is he, remind me?” Vika took out two mugs.
“Men are like children. They need a woman to…”
“…feed them, clean up, and listen to lectures? Thanks, I’m out of breath.”
Nina Pavlovna rolled her eyes.
“You’re too proud. That’s not how it’s done, Victoria. In life you have to be softer.”
“And you’re too sure life is your kitchen. I’m just not going in there anymore.”
That same evening Aunt Lena—Artem’s relative—called, her voice full of universal sorrow.
“Vikochka, dear, how could you do that to Artem?”
“And what he did to me is fine, then?”
“He’s a man. They have their weaknesses.”
“And I have mine—like not liking it when people wipe their feet on me.”
After the call, Vika paced the apartment for a long time. Everything inside was boiling. Why, exactly, should she justify protecting her home and her peace?
On Friday, Artem showed up again. No flowers, no smiles—just came as if summoned.
“I understand everything,” he said. “I’m ready for a compromise.”
“Like what? You’ll appear only on holidays and without your mom?”
“Well… Mom can come by, but by agreement.”
Vika snorted.
“An agreement with you is like a diet in December. Everyone talks, no one follows it.”
He stepped closer.
“I’m your husband.”
“I was.”
“Wait—we’re not divorced yet.”
“That can be fixed.”
He pressed his lips together.
“You’re really ready to destroy a family because Mom came by without calling a couple of times?”
“Artem, ‘a couple of times’ is when someone accidentally ate your cookie. When someone lives at your place for years, runs your kitchen and your weekends—that’s not an accident. That’s an occupation.”
After he left, Victoria sat in the silence. The fear was there—not of the future, but of the fact she’d spent so many years living afraid of offending someone. And in that “not offending,” she lost herself.
The next morning she already knew: that’s it. Enough.
The courtroom smelled of paper, old linoleum, and a little—of exhaustion. The judge, a woman with a smart but worn face, asked her first question:
“Victoria Sergeyevna, do you insist on divorce and the division of property?”
“Yes. The apartment was bought before the marriage. All documents are with me.”
Nina Pavlovna immediately perked up.
“But my son lived there!”
“He lived there,” Victoria nodded, “but living and owning are different verbs.”
Artem added his part:
“But we’re family. You promised…”
“I promised to respect you, not your mother. Don’t mix it up, Artem.”
The judge tapped her pen on the table.
“Please, no emotions.”
But Nina Pavlovna, sensing the pause, jumped in again:
“Fine, humanly speaking, Victoria, you know the apartment came from your father. Sell it, help us finish building the house…”
Vika looked at her calmly—tired, but firm:
“And humanly speaking—don’t treat someone else’s inheritance as yours.”
After that, the room went so quiet you could hear someone turning pages.
The decision came quickly: divorce, no division of property. The apartment—Victoria’s. Period.
In the corridor they ran into each other again. Artem stood staring at the floor.
“So that’s it?”
“Yes, Artem. That’s it.” She took the keys from her bag. “You don’t need these anymore.”
Nina Pavlovna, of course, couldn’t hold back:
“Victoria, you’ll regret this!”
“Maybe,” Vika answered with a smile. “But definitely not in my own home.”
That evening she poured herself wine again. The cat stretched out beside her, pleased—as always when there was order in the apartment.
“Well then,” she said to him, “looks like we live without guests now.”
And in that phrase, suddenly, there was not loneliness—but the beginning of something real. New. Quiet. Hers.