— I’m going to hit you, Andrey! — Olga said, slamming her palm on the table so hard that the spoon jumped out of the mug and clicked sharply against the laptop lid. — Do you even understand what you’ve done?
He sat there with his eyes downcast—like a little boy caught doing something stupid. Only instead of a school notebook, it was his phone. And on the phone—messages. And not with just anyone, but with his mother. Galina Petrovna. A walking directive. Always in a robe, with a mind where Lenin’s portrait hangs in the most visible place.
“Olga’s saving up, but she doesn’t tell us. Probably over a million. Talk to her. She’s your wife, not a stranger.” Olga read it aloud, and the word “saving” sounded as if they were talking about something explosive.
— I… well… she asked… how we were doing… and I told her… — Andrey fidgeted, rubbing his temples like there was an Undo button hidden somewhere.
— You told her? Seriously? For six years I scraped together every penny while you paid off Svetka’s credit cards and transferred money to Igor for “new winter tires.” Six years, Andrey! I didn’t take a vacation for two years just to save for a down payment. And now what—do we share it with the Petrovich clan?
He raised his head, guilty like a cat caught licking sour cream.
— Ol… you know Mom’s pension is small, and Svetka and Igor are dragging that mortgage…
— And what am I—Promsvyazbank? I’m dragging things too. I’m dragging you, Andryusha. And your mother. And her “small” pension of thirty-six thousand. And Svetka, who’s “temporarily not working,” but goes for a manicure every week like it’s church.
He lifted his hands as if she were about to hit him. But she wasn’t going to. Her weapon was her tongue—sharp as a scalpel.
— Do you even realize what you did? You went and leaked my entire financial life. To your mother. To your mother, Andrey! And then you’re surprised I’m not having a baby, not going to the sea, and look like a zombie.
He stood up, came closer, reached for her.
— Don’t touch me, — she stepped back. — My hands are still hot. And you… you know, I thought you were a man. But you’re a family lightning rod. Whoever shouts louder—that’s where the lightning strikes. I warned you. Once. Twice. And now…
She opened the laptop, logged into the banking app. The numbers glinted coldly: 1,416,200 rubles. Money untouched even once. Years of work, night shifts, denying herself.
— I’m leaving, Andrey.
— Where?
— Back to myself. To reality. Where I won’t have to be afraid that what I put under my pillow will get pulled out from under it. Tomorrow I’ll start looking for an apartment.
He followed her like a puppy.
— Ol, come on… I didn’t mean to…
— And I did, Andrey. I meant to live in peace. I meant to be married, not a self-checkout machine. But what I got was the Galina Petrovna Family Show. I’m background extra. She’s the director.
He sat down. Silent. And she went into the bedroom and shut the door. Not out of anger—out of exhaustion.
Morning was quiet. Too quiet. Olga woke up before her alarm, stared at the ceiling, and suddenly understood: that’s it. Enough. A life where you have to prove that the money you earned isn’t a communal feeding trough isn’t life. It’s smiling slavery.
She walked to the window. Down below, an old Ford honked—Andrey was leaving for work. She didn’t go out. Didn’t wave. He didn’t expect her to. An ordinary morning—except something in the air clicked. A thin thread snapped.
At lunchtime the phone rang. “Galina Petrovna.” Olga even smiled—a wolfish smile.
— Yes, I’m listening.
— Olga, here’s what I’m thinking. Andryushenka and I decided. You’re great for saving. But that’s for the family, right?
— No.
— What do you mean, no?
— I mean no. That money is mine. I saved it. I worked for it. Without holidays, without lunch breaks, without smoke breaks. This isn’t the family budget, Galina Petrovna. It’s six years of my life. If you want a piece—start with gratitude. Not demands.
— Girl, don’t forget yourself. You married into a family. We share everything. Svetka’s husband quit, Igor has no car…
— And I, you know, have a conscience. And dignity. So—sorry. The bank is closed. Forever.
Beeps. Emptiness. And the feeling that her chest had gotten lighter.
In the evening Andrey came home as if nothing had happened.
