We’re up to our ears in debt, collectors are already ringing the doorbell, and you’re thinking about going to the sea?” the mother-in-law shrieked, clutching the left side of her chest. “You’ve got no conscience, Irka! Hand over your vacation pay if you’re so rich!”
Lyudmila Arkadyevna collapsed theatrically onto a worn kitchen stool, her whole performance screaming “incoming heart attack.” Beside her stood Zhanna, arms folded across her chest. At thirty-five she looked meticulously groomed—almost too much so: fresh manicure, eyelash extensions, a gold chain as thick as a little finger. Only her eyes darted, angry and afraid.
“Mom’s right,” Zhanna hissed, not even looking at her sister-in-law. “My loan payment is three months overdue. If I don’t put in sixty thousand now, the bank will sue. And you… you’re going to warm your belly in the sun?”
Irina stood by the window with her back to them, staring out at the gray, dusty courtyard of their five-story building. Inside, everything trembled like a taut wire, but her face remained unreadable. Nineteen years of marriage to Sergey had taught her the main rule: whoever loses it first, loses.
“The money for the sea is earmarked savings,” she said calmly, as if she were speaking at a meeting in her transport company. “I set it aside for two years. Five thousand from each paycheck. Zhanna, in those two years you changed three phones and went to Turkey. I didn’t say a word then.”
“That was Turkey!” the sister-in-law shrieked. “It was all-inclusive, a last-minute deal! Sergey, why are you silent? Tell her! Your sister is going under!”
Sergey sat at the table, rolling a bread crumb between his fingers, shrinking into his shoulders. He was forty-one, but under the crossfire of his mother and sister he looked like a guilty teenager. His big, work-worn hands—hands of a маршрутка driver—trembled slightly.
“Ira, maybe… maybe she’s right?” he mumbled without raising his eyes. “We could go next year? Mom’s nervous… I feel sorry for Zhanna.”
Irina turned slowly. The cold gray of her eyes burned straight through him.
“Sorry?” she repeated softly. “And you don’t feel sorry for me, Seryozha? I’ve been wearing the same old down jacket for three years. I saved on lunches, carried soup in a jar, while Zhanna ordered rolls. I’ve got asthma from stress, by the way—the doctor said sea air is necessary. Either we go, or I file for divorce. Choose.”
An unnatural silence hung over the kitchen. The only sound was water dripping from the old faucet. Lyudmila Arkadyevna, forgetting her “heart attack,” straightened up and narrowed her eyes.
“Blackmailing him?” she hissed. “Trying to steal my son? He’ll be lost without us! You’ve always been a miser, Irka. A pathetic little bean-counter. People are suffering, and she counts pennies.”
“This isn’t suffering, Lyudmila Arkadyevna,” Irina cut in sharply. “It’s financial illiteracy. Zhanna took out a consumer loan for a fur coat when her salary was twenty thousand. That’s math, not tragedy.”
Irina walked to the table, took her handbag, and pulled out a folder with the tickets.
“We’re leaving tomorrow at five in the morning. Train to Adler. Sergey—if you’re staying, leave the apartment keys on the dresser. I’m tired of pulling everyone’s load.”
She left the kitchen, closing the door firmly behind her, but even through the wall she could hear her mother-in-law wailing curses at the “selfish woman,” and Zhanna breaking into sobs.
That evening, as they packed a suitcase in their little two-room apartment, Sergey tried to start a conversation.
“Ira… why did you talk to my mom like that? She’s old…”
Irina was neatly stacking his T-shirts. Her hands froze for a second.
“Seryozha, do you know what the law of conservation of energy is?” she asked without turning around. “If something increases somewhere, it decreases somewhere else. Your sister lives beyond her means by taking energy and money from us. I talked to a lawyer at work. Do you know what subsidiary liability is? No? Well—also, we’re not obliged to pay relatives’ debts unless we were guarantors. You didn’t sign anything, did you?”
“No… I don’t think so,” Sergey said, frightened.
“Good. Under the Civil Code, everyone is responsible for their own obligations. Zhanna should have filed for personal bankruptcy a long time ago if she dug herself into a pit like this. It’s a legal way out, even if it has consequences. But it’s easier to squeeze it out of her brother instead, right?”
Sergey said nothing. He knew his wife was right. Irina had always been like this—proper, “boring,” dependable. Like a rock. But today that rock had cracked.
