Elena stepped out of the метро and headed toward home. In her hands she carried a cake box from the bakery she passed every day but had never once gone into. Today was a special occasion. An October evening wrapped the city in cool air; wet leaves whispered under her shoes, but Elena barely noticed the weather. Inside, she was practically glowing.
A promotion. Finally.
Three years of relentless work—late nights bent over reports, clashes with suppliers she had to settle with a mix of diplomacy and iron resolve. Elena worked as a procurement manager at a major trading company, and that afternoon the director had summoned her to his office.
“Elena Viktorovna,” Igor Semyonovich said, leaning back in his leather chair, “we’ve appreciated your performance. Starting November 1st, you’ll become head of the procurement department.”
Elena didn’t grasp it right away. Head of department. A raise. A new office. The respect of colleagues. A clear acknowledgment that she truly deserved the position. Igor Semyonovich extended his hand; Elena shook it, trying not to show how hard her fingers were trembling.
“Thank you. I’ll do my best to justify your trust.”
“I have no doubt,” he nodded.
After work, Elena stopped by the bakery and bought a cake. Pavel—her husband—was waiting at home. She wanted to celebrate together, just the two of them, with coffee. She wanted to tell him how long she’d fought for this, how proud and scared she felt stepping into a new level of responsibility. Pavel was supposed to share her happiness. After all, they’d been married for five years.
Elena unlocked the apartment and stepped into the entryway. The air smelled of fried onions and something else—maybe chicken. From the living room came the blare of a television: some talk show with loud voices talking over one another. Elena slipped off her heels, set the cake box on the small table, and walked into the living room.
Pavel was on the couch with his feet stretched out on the coffee table. He held his phone, eyes locked on the screen, scrolling and smirking now and then. A plate with the remains of dinner sat on the table; the remote was tossed beside it.
“Hi,” Elena said, stopping in the doorway.
“Mm-hm,” Pavel muttered without lifting his eyes from his phone.
Elena went to the kitchen, put the kettle on, took out two mugs, and arranged the cake on a plate. Her hands shook slightly with anticipation. She wanted everything to be right. She wanted Pavel to be happy with her—to hug her, to say something warm.
She returned to the living room with two cups of coffee and the cake, cleared his dirty dish off the table first, and set everything down.
“Pavel,” Elena began, sitting beside him. “I’ve got news.”
“Mmm?” He was still staring at his phone.
“I got promoted today,” Elena said, keeping her excitement under control. “I’m head of the procurement department now.”
Pavel finally looked up. He glanced at Elena, then at the cake, then back at Elena—and shrugged.
“So?” he asked with indifference. “I don’t care.”
Elena froze. His words hung in the air—cold and heavy.
“What do you mean, you don’t care?” she asked quietly.
“I mean exactly that.” Pavel dropped his eyes back to the screen. “More work. More stress. Why did you even need that?”
“Pavel, it’s a promotion. I’ve been working toward this for three years!” Elena’s voice trembled.
“Tomorrow Mom and Kristina are moving in with us,” Pavel continued, as if he hadn’t heard a single word. “Help them move. There’s a lot of stuff—they can’t handle it alone.”
Elena flinched.
“What? Moving in with us? When was that decided?”
“Yesterday. I called Mom—she said they’re having problems with their apartment. Something with the pipes. Repairs will take a while, so we decided they’ll stay with us for now.”
“Did you even ask me?” Elena sat up straighter.
“Why would I ask? She’s my mother, and Kristina’s my sister. Where else are they supposed to go?”
“But we have a two-room apartment! Where are they going to live?”
“In your room. You’ll move in with me. If you have to, you can sleep on the couch in the living room. We’ll make it work.”
Elena couldn’t believe what she was hearing. He said it like it was nothing—as if this wasn’t her life he was rearranging, but just furniture.
“Pavel, I have work tomorrow. I can’t help with the move. I’ve got a supplier meeting at ten, then a briefing.”
“You’ll ask off. Or take a day off. Family comes first.”
