Part 1. A Parasite on the Household Budget
Inga pulled up by the entrance, turned off the engine, but didn’t hurry to get out. The cabin smelled of gasoline and worn upholstery, yet that smell was dearer to her than what waited at home. She worked as a shift supervisor at a major logistics warehouse, where the whole day passed under the drone of forklifts and drivers’ swearing—but the real exhaustion only hit her here, on the threshold of her own apartment.
More precisely, it wasn’t really her apartment. A luxurious three-room place in a prestigious district had come to them thanks to Regina, Inga’s second cousin. Regina had given half her life to the North, working as a geologist, earned a fortune, and invested it in capital real estate “for old age.” While her sister froze her nose off on expeditions, she let Inga live there, asking only that she pay the utilities. It was a royal gift—one Oleg, Inga’s husband, took for granted.
Inga got out of the car, slamming the door a little harder than usual. Her phone vibrated in her pocket—Oleg was already sending his fifth message.
As she climbed to their floor, she heard noise even from the corridor. Loud laughter, clinking dishes. Inga froze. The key turned in the lock with difficulty.
Stale air hit her in the entryway. It smelled of fried fish and something sour. A huge unfamiliar jacket hung on the coat rack.
“Oh, the lady of the house has arrived!” a booming bass voice thundered from the kitchen.
A heavy man with a red face and a receding hairline appeared in the doorway. Uncle Vitya—one of Oleg’s relatives from the provinces, whom Inga had seen only once, at their wedding, and even then only in passing.
“Hi,” Inga muttered, kicking off her shoes. Her legs throbbed.
Oleg darted out from behind his uncle—fussy, shifty-eyed.
“Ingus, why so late? Uncle Vitya’s passing through, decided to drop by—made us a surprise!”
“A surprise,” she echoed, walking into the kitchen.
Chaos ruled the table. Her favorite tablecloth was smeared with greasy stains; in the center stood an opened bottle of the cheapest vodka and a plate of sliced sausage—the very sausage Inga saved for breakfasts.
“Ingus,” Oleg said, cloyingly putting an arm around her shoulders. Inga jerked away, knocking his hand off. “It’s like this… Uncle Vitya needs to enjoy the city, buy gifts for the nephews. And me—you know—my bonus won’t come till next month.”
“And?” Inga turned to her husband. Her look was heavy, prickly.
“So send me, like, fifteen thousand to my card. We’ll go out tomorrow, Uncle Vitya will leave.”
“Fifteen?” Inga repeated. “My advance is in a week. Oleg, you got your salary three days ago.”
“It’s the loans, Inga!” he whispered indignantly, glancing at Uncle Vitya, who was happily devouring a sandwich. “I paid for the car, the phone…”
“The phone you smashed when you were drunk?”
“What the hell?!” Oleg flared up. “Don’t start in front of guests. Give me the money—don’t embarrass me.”
Inga looked at him and saw not a husband but a spoiled teenager. Uncle Vitya belched loudly, without the slightest shame.
“Fine,” she ground out. “But this is the last time.”
She transferred the money. Oleg immediately brightened, blew a kiss somewhere near her cheek, and ran off to pour Uncle Vitya another drink. Inga went into the bedroom and shut the door tight. Strangers were running her home, and her husband acted like a lackey, ready to give away the last thing he had just to throw dust in people’s eyes. Only he wasn’t giving away his own. He was giving away her labor, her time, her life.
Uncle Vitya stayed three days instead of the promised one. When he finally left, the refrigerator was spotless—empty as a newborn—and the stench of alcohol in the apartment had to be driven out with a cross-draft.
Part 2. Cheek Has Its Own Kind of Happiness
Only two weeks passed. Inga had just started to recover, savoring the evening silence again. She sat on the sofa flipping through a construction materials catalog for a new project when Oleg, hunched over his laptop beside her, suddenly snapped it shut.
“Ingul, there’s something…” he began in that tone that made Inga’s jaw ache.
“NO,” she cut him off at once, without looking up from the catalog.
“You didn’t even listen!” Oleg pouted. “My second cousin Svetа—remember? She’s coming with her son. She needs a doctor, some complicated exam. The kid’s five; there’s no one to leave him with. They’ll stay a week? The apartment’s huge, there’s room for everyone.”
Inga set the magazine aside.
“Oleg, I work twelve-hour shifts. I come home to sleep—not to listen to some stranger’s kid screaming and entertain your cousin.”