Irina sat on the edge of the bed and covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders began to shake.
“Ira? What’s wrong?” Sergey sat down beside her, confused, and awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders.
“I just want to see the sea, Seryozha…” she whispered through tears, and there was so much pain in that whisper that Sergey’s heart clenched. “I’m tired. I’m so tired of counting every kopeck, tired of being strong, tired of being the bad one for your relatives. I just want—just once—to live for us. Do you understand? My mom died without ever leaving the region even once. Always saving, always denying herself, always helping others. I don’t want that life…”
She looked up at him with wet eyes. There was no steel in them—only vulnerable, childlike hurt, and fear that life was slipping by. And in that moment Sergey suddenly saw her not as “the accountant,” not as “the housekeeper,” but as the girl he’d fallen in love with twenty years ago. He saw the silver strands at her temples, the fine lines around her eyes, her tired fingers.
Something in his soul flipped over. Shame—hot, burning—flooded his face. He was a grown man, and he’d let his mother and sister wipe their feet on the only person who truly took care of him.
“Okay, okay,” he said, pulling her close and stroking her hair. “We’ll go. We won’t give anyone anything. Let Zhanna deal with it herself. You’re right—enough.”
In the morning Sergey’s phone was torn apart by calls. “Mom” flashed on the screen every five minutes.
“Don’t answer,” Irina said quietly, watching birch trees slide past the train window.
Sergey looked at the phone, then at his wife. Her face—for the first time in a long while—was relaxed. She gazed out the window and smiled faintly, holding a glass of tea in a metal cup holder.
He pressed the volume button to mute it and turned the phone face down.
“You know,” he said, cracking a boiled egg, “Zhanna really could sell her car. Why does she need a crossover in the city if she’s always begging us for gas money?”
Irina nodded, sipping her tea.
“People naturally look for easy paths, Seryozha. Parasiting is easier than admitting mistakes. Psychologists call it ‘learned helplessness.’ As long as you keep giving, they’ll keep taking. When you stop—there’ll be hysteria, then anger, and then… they’ll have to grow up. Zhanna is thirty-five, but she acts like a spoiled teenager. By helping, we’re only harming her—we’re not letting her learn the lesson.”
“You’re a smart one,” Sergey sighed, but there was no irritation in his voice anymore—only respect.
A day later they stood on a pebble beach. The sea was stormy. Huge gray waves crashed onto the shore, scattering spray. The air smelled of salt and iodine—a scent you can’t confuse with anything else.
Irina walked right up to the waterline. Spray hit her face, mixing with fresh tears. But these were different tears: tears of relief, tears of cleansing. She took a deep breath, feeling her lungs fill with damp, healing air, and the spasm that had been gripping her chest for the past six months began to loosen.
Sergey came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Forgive me, Ira,” he shouted over the roar of the surf. “For Mom, for Zhanka. For the way I… I’m a doormat.”
“You’re not a doormat,” she covered his hands with hers. “You’re just too kind. But kindness has to have fists. Or at least boundaries.”
The phone in Sergey’s pocket vibrated again. A message from Zhanna: “Traitors! We had to call an ambulance for Mom! I hate you!”
Sergey took out the phone and read it. Before, he would have panicked—called, apologized, transferred the last of their money. But now, looking at the endless horizon and feeling his wife’s warmth, he understood one simple thing: his mother called an ambulance every time something didn’t go according to her plan. It was a performance—and he no longer wanted to buy a ticket.
He tapped “Block contact.” Then found his mother’s number and did the same.
Sergey lifted his head. Irina was standing waist-deep in the water, waving at him—like a girl who had finally broken free.
He exhaled slowly and walked toward her, feeling the old skin peel away with each step: fear, guilt, the habit of obeying. Behind him on the shore remained the luggage, the past mistakes, and the voices that had run his life for years.
“Coming?” Irina called, splashing water.
“Coming,” he answered—and smiled in a way he hadn’t smiled in ten years.
He stepped into the sea beside her.
And for the first time in many years, he felt he was making the right choice—a choice for his family, not for other people’s demands, tears, and debts.
Irina touched his hand.
He squeezed her fingers.
“Will we manage?” she asked softly.
“Now we will,” Sergey said firmly. “Now—for sure.”
And a wave washed over them both—clean, cold, alive—as if rinsing away the life they were never going back to