It all began with that phone call on a Wednesday night.
I was at the counter chopping vegetables for stew when Andrey pressed the phone to his chest and, in a guilty voice, said:
“Len… it’s Mom. They want to come stay with us for a bit. Aunt Valya and Uncle Sasha too. And Marina—with the kids.”
I switched off the burner slowly.
“When?”
“Friday. For a week… maybe a little longer.”
A week. Maybe longer. I shut my eyes and counted to ten. We’d already been through this twice in the last year. Their “week” always turned into three. “Come stay” meant I’d be cooking breakfast, lunch, and dinner for seven people—including two school-age kids who rotated their demands like a menu: dumplings, pancakes, cutlets with pasta.
“Andrey, we live in a one-room apartment,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “Where are we even going to put them?”
“Like last time. My parents on our bed, Aunt and Uncle on the couch, Marina and the kids on the fold-out cots. You and I on the floor.”
On the floor.
I remembered how my back ached for two weeks after their last visit. How I got up at six every morning to feed everyone. How our savings disappeared into groceries because not one person even hinted at contributing.
“And who’s paying for the food?” I asked anyway, even though I already knew the answer.
Andrey hesitated.
“Len, come on… they’re family. It’s awkward to ask.”
Awkward. It wasn’t awkward for them to live on our dime—only for us to request the smallest help with expenses.
They arrived Friday with three enormous bags. Not groceries—clothes.
My mother-in-law, Nina Petrovna, walked straight into the kitchen, glanced in the fridge, and clicked her tongue.
“Andrey said you two make good money, but the refrigerator’s practically empty.”
I stood in the hallway clutching the bags of groceries I’d grabbed on my way home from work. Five thousand rubles—just for today: meat, vegetables, fruit, juice for the kids.
“Nina Petrovna, I didn’t know exactly when you were coming, so I didn’t stock up.”
“And what’s that smell?” Aunt Valya sniffed. “Does your bathroom smell musty?”
“We had a leak a month ago,” I muttered, heading into the kitchen. “We’re fixing it little by little.”
I started putting everything away, that familiar helplessness spreading through me. Andrey hovered around his parents, asking about their trip, helping them settle. It was like I didn’t exist.
For the first three days, I held myself together.
I got up at 6:30, made breakfast—cheese pancakes, omelets, porridge, sliced plates of whatever was left. Marina’s kids—Dima and Nastya—demanded something new every day. We’re sick of pancakes, we want pizza. We don’t eat soup, make dumplings.
Meanwhile Marina lounged on the couch with her phone.
“Lena, could you run to the store? We’re out of juice.”
Not We need juice—I’ll go. Not Let’s all chip in and I’ll buy it. Just we’re out, like this was a shared household and my role was unpaid staff.
By the evening of the fourth day I caught myself washing dishes and crying. Just standing at the sink scrubbing a greasy pan, tears dropping into the foam—exhausted, hurt, humiliated.
Work was a disaster too: an urgent project, a burning deadline. I dragged myself home at eight after a ten-hour day, and Nina Petrovna met me at the door:
“Lena, what about dinner? We’re all starving.”
I looked at her. Then at Andrey, sitting at his computer playing a game. Then at Marina with her phone. Then at Aunt Valya watching a TV show.
“I’ll cook something now.”
My voice sounded чужая—like it belonged to someone else, flat and automatic. I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and sat on the edge of the tub. My hands were shaking. One thought hammered in my head: I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.
My phone buzzed. A message from my friend Oksana:
“Len, I found a last-minute deal. A Volga River cruise—five days, basically cheap as dirt. Leaves the day after tomorrow. Come with me? I’ll be bored alone, and you need a break desperately.”
I stared at the message.
Five days. No cooking. No “Lena, where is this?” “Lena, do that.” Just water, a cabin, quiet.
I opened my banking app. My money was there—my bonus, the one I earned. Not the shared money Andrey and I saved together—mine. Over the past month I’d spent more than twenty thousand rubles feeding his relatives. Not once did anyone say thank you. Not once did anyone offer help.