“You’re heartless!” Oleg shouted, jumping up. “She has health problems! Curse you and your selfishness! We’re family!”
“Your family,” Inga corrected. “Let them rent a hotel.”
“They don’t have money for a hotel in the capital! Inga, please. I’ll handle everything myself. You won’t even notice them. I promise.”
Inga was silent for a minute. She knew exactly how it would end. Oleg would play the “generous lord,” and she would be the one cooking, cleaning, and listening to complaints.
“You know what,” she said slowly. “Let them come.”
Oleg beamed.
“But I won’t be here,” Inga finished.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it literally. I’ll go to my parents’ place outside the city. I haven’t seen Dad in a while; I’ll help them fix the veranda. And you entertain your guests.”
“But how…,” Oleg faltered. “Who’s going to cook? What about groceries?”
“You, sweetheart. You. You promised you’d handle everything.”
Oleg sulked but didn’t argue. Apparently, he decided he could manage. Or he hoped Inga would change her mind.
Svetа and the child were supposed to arrive Friday. On Thursday evening Inga packed a bag, pointedly ignoring her husband’s pleading looks, and left.
The weekend passed relatively peacefully. Inga helped her father sand old boards, breathed fresh air, and tried not to think about what was happening in her apartment. But on Sunday her phone started blowing up.
“Inga, where are you?” Oleg’s voice was jittery.
“I told you—at my parents’.”
“Listen, there’s a situation… Svetа arrived, everything’s fine. But my card got blocked—the bank’s doing something weird. And the fridge is empty. The kid wants to eat, Svetа’s tired from the trip. Send ten thousand, yeah? Or better yet, come back and bring groceries.”
Inga clenched her teeth.
“Oleg, are you kidding me? You knew they were coming. You couldn’t buy pasta and some chicken?”
“I got swamped! Come on, what’s it to you? You’ve got a car. Bring meat, fruit for the kid, juice, some decent cheese… Svetа likes blue cheese.”
“Blue cheese?” Inga repeated. The rage inside her began to boil like thick black tar. “Does Svetа not like black caviar too?”
“Don’t be sarcastic. Just bring food. And come yourself—it’s awkward in front of the guests, the hostess isn’t home.”
Inga wanted to tell him to go to hell. Wanted to hang up. But her upbringing—damn it, her upbringing—wouldn’t let her abandon a hungry child.
“Fine,” she said in an icy tone. “I’ll come. I’ll bring groceries.”
She stopped at the supermarket and filled two huge bags: chicken, vegetables, fruit, milk, grains. She took regular “Rossisky” cheese. Svetа could do without mold.
Part 3. The Demographics of Insolence
Because of traffic the drive took longer. Inga dragged the heavy bags from the elevator, feeling the plastic handles bite into her palms. She opened the door with her key.
The apartment was loud. Far too loud for one woman and a five-year-old. Music blared; the TV was on full volume.
Inga stepped into the entryway and froze.
Four pairs of shoes stood in the corridor. Four.
A tall, skinny man in a wife-beater and sweatpants came out of the living room, a can of beer in his hand.
“Oh, the delivery service is here!” he barked.
A five-year-old boy ran out after him, and a teenage girl with a phone in her hand, chewing gum. From the kitchen floated a plump woman with brightly painted lips—Svetа.
“Finally!” Svetа announced instead of greeting her. “We thought we’d swell up from hunger. Oleg said his wife’s rich—she’ll feed us first class.”
Inga set the bags on the floor. The thud sounded deafening to her.
“Oleg!” she shouted.
Her husband rushed out of the bathroom, wiping his hands on his pants. He looked rumpled.
“Oh, Ingus, you’re here! Meet them—this is Svetа’s husband, Tolik. And their oldest, Lerka. They decided to come as a whole family—more fun that way!”
Inga looked them over. Tolik scratched his belly. Lerka stared at her like she was staff. Svetа was already reaching for the bags.
“Why’d you take so long?” Tolik asked with annoyance. “I’m starving.”
Something inside Inga snapped. No pity, no patience—only pure, crystal anger.
“Hands off,” Inga said quietly when Svetа touched the bag handle.
“What?” the guest blinked.
Inga lifted the bags. They were heavy, but she didn’t feel it now.
“You brought your ‘family’—you support them. I’m not giving a kopek,” Inga told her husband, looking him straight in the eyes. Her voice was as hard as concrete.
