“Will you stop obsessing over your mother?” Polina snapped, slamming the cabinet door so hard the glasses inside rang. “Every day it’s the same: ‘Mom needs this, Mom needs that.’ What am I to you—an ATM?”
“Don’t start,” Alexey grunted from the table, where he sat with a cup of tea gone cold. “You’re always dissatisfied. A woman should support her husband, and all you do is count money.”
“Support you—yes. But I’m not here to bankroll your relatives,” Polina fired back. “How long is this going to last? First the utilities, then your mom’s teeth, then Elena’s courses. Aren’t you embarrassed?”
“Not at all,” Alexey said calmly. “That’s my family, in case you forgot. They’re sacred to me.”
“And what am I to you?” Polina stepped closer and planted her hands on the table. “Do you even notice you live with a woman who has feelings, fatigue, a job?”
“And whose fault is it that you practically sleep at work?” he snorted. “You chose it—career, office, laptop. Then you complain you’re worn out.”
Polina sat down across from him and inhaled slowly.
“At least at the office I’m respected,” she said. “People listen to me. They value me. And at home—who am I? A walking wallet.”
“Here we go again,” Alexey waved