“I just got promoted! I can’t take time off right now!”
Pavel finally raised his eyes, irritation flashing.
“Elena, enough. Mom needs help. Kristina needs support. You do realize I can’t do it all by myself? I have work too.”
“Work?” Elena let out a bitter little laugh. “You work three days a week as a security guard at a mall.”
“So what?” Pavel snapped. “That’s still work! Not everyone gets to sit in offices and become ‘managers’!”
“That’s not what I meant! I’m saying I’m at a crucial point right now. I can’t just take a day off whenever.”
“So my family doesn’t matter to you, is that it?” Pavel threw his phone onto the couch and crossed his arms.
“Your family? And what am I?” Elena asked softly.
“You’re my wife. And that’s my mother. Feel the difference?”
Elena stood up. Something inside her tightened into a hard knot. The joy she’d carried home dissolved without a trace. The cake on the table felt like mockery. Elena went to the kitchen, poured the coffee down the sink, and washed the cups. Her hands moved on autopilot; her thoughts tangled.
How had this happened? When had Pavel become like this? Or had he always been, and Elena simply refused to see it?
She remembered how they met—five years earlier at a mutual friend’s birthday party. Pavel had seemed charming and attentive. He courted her beautifully—flowers, cafés, thoughtful little gestures. They married a year later. At first everything was good. Then, gradually, something changed.
Pavel began leaning on his mother more and more. Nina Fyodorovna called every day, sometimes several times. She asked for one thing, then another. Pavel dropped everything and rushed over. Elena tried to be understanding at first. Nina Fyodorovna had been widowed three years earlier and was raising her younger daughter, Kristina, alone. Of course Pavel wanted to help.
But the requests became more and more demanding. Nina Fyodorovna insisted Pavel come every weekend. Then she started coming herself, staying overnight, criticizing Elena. Kristina began showing up more often too. She was twenty-two, a university student, but acted like a spoiled child.
“Elena, can you wash my dress?” Kristina would say, handing it to her. “I don’t have time—classes tomorrow.”
“Elena, make something good,” Nina Fyodorovna would request. “My fridge at home is empty; I didn’t have time to cook.”
Elena tried to stay calm. But every time she attempted to talk to Pavel, he waved her off.
“You’re exaggerating. They’re just asking for help. What’s wrong with that?”
Now Nina Fyodorovna and Kristina were moving in. For good? For a week? A month? Pavel hadn’t said. He simply informed her. Elena was expected to help, to care, to serve. And her own achievements meant nothing to anyone.
Elena returned to the living room. Pavel was already back on his phone, as if the conversation had never happened.
“Pavel, we need to discuss this,” Elena said firmly.
“What’s there to discuss? It’s already decided.”
“No, it isn’t. This is my home too. I have a right to a say.”
Pavel looked up; irritation flickered in his eyes.
“The apartment is mine. It’s in my name. You’re just registered here.”
Elena knew that. The place really did belong to Pavel. He’d gotten it from his father before they married. Back then Elena hadn’t cared. She thought paperwork didn’t matter when you were a family.
“Fine,” she exhaled. “But I can’t take tomorrow off. I need to be at work.”
“Then you’ll help after work. We’ll unpack in the evening.”
“Pavel, it’s going to be a brutal day. I’ll come home exhausted.”
“Everyone’s tired. You’re not the only one.”
Elena turned and went into the bedroom. She closed the door and sat on the bed. She wanted to cry, but no tears came. Only emptiness—cold, heavy emptiness.
The next morning Elena got up early. Pavel was still asleep. She dressed, drank coffee standing at the kitchen counter, and left. On her way to work, she kept thinking about last night’s “conversation.” Except it hadn’t been a conversation at all. It had been Pavel’s monologue—one in which her opinion didn’t exist.
Work was relentless: the supplier meeting, negotiations over new contracts, then a briefing with the director. Igor Semyonovich introduced Elena to the other department heads. Colleagues congratulated her, shook her hand. Some were sincerely happy; others looked envious. But it was recognition. Elena had earned it.