My fingers typed back without me even thinking:
“I’m coming. Send the link.”
When I came out of the bathroom, I still made dinner.
Pasta and cutlets, a salad, tea. I set the table in silence, ate in silence. Andrey chatted about work; Nina Petrovna nodded along. It felt like I was invisible.
After dinner I walked up to Andrey.
“I need to leave urgently. Work. A business trip. Day after tomorrow, for five days.”
He turned, eyebrows lifting.
“Seriously? And what about…” He gestured toward the room where the relatives were spread out.
“You’ll cope,” I shrugged. “They’re your relatives, not mine.”
“Len, don’t be ridiculous. You see we have guests.”
“Right. Four days I’ve cooked, cleaned, washed laundry. Now it’s your turn.”
“But I can’t cook like you!”
“You’ll learn. Or you’ll order delivery. Or you’ll go to a café. You’ve got options.”
Andrey’s face went red.
“So you’re abandoning me alone with all my guests?”
“I’m not abandoning you. I’m leaving for work. The job that, by the way, is what allows us to feed all your relatives.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but I turned and walked away. My heart was pounding. I’d just done something unthinkable.
I said no.
It was scary—and at the same time, it felt like finally taking my first full breath.
In the morning I packed my suitcase. Nina Petrovna came into the kitchen while I was drinking coffee.
“Andrey says you’re leaving? How can you, Lenochka? We see each other so rarely.”
“For work, Nina Petrovna. Nothing I can do.”
“Well at least leave something cooked. Andrey can’t do anything in the kitchen.”
I finished my coffee and put the cup in the sink.
“There’s food in the fridge. There are recipes online. I think everyone here is an adult.”
I watched her face stretch with disbelief. For the first time in all the years I’d known her, I’d allowed myself to say something like that.
Oksana met me by the ship with a wide grin and two coffees.
“So, runaway—ready for an adventure?”
I laughed, the first real laugh in days.
“More than ready.”
The ship pulled away at noon. I stood on the deck watching the shoreline shrink and felt it get easier to breathe with every meter. My phone buzzed—a text from Andrey:
“Lena, Mom wants to know where we keep the cereal for porridge.”
I looked at the message and turned my phone off.
The five days felt unreal.
I slept ten hours. I ate when I felt like it. I read on deck, wandered through little riverside towns during stops. Oksana was the perfect companion—she didn’t interrogate me, just stayed close when I needed to talk and gave me space when I needed silence.
On the third day I finally turned my phone on.
Thirty-two messages from Andrey.
The first ones were angry: “Why aren’t you answering?” “This is childish, Lena.” “Mom is in shock over your behavior.”
Then confused: “Len, okay, stop pouting.” “I get you’re tired, but this is my family.”
And the last ones were almost panicked: “Where are you?” “Are you alive?” “Call me immediately.”
I sent one message:
“Everything’s fine. I’ll be back in two days. Handle your own issues.”
And turned my phone off again.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Oksana said when I told her. “Let him feel what it’s like to carry everything alone.”
“I’m afraid when I come back, it’ll be a war zone.”
“And so what?” she shrugged. “If he can’t understand you’re a person, not a kitchen machine, maybe it’s for the best.”
Her words kept looping in my head for the rest of the cruise. Maybe for the best. What if Andrey never understood why I left? What if he decided I’d betrayed him—left him in a “hard moment”?
But why was it a hard moment? They were his relatives. His responsibility. Why did that automatically become mine?
The ship docked at ten in the morning. I took a taxi home with my suitcase, and with every kilometer, dread thickened in my throat.
What would I find? A mess? A scandal? Ice-cold silence?
I climbed to my floor, pulled out my keys, and opened the door.
Silence.
Not the usual quiet of an empty apartment—where you simply know nobody’s home. This silence was different. Hollow. Stripped clean.