“Inga, what’s gotten into you?” Oleg went pale. “They’re tired from the road…”
“People?” Inga smirked. “I see a whole camp that decided I’m a free cafeteria. You said: sister with a child. There are four of you. Four!”
“We can’t just throw them out!” Oleg shrieked. “Oh, to hell with you! Don’t disgrace me!”
Tolik stepped forward, his face flushing red.
“Hey, you, pretty thing. Your husband said feed us. We’re guests.”
“Guests,” Inga repeated with contempt. “Guests ask permission before barging in like a whole collective farm. And guests don’t demand blue cheese when they’ve got nothing but lint in their pockets.”
She spun sharply toward the door.
“Hey—where are you taking the groceries?!” Svetа screamed.
“To myself,” Inga tossed over her shoulder. “And you can do whatever you want. Oleg’s rich—let him take you to a restaurant.”
She walked out and slammed the door. While she waited for the elevator, she could hear a fight erupting behind it—Svetа shrieking, Tolik cursing, and Oleg bleating something pitiful.
Inga got into her car and threw the bags onto the passenger seat. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from adrenaline. She pulled an apple from the bag and bit into it with a crunch. Never in her life had food tasted so good.
Part 4. Mutiny on a Sinking Ship
For a week Inga lived at her parents’. She didn’t answer Oleg’s calls and blocked him in every messenger. Her mother tried to find out what happened, but Inga only waved it off: “We’ll deal with it.”
The next weekend she decided to return. The guests should be gone. Time to put a period on this.
The apartment greeted her with silence and destruction. Dirt lay in the entryway, the mirror was smeared. In the kitchen, a mountain of dirty dishes rose like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. On the table—beer stains, crumbs, scraps of food.
Oleg sat in the living room staring at a turned-off TV. Hearing footsteps, he turned his head. He looked awful: stubble, red eyes, a wrinkled T-shirt.
“You showed up,” he rasped. “Happy now?”
Inga walked in, stepping around scattered вещи with disgust.
“What am I supposed to be happy about? That you turned someone else’s apartment into a pigsty?”
Oleg jumped up. He was shaking.
“You humiliated me!” he screamed, spitting. “In front of my relatives! Tolik laughed at me! Said I’m not a man if a woman can twist me around her finger! They left thinking I’m a nobody! I had to borrow from a friend to feed them because you, greedy bitch, took the food!”
Inga stared at him, fire kindling in her eyes. Oleg expected excuses. He was used to Inga smoothing corners, afraid of конфликт. But now a different person stood before him.
“I’m greedy?!” Inga flung her purse onto the armchair. “Me?! I’ve supported you all these years, you паразит! Your ‘loans,’ your whims, your endless relatives!”
Oleg recoiled, raising his hands over his head. He had never seen her like this.
“ENOUGH!” Inga screamed. Her voice broke into a shriek, but she didn’t care. “I work like a slave so you can play benefactor! Tolik humiliated you? You humiliated yourself when you let that trash wipe its feet on you in my home!”
“This is my home too…” Oleg muttered.
“YOURS?!” Inga roared. “You have nothing here! Even the underwear you’re wearing was bought with my money! Get the hell out! Go to Tolik, to Svetа, to anyone—just get out!”
“You’re hysterical,” Oleg whispered, pressing his back to the wardrobe. Animal fear froze in his eyes. He didn’t know what to do with this uncontrollable стихия.
“Yes, I’m hysterical!” Inga kicked a chair; it crashed to the floor. “And this hysterical woman is going to pack her things and leave. And you stay. Sit in this filth. Pay for everything yourself. We’ll see what kind of man you are without my bank card!”
She moved around the room, sweeping her things into a suitcase. Cosmetics, clothes, documents flew inside in a chaotic heap. Oleg stood there, afraid to move. He was crushed not by arguments, but by that wild, unrestrained разрушительная energy. He was used to obedience, to quiet tears. Her fury became a wall he shattered against.
Twenty minutes later Inga rolled the suitcase into the hallway.
“You’ve got a week. Clean up, and after that… leave the keys on the little table when you move out,” she threw at him. “Hope Regina doesn’t kill you for the state of the apartment.”
The door slammed. Oleg remained alone amid the wreckage.
Part 5. The Collapse of an Empire of Illusions
The silence in the apartment was ominous. Oleg went to the window, watching Inga’s car drive away. He still believed it was just a fight. That she’d cool down, come back, apologize. And he’d forgive her—sure, why not.