— I brought rolls. Salmon, like you love?
She looked at him. At the man who betrayed her not with a mistress, but with his own weakness. And somehow that was worse.
— No, thanks. I ordered a taxi. I’m going to a friend’s for a couple of days.
— Ol, are you serious?
— More than.
Before leaving she stopped in the entryway. He sat on a stool, bewildered like a student with an F. Not evil—no. Just weak.
— Andrey, I once loved you very much. But do you know what kills love the fastest? Not cheating. Not even lies. It’s casual betrayal. When you “didn’t mean to”… but you hit anyway.
He was silent. And she left. Quietly. But forever. Or… almost forever.
— Give your mother an apartment? Do you want to gift her your head too?! — Antonina howled and slammed the door.
Galina Petrovna sat at the kitchen table. In front of her was a cup of chamomile tea that smelled like they weren’t brewing herbs, but poison.
— So, Olechka, sit down. I have news.
Olga stood in the doorway. To sit down meant accepting the format of a “heart-to-heart talk,” and she came only for her documents. Not for this poison. On the curtain the old slogan still hung: “Family is the most important thing!” Funny.
— You have two minutes. Then I’m calling a taxi.
— Why are you so ungrateful? — her mother-in-law sighed, clasping her hands theatrically. — I treat you like a daughter, and you act like you’re in court. We’re family.
— We were. And even then not out of love, but by contract. You dripped poison, I endured it. The installment plan on my patience is over.
Galina Petrovna shifted in her chair. It was obvious she had prepared her lines in advance, but they crumbled under Olga’s calm stare. No tears. No pleading. She stood like a surgeon before an autopsy.
— Fine, listen. — Her mother-in-law snapped into a businesslike tone. — Andrey said you’re divorcing. You left. And you won’t come back?
— Correct. And I won’t give you my address. Fewer reasons for “accidental visits.”
— And did you think what this will do to him? To the family? Svetka and Igor are in shock. We counted on you. We thought you were smart. But you’re acting like a teenager.
— A teenager is when I cry into my pillow and hope someone notices. Right now I’m an adult. Tired. Without sentiment. And I’m not counting on you. Not morally, not financially.
— Then sorry. We have a counteroffer for you.
— What? — Olga narrowed her eyes.
— Come back to Andrey. We’ll make a deal. You’ll give half your savings to Svetlana for renovations—she’s going to have a baby, the family is growing—and then we won’t fight anymore. We’ll even let you help with the grandkids when they’re born. You want children, don’t you?
Olga froze. This was the moment when pain stopped being a scream and turned into icy indifference.
— You… want to buy me with promises about someone else’s children?
— Olechka, come on… We’re thinking about the future. Andrey can’t manage without you. Svetka is worried. All of us need to somehow—
— All of you need to unhook yourselves from me. I’m not an ATM. Not a psychotherapist. And not a surrogate mother for your spineless son. And you, Galina Petrovna… you’re a monster in a bathrobe.
Her mother-in-law jumped up and slammed her palm on the table.
— And you! You! You rose on our shoulders, in our house! And now you’re too important? Without us, who are you? A paycheck with legs?
— No, — Olga answered calmly. — I’m a woman who learned to love herself. Which means you’re no longer my relatives.
At that moment Andrey walked into the kitchen.
— Mom, I asked you not to…
Olga looked at him. The same old him—sweatpants, a penitent expression. And, as always, he didn’t stand between her and this hell. He just watched like an extra in someone else’s play.
— You’re seriously letting her say this? — she asked quietly. — You sat in the next room and thought, “Let them talk”? Like a board of shareholders?
He lowered his eyes.
— I didn’t want to interfere…
— Of course. What if Mom gets offended.
Silence hung—thick as old jelly.
— Andrey, we would have divorced anyway. Because you’re not a husband. You’re… you’re like a rag—convenient, but nothing. I dragged all of you along, thinking: maybe someday I’ll truly love you? But do you know when I finally stopped?
He stayed silent. Not because he didn’t want to know. Because he already knew.