That evening she returned home, unlocked the door—and stopped in the doorway. Boxes, bags, and bundles were piled everywhere. The narrow hallway had turned into a storage room.
“Lena, finally!” Nina Fyodorovna’s voice rang out from inside. “Come help us unpack!”
Elena took off her shoes, placed her bag neatly on the table, and walked into the room. Nina Fyodorovna stood in the middle of Elena’s bedroom, commanding Kristina, who was pulling clothes out of a suitcase.
“Hello, Nina Fyodorovna,” Elena said, controlled.
“Hello, Lenochka,” her mother-in-law replied with a strained smile. “Well? Are you going to help, or are you just going to stand there?”
“I just got home from work. Can I change first?”
“Of course. Of course. Just hurry—we’ve got so much to do.”
Elena went into the living room. Pavel was sitting on the couch watching TV, as if nothing was happening.
“Pavel, where are my things?” Elena asked.
“I moved them into the living room. There’s a box by the window.”
Elena walked over. Sure enough, a cardboard box sat in the corner—her clothes shoved inside carelessly. Everything was wrinkled, piled in a mess.
“Are you serious?” Elena turned toward her husband.
“What?” Pavel shrugged without taking his eyes off the screen.
“My clothes are just dumped in a box.”
“So? You’ll sort them later. I didn’t have time to fold everything nicely.”
Elena clenched her fists. She wanted to scream, to throw the box, to demand respect. But she stayed silent. She took the box to the bathroom, changed, and went back to the bedroom.
“Lena, help Kristina hang her dresses in the closet,” Nina Fyodorovna ordered.
“Nina Fyodorovna, I’m exhausted. Can I rest for a bit?”
“You’ll rest later. We need help now.”
Elena looked at Kristina. The girl sat on the bed scrolling through her phone while her mother unpacked.
“Kristina could hang her own dresses,” Elena said.
“She has an exam tomorrow. She needs to study,” Nina Fyodorovna snapped.
“I have an important meeting tomorrow.”
“A meeting and an exam aren’t the same thing. School matters more.”
Elena didn’t argue. She took the dresses and began hanging them on hangers. Nina Fyodorovna continued directing—what goes where, how to fold things, what to move. Kristina occasionally looked up from her phone and nodded.
Two hours passed. Elena could barely stand. A full day at work, then moving and unpacking. She wanted nothing more than to lie down and shut her eyes.
“That’s it, Nina Fyodorovna. I can’t anymore,” Elena said. “I’m going to rest.”
“Fine, go. We’ll finish ourselves,” her mother-in-law allowed, as if she were doing Elena a favor.
Elena left the bedroom and went to the living room. Pavel was still on the couch.
“Where am I supposed to sleep?” she asked.
“Here. On the couch. Fold it out and go to bed.”
“Pavel, this couch is narrow. I won’t sleep.”
“You’ll manage. It’s temporary.”
“How temporary?”
“I don’t know. Mom said two or three weeks. Maybe a month.”
Elena sank onto the couch. A month. A month living in the living room, sleeping on an uncomfortable couch, serving her mother-in-law and sister-in-law—while her husband couldn’t even pretend to sympathize.
“Pavel, do you understand how hard this is for me?”
“It’s hard for everyone. Stop whining.”
“I’m not whining. I just want you to hear me.”
Pavel finally looked away from the TV and met her eyes.
“I hear you. But what do you want? You want me to throw my mom and sister out onto the street? That’s impossible.”
“I’m not asking you to throw anyone out. I’m asking you to at least talk to me before you make decisions like this.”
“The decision’s been made. Live with it.”
Elena got up and went into the kitchen. She opened the fridge, took out the leftover cake she’d bought the day before, grabbed a fork, and ate a slice standing right there with the refrigerator door open. The cake was sweet, but it didn’t taste like celebration. It tasted like bitterness.