I walked into the room. On the couch, neatly folded, lay my bed linens. No cots. No children’s toys. No bags or suitcases belonging to relatives.
The kitchen was clean. Unnaturally clean—every surface wiped, every dish washed. On the table was a white envelope with my name on it.
My hands shook as I picked it up. Inside was a sheet of paper covered in Andrey’s familiar handwriting:
“Lena,
Everyone left the day before yesterday. I drove them to the station. They’re offended—especially Mom. They said they won’t come again if we’re ‘so unwelcoming.’
I thought a lot during these five days. I tried to cook—terribly. Mom complained nonstop. Marina whined. The kids were fussy. Aunt Valya hinted every day that things were better when you were here.
And I finally understood what it was like for you. All those days. All those months when they came.
But I understood something else, too. You don’t trust me enough to simply say, ‘This is hard for me—let’s talk.’ You chose to run, leaving me to deal with it alone. You didn’t ask for help—you vanished.
And you didn’t answer calls. I didn’t know where you were, what happened to you, whether you were even alive. I worried, got angry, and then worried again.
We’re supposed to be a family. Or at least I thought so. A family solves problems together—not runs away from them. Even if the problem is my overbearing relatives.
I can’t be with someone who, at the first real hardship, chooses silence and escape instead of conversation.
My things are already at Kolya’s. I’m staying with him for now. I’ll leave the keys with the concierge in a couple days after I collect the rest.
Sorry. Or don’t forgive me. But I can’t do this anymore.
Andrey.”
I sank onto a chair, still holding the letter. My mind was chaos.
Divorce. He wanted a divorce. Because I… what? Rested? Refused to be used as a servant?
Or because I disappeared without explaining—without talking—and left him alone?
I read the letter again: “You don’t trust me enough to say, ‘This is hard for me—let’s talk.’”
Had I ever actually said it out loud?
I hinted. I rolled my eyes. I sighed. But did I ever sit next to him and say, clearly: I can’t stand this. Your relatives live at our expense. Nobody thanks me. I work myself to the bone, and then there’s an emergency at work too. I’m breaking?
No.
I expected him to notice on his own. To understand. To guess.
But how could he, if I stayed quiet?
On the other hand—wasn’t it obvious? Did a grown man really need it spelled out that you can’t dump seven people on your wife and expect her to cater to them with a smile?
My phone came back to life in my hand—I turned it on automatically. Notifications poured in. One message from Oksana:
“So, you’re home? How is it?”
I typed:
“He left. Wants a divorce. Says I ran away instead of talking.”
Her reply came almost instantly:
“What nonsense! You put up with this for YEARS! Is he serious?”
Yes. He was serious.
And the worst part? I wasn’t completely sure he was wrong.
I stood up and walked through the apartment. Peeked into the bedroom—Andrey’s book lay on the bed, bookmark halfway through. In the bathroom there was no razor, no toothbrush, no shower gel. In the hallway the corner where his sneakers usually sat was empty.
He really was gone.
I went back to the kitchen, sat down at the table, and dropped my head into my arms.
Was I right to leave? In that moment—yes. It felt like the only way not to snap. Like I needed an escape so I wouldn’t explode, say cruel things, destroy something.
But instead of exploding there, I exploded everything here.
I blew up…
our marriage.
My phone vibrated again. Andrey’s number.
I stared at the screen, unable to decide. Third ring. Fourth.
I pressed the green button.
“Hello.”
“Lena.” His voice was tired, empty. “Did you get the letter?”
“Yes.”
“So what do you want to say?”
I closed my eyes. What did I want to say? That I was sorry? That I never meant for it to go this far? That I was exhausted and didn’t know how else to make him understand?
“Andrey… it was really hard for me. All those visits. I couldn’t take it.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Pain cut into his words. “Why didn’t you just sit down with me and say: I’m not okay, let’s figure it out?”
“I thought you could see it.”