— When at the restaurant you told the waiter: “Let Olechka pay—she got a bonus.”
He shut his eyes. Ashamed. But too late.
An hour later Olga walked out of her mother-in-law’s house with a folder of documents in her hands. Behind her—six years among people who called themselves family, but in truth were strangers. Her chest burned, as if something had been scorched to ash. Or maybe—finally cleaned out.
Her phone rang. A WhatsApp group: “Family.”
Galina Petrovna: Olga, you’re selfish. You ruined everything.
Svetlana: We believed in you.
Igor: Good luck alone. Money isn’t love.
Olga started typing. Deleted it. Typed again.
You didn’t ruin anything, because I never built anything with you. Good riddance.
And she left the chat.
She stopped at a crossroads. Wind tugged at her hair. Her heart beat fast—painfully even. But inside there was no emptiness anymore. There was rage, resolve. And suddenly—relief. The kind where, for the first time in years, you can breathe with a full chest.
Behind her—her past. Ahead—unknown. But at least it was hers. Honest.
— This is OUR home, and your mother will NEVER live here! — Svetka screamed, slamming the door so hard the dishes on the shelf trembled.
The phone rang as Olga stood by the window with a cup of coffee.
— Hello, Olga? This is Grishin from the central office. We want to see you here. In Moscow. A serious offer.
Olga set the cup down on the windowsill and pressed the phone to her ear.
— Is this “think about it,” or “pack your suitcase”?
— Pack your suitcase. You were on the shortlist, and after the latest reports the decision is obvious. Level, salary, temporary housing—everything is covered.
She went quiet. Not because she didn’t know what to say, but because a phrase suddenly sounded in her head: “You’re free. Completely. And you’re wanted—for your mind, not your money.”
— I agree, — she exhaled. — And thank you. Truly.
Three days passed. The new rented apartment smelled of clean towels and fresh hope. In the corner were three boxes—clothes, laptop, documents. Her whole life fit into three boxes. Everything else turned out not to be hers.
Someone knocked.
She opened the door. Andrey stood on the threshold—tired, with dark circles under his eyes. He looked like someone who’d escaped a home that was warm but empty.
— Why did you come? — calm, but without softness.
— I wanted to talk. Six years together, after all.
— Six years of what? It wasn’t a marriage. It was a business—with one losing side. Mine in the red, yours in comfort.
— Ol… I was wrong to tell Mom about the money. I just wanted her to…
— To stop whining? To be proud of you? Andryusha, you didn’t want anything. You just chose what would make them bother you less. I can be bothered. Mom—scary.
He sat on the edge of the windowsill and looked at her like a schoolboy who finally understood why he got an F.
— I remember how tired you were. How you carried everything. And you know what hurts most? You never once asked. And I never once offered. I’m sorry.
She sighed. Not anger—fatigue.
— I forgive you. But I’m not coming back. I understood: next to you I turn into a woman with permanent exhaustion and permanent payment for everyone. And I don’t want that anymore. Not even for love.
— But you did love me.
— I did. When you weren’t Mom’s little boy, but the man who made me tea and said, “You’ll manage.” Then you started asking only for money. And I started waiting for payday just so you wouldn’t get irritated.
He stood and stepped closer.
— What if I leave them? Drop everything? Start from scratch?
— Too late, Andrey. You already showed who you are. You’re not bad. You’re just weak. And I don’t need weak anymore.
He looked at her for a long time. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words. He turned and went to the door. On the threshold he looked back:
— You’ll be lonely.
Olga smiled—sadly, but honestly.
— Better to be alone than among people who love only your bank balance.
The door closed.
That evening she stood by the window. On her phone—an electronic ticket to Moscow. A new start. A new life. Tears rose, but not from pain anymore—from relief. Like a concrete slab had been lifted off her shoulders.
An empty suitcase stood on the floor. She sat down beside it, hugged her knees, and whispered:
— Thank you, Andrey. For not protecting me. Because now I’ve learned to protect myself.
And for the first time in years—she fell asleep without anxiety. Without “what will people say.” Without “what if he changes.” Simply—fell asleep.