Days passed. The apartment turned into a warehouse. Boxes in the hallway, bags stacked against the wall, pots taking over half the kitchen. Nina Fyodorovna’s bedding lay in piles on the shelves, pushing Elena’s things aside. Elena went looking for her face cream and discovered it in a box on the balcony—where Pavel had shoved “everything extra.”
Nina Fyodorovna took over the kitchen from morning to night. She rearranged jars, shifted dishes, explained where it was “better” to keep the grains.
“Lena, you put the spices wrong,” her mother-in-law would say, pulling the jars out of the cabinet. “They need to be lined up by height—that’s more convenient. Here, I’ll show you.”
Elena watched in silence as Nina Fyodorovna rebuilt the kitchen to suit herself. Elena tried to object, but her mother-in-law didn’t listen.
“I’m only trying to help. I’ve got more experience—I know what’s right.”
Kristina settled in just as quickly. She claimed the bathroom every morning for an hour, doing her “routine.” Elena would stand outside the door holding her towel and makeup bag, waiting. Music played inside, water ran, Kristina laughed into her phone.
“Kristina, are you almost done?” Elena would knock.
“Yeah, just a minute!” Kristina would call back—and twenty more minutes would pass before the door finally opened.
Kristina would stroll out in a robe, hair wrapped in a towel, and drift past Elena as if she were invisible.
“Sorry—just did a face mask. Skin needs care.”
After her bathroom marathon, Kristina would sink into an armchair with her phone, scrolling endlessly. She spent her days on social media, only pausing to eat.
“Kristina, could you help around the apartment?” Elena asked one day.
“I don’t have time. I’ve got school,” Kristina replied without looking up.
“But you’ve been on your phone for three hours.”
“I’m resting. Studying gives me a headache.”
Elena stopped asking. She understood it was pointless. Kristina was used to having everything done for her—first by her mother, now by her brother’s wife.
Pavel kept insisting it was temporary. Every time Elena asked about timelines, he waved her off.
“Another week and they’ll leave.”
But the week went by, and Nina Fyodorovna and Kristina weren’t going anywhere. Worse—her mother-in-law began discussing who would sleep where permanently.
“Kristina needs her own room. The girl has to study,” Nina Fyodorovna said over dinner. “Pavlusha, maybe you and Lena should move into the living room? That couch folds out.”
“Mom, let’s talk about it later,” Pavel answered vaguely.
“What’s there to talk about? We’re family. We have to help each other.”
Elena’s fists curled under the table. She wanted to shout that this wasn’t a discussion—it was an order. That the apartment wasn’t made of rubber. That she was exhausted living on a couch. But she kept quiet. She knew if she spoke, a fight would start—and Pavel always took his mother’s side.
One evening Elena came home earlier than usual. A meeting had been canceled, and she’d stopped at the pharmacy for medicine. She opened the apartment door and heard voices in the hallway. Nina Fyodorovna was speaking to the neighbor, Tatyana Ivanovna.
“Yes, the apartment used to be Grandma’s—now it’s Pavlusha’s,” Nina Fyodorovna said. “Let the daughter-in-law be grateful they even let her live here. We’ll be living here now too. There’s plenty of room.”
Elena’s face went pale. She froze in the doorway, unable to move. The words hit like a slap. Let her be grateful they let her live here. As if Elena were a stranger—living here only by permission.
Tatyana Ivanovna replied with something, but Elena didn’t hear it. Everything inside her went numb. She walked quietly into the living room, put her bag on the couch, and sat down. Her hands trembled. Breathing felt difficult.
They let her live here.
Five years of marriage. Five years in this apartment—and all that time Elena had been nothing but a temporary guest. Pavel never called it “their” home. He always emphasized that the apartment belonged to him. Elena hadn’t wanted to see what that meant. She thought those things didn’t matter between spouses. She was wrong.
Nina Fyodorovna walked into the living room and saw Elena.
“Oh, Lena, you’re already home? So early?”
“The meeting was canceled,” Elena answered quietly.
“Good. Then you’ll help me cook dinner. I can’t manage alone.”