“I’m not a mind reader, Lena. I saw you were tired. But I thought—she’s tired, but she’s managing. Enduring. I didn’t know you were on the edge. Because you didn’t speak.”
“And did it never occur to you that your relatives are your responsibility?” I shot back. “That it shouldn’t be me feeding and entertaining them?”
“It did,” he exhaled. “Of course it did. But to me it was always ‘we.’ Our apartment, our guests, our family. I didn’t separate it into yours and mine.”
“But they’re your relatives!”
“Yes. And I needed your support. Not silent heroic labor and then a disappearance. I needed a conversation. You could’ve said: let’s order food. Or: I’ll go work from a library and you handle your family. Or: let’s tell them we can’t host, let them get a hotel. Anything. But you said nothing—and then you vanished.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks. Because partly, he was right. I did stay silent. I stocked up resentment instead of speaking.
But he—
“Didn’t you see?” my voice cracked. “You sat at your computer while I washed mountains of dishes! You played games while I cooked dinner after ten hours at work!”
“I didn’t think you minded,” he said quietly. “You always did it. If you’d asked for help…”
“ASKED?” I burst out. “Andrey, I had to ask you to help in your own home with your own parents?”
Silence. Long, heavy.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have had to,” he finally said softly. “Maybe I should’ve offered. Seen it. Understood it. You’re right.”
Another pause.
“But you still ran instead of talking,” he said. “And that’s what I can’t understand. I can’t forgive. I didn’t know where you were. I thought you’d had an accident. That you were in a hospital somewhere. Or that you simply left me. I couldn’t breathe.”
“I texted that I’d be back in two days.”
“Three days after you left,” he snapped. “For three days I didn’t know if you were alive.”
I wiped my tears. He was right about that too. I could’ve messaged immediately. Just one line: I need to rest. I’m leaving with a friend for a few days. I’ll be back Wednesday.
But I hadn’t. Because I wanted him to feel what I felt—powerless, lost, alone.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I really am. I didn’t want you to worry. I just… I was exhausted and I didn’t know another way.”
“I get it,” his voice softened. “I really do. These five days I lived your life. And it was awful. Mom criticized everything. Marina demanded attention. The kids whined. By day two I wanted to throw them all out.”
I laughed through tears.
“And how did you survive?”
“Barely,” he admitted. “Barely. I even yelled at Mom at one point. Told her to stop living off us. She got offended, but… after that it got easier.”
“And now?” I asked the question that mattered most. “Do you really want a divorce?”
A long pause. I could hear his breathing.
“I don’t know, Len. Honestly. I’m angry. I’m hurt. I feel betrayed. But at the same time, I understand I’m to blame too. I missed a lot. I dumped on you what I should’ve carried myself.”
“So what do we do?”
“I don’t know. I need time. To think. To sort myself out. To understand if I can trust you again—and if you can trust me. If we can handle problems together, instead of running from them.”
“And if we can’t?”
“Then divorce. Because a marriage without trust isn’t a marriage.”
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “I agree. That’s fair.”
“We’ll talk again, Lena.”
“We will.”
I ended the call and stayed at the kitchen table in silence. Outside, the sun was setting, painting the walls gold.
Was I right to leave? I still don’t know.
On one hand, I finally said no. I finally took care of myself. That mattered. It was necessary.
On the other, I did it in a way that shattered everything between us. Could I have done it differently? Could I have talked first, explained, tried to solve it together?
Probably.
But when you’re at the edge—when you’re hanging by a thread—you don’t choose the perfect method. You survive the way you can.
I stood and went to the window. Down in the courtyard kids were playing; a young couple walked their dog. Life went on.
Mine will too. With Andrey or without him. I’ll be okay.
But deep inside, a fragile, timid hope still glowed—that we might find a way back to each other. Different people. People who learned to speak. To listen. To really see one another.
For now I just stood there, watching the sun sink over the city where I’d have to learn how to live again.
Should the characters stay together, or should they split up? Share what you think.