But the next day it wasn’t Inga who called. The screen showed: “Regina (Owner-Cousin).”
Oleg swallowed and answered.
“Hello, Regina, hi…”
“Hey there, ‘relative,’” Regina’s voice sounded like metal scraping glass. “Inga called me. Said she moved out. True?”
“Well, we had a little fight… She overreacted…”
“I don’t give a damn about your drama,” Regina cut him off. “My deal was with Inga. She’s my sister. You’re nobody to me.”
“But we’re family!” Oleg tried to play his trump card.
“You were family as long as Inga put up with you,” Regina snorted. “Here’s how it is. Want to stay in the apartment—pay market rent. Seventy thousand rubles a month plus utilities. Two months upfront. I’m waiting for the money by tomorrow evening.”
“Seventy?!” Oleg almost dropped his phone. “Regina, where am I supposed to get that kind of money? Have a heart—we’re not strangers!”
“Strangers keep accounts, too,” Regina chuckled. “Money tomorrow, or get out. By tomorrow evening my realtor will come to inspect the place. If it’s filthy or anything’s broken, I’ll send you a bill so big you’ll sell a kidney. Talk soon.”
Beep. Dead line.
Oleg collapsed onto the little bench by the door. Seventy thousand. Plus two months upfront—that’s one hundred forty thousand. He had three thousand rubles on his card until payday.
He started frantically calling friends. Everyone refused. He’d borrowed too much lately to show off for relatives, and repaid too little.
He had to call his mother in Saratov. She cried and said her pension barely covered лекарства.
That evening he packed his things—two bags of clothes and his laptop—and went to Pashka, an old friend from school. Pashka lived in a twenty-square-meter studio that smelled of cat litter and cheap tobacco.
“Fine, stay for now,” Pashka grunted, nudging a pile of dirty laundry aside with his foot to make room for a folding cot. “You cover half the rent and we split food.”
Oleg’s life turned into hell. Sleeping on a broken cot, eating instant noodles, and listening to Pashka snore was unbearable. But the final straw was the visit of his own brother, Igor.
Igor was a successful предприниматель, lived in a neighboring region, but came to the capital often for business. Oleg called him, painted the situation as “temporary difficulties because of that bitch wife,” and asked for money.
Igor set a meeting at a café. Oleg walked there, saving on the метро. He looked pitiful.
Igor ordered himself a steak. He didn’t even offer Oleg coffee.
“Well, talk,” his brother said, cutting the meat.
Oleg started whining—about greedy Inga, insolent Regina, hard life. He went on and on, savoring his own self-pity, until Igor put down his fork.
“You done?” his brother asked.
“Uh… yeah. Igoryok, I just need fifty thousand. I’ll get back on my feet—I’ll pay you back.”
Igor wiped his lips with a napkin and looked at Oleg the way you look at a squashed cockroach.
“I’m not giving you money.”
“Why?” Oleg blurted. “But you’ve got—”
“Because you’re an idiot, Oleg.”
Oleg opened his mouth, but Igor lifted a hand.
“You screwed up—sorry for the language—a great woman. Inga pulled you like a locomotive. Worked, earned, endured your relatives. And you? You’re nothing. You wanted to look крутой on someone else’s dime. Ever heard ‘a sucker’s greed ruins him’?”
“How dare you…”
“Shut up. You dragged a pack of freeloaders into her home, humiliated your wife, and now you sit here whining. You’re not a man, Oleg. You’re a паразит. I’d give Inga money for a business—she’s smart. But you? Not a kopek.”
Igor tossed a bill on the table to cover his meal, stood up, and walked out.
“Igor!” Oleg shouted after him. “We’re brothers! Blood is thicker than water!”
His brother didn’t even turn around.
Oleg stayed seated at the empty table in the middle of the noisy café. A waiter came over and silently cleared Igor’s plate.
“Will you be ordering anything?” he asked indifferently.
Oleg searched his pockets. Empty.
“No,” he whispered. “Nothing.”
He went outside. A cold wind blew, cutting to the bone. There was nowhere to go except back to Pashka’s stinking studio. For the first time in his life, Oleg understood there was no one to blame. And that understanding only made it страшнее. He took out his phone, wanted to call Inga, but remembered her eyes—burning with hatred. And he understood he hadn’t burned that bridge with a match. He’d burned it with napalm.
He shoved the phone away and trudged toward the метро, dissolving into the gray crowd—just as lonely and unnecessary as he’d actually been all along