Elena looked at her. Nina Fyodorovna stood in the doorway, waiting—certain Elena would stand up and go to the kitchen, like always.
“No,” Elena said.
“What do you mean, no?” her mother-in-law blinked.
“I’m not cooking dinner. I’m tired.”
“Lena, don’t be difficult. Everyone needs to eat.”
“Then cook it yourself. Or ask Kristina.”
Nina Fyodorovna’s eyebrows tightened.
“What’s wrong with you today? Bad mood?”
“I’m fine. I’m just not doing this anymore.”
“Not doing what?”
“Serving you.”
Her mother-in-law straightened, crossing her arms.
“Pavlusha!” Nina Fyodorovna called. “Come here!”
Pavel walked out of the bedroom.
“What’s going on?”
“Your wife is refusing to help around the house,” his mother complained.
Pavel looked at Elena.
“Lena, what’s the problem?”
“The problem is I’m tired of being treated like a maid,” Elena replied calmly.
“No one’s saying you’re a maid. We just need help.”
“I’ve been helping. Every day. And it’s never enough.”
“Stop making a scene,” Pavel grimaced. “Dinner needs to be cooked.”
“Cook it yourself. Or ask your mother.”
Pavel’s face reddened.
“I’m tired from work.”
“I’m tired too.”
“Lena, you’re acting like a child.”
“No, Pavel. I’m acting like an adult who isn’t going to be manipulated anymore.”
Nina Fyodorovna snorted.
“There you go, Pavlusha. That’s your wife—ungrateful.”
Elena rose from the couch.
“Ungrateful? What exactly am I supposed to be grateful for? For ‘letting’ me live here? For sleeping on the couch? For not being asked when you decided your family would move in?”
“That’s my family,” Pavel said.
“And who am I?” Elena asked quietly.
Pavel didn’t answer. The silence stretched—and Elena understood everything. To him, she wasn’t family. She was just a wife. A convenient attachment. Someone who cooks, cleans, endures. Not an equal partner.
“Got it,” Elena nodded.
She went into the bedroom, pulled a suitcase from the closet, and began packing. Pavel followed her in.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out of here.”
“Lena, don’t be stupid. Where will you go?”
“Somewhere. Anywhere—just not here.”
Pavel grabbed her wrist.
“Stop this hysterical nonsense.”
Elena pulled her hand free.
“This isn’t hysteria. It’s a decision.”
“What decision?”
“I’m leaving, Pavel.”
“Because of what? Because Mom and my sister are here?”
“Because you don’t see me as a person. To you I’m a function. Cook, clean, tolerate.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“No, Pavel. You don’t hear me. You never have.”
Elena zipped the suitcase, took her bag with documents—passport, employment record, diplomas. Everything that mattered. Clothes could be replaced. Things could be bought again. But dignity—once you let it be crushed, you don’t get it back.
“Lena… don’t go,” Pavel said more quietly.
“Too late.”
“We can talk about it.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. You made your choice. I’ve made mine.”
Elena walked out of the bedroom. Nina Fyodorovna and Kristina stood in the living room, staring in shock.
“Where are you going?” her mother-in-law demanded.
“Congratulations on the housewarming,” Elena said. “The apartment is yours now—completely.”
“Lena, don’t be an idiot,” Pavel muttered.
Elena turned to him.
“I’m not an idiot, Pavel. I just realized too late who I was living with.”
She opened the door and stepped out. The door slammed behind her. Elena walked down the stairs and onto the street. The autumn evening hit her with wind and cold—but inside, she felt warm. For the first time in a long time, Elena felt free.
The next morning she rented a small studio close to the office. It was tiny, but it was hers. No one told her where to put things. No one took over the bathroom for an hour. No one criticized. Silence. For the first time in ages, Elena heard silence without other people’s voices pressing in.
She unpacked, hung her clothes in the closet, and placed a photo on the table—a snapshot from a corporate event where Elena had received an award for Project of the Year. Two years earlier. Pavel hadn’t come to that event. He’d said he was tired.
Elena sat on the sofa and looked out the window. The city hummed beyond the glass, streetlights glowing, rain falling. But here, in her little studio, it was quiet and calm. That night she slept in a real bed—not on a narrow couch—for the first time in months.
At work, colleagues congratulated her again on the promotion. Igor Semyonovich introduced Elena at the team meeting as the new head of department. People applauded. Some came up to shake her hand, others offered help.
“Elena Viktorovna, congratulations,” said Svetlana from the neighboring department. “You earned this.”
“Thank you,” Elena smiled.
“You look so happy today. Something happen?”
Elena paused. Yes—something had happened. She had finally understood that she deserved more. Not only at work, but in life. She deserved respect, attention, support—not indifference and exploitation.
“It’s just a good day,” Elena replied.
That evening she returned to the studio, cooked dinner, put music on, and sat by the window with a cup of tea as she opened her laptop. She needed to prepare a presentation for tomorrow’s meeting. The work came easily; her thoughts didn’t tangle. No one interrupted. No one demanded her attention.
Her phone rang. Pavel. Elena looked at the screen and declined the call. A minute later a message came through:
“Lena, come back. We’ll talk.”
Elena deleted it and blocked the number. There was nothing to discuss. Everything had already been said. Pavel had chosen his mother and sister. Elena had chosen herself.
A week passed. Elena grew used to her new life. In the mornings she woke up to silence—no Kristina shouting from the bathroom. She ate breakfast calmly—no Nina Fyodorovna issuing instructions. She went to work and returned to an empty apartment. Empty, yes—but hers.
Her coworkers noticed the difference. Elena seemed steadier, more confident. Work went smoothly, projects finished on time. Igor Semyonovich praised her and promised a bonus.
“Elena Viktorovna, you’ve really blossomed,” Svetlana remarked at lunch.
“Life finally settled down,” Elena smiled.
“It shows. You’re glowing.”
Elena thought about it. She was glowing—because for the first time in a long time, she was living for herself. Not for a husband, not for a mother-in-law, not for a spoiled sister-in-law. For herself. And her promotion finally belonged to her—without anyone’s indifference, without being minimized, without control.
That evening Elena walked through the city. She stopped by a bookstore and bought a novel she’d wanted for ages. Then she went into a café, ordered dessert, and sat by the window with coffee, watching people pass outside. For the first time in years, she felt happy—simply happy. No conditions. No “but.”
Her phone rang again. An unknown number. Elena answered.
“Lena, it’s Pavel,” his voice sounded tired. “You blocked me, so I’m calling from someone else’s phone.”
“Why are you calling?” Elena asked calmly.
“I want to talk.”
“About what?”
“About us. Can we meet?”
“Pavel, there’s nothing to talk about.”
“Lena, don’t be like that. I know I was wrong. Mom and Kristina left. You can come back.”
Elena gave a small, humorless smile.
“They left? On their own—or did you kick them out?”
“On their own. The repairs are finished.”
“How convenient.”
“Lena, don’t be mad. Let’s start over.”
“No, Pavel.”
“Why?”
“Because I understood something important. You won’t change. Next time it’ll be the same. Your mother will call, you’ll drop everything and run. And I’ll be last again.”
“I’ll fix it.”
“No, you won’t. And you know what? I don’t care anymore.”
“Lena… you love me.”
Elena thought for a moment. Had she loved him? Probably once. But that love had died—slowly, under the weight of indifference and disrespect.
“I loved you, Pavel. Past tense.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I wish you well. Truly. But we’re not walking the same road.”
Elena ended the call and blocked the new number too. She finished her coffee, picked up her book, and left the café. Evening settled in, streetlights flickering on. The city kept living—and Elena was part of it. Free. Independent. Happy.
She walked down the street smiling. A promotion, a new apartment, a new life—earned, deserved, and built from a choice that finally mattered.
Elena chose herself.
And it was the best decision she’d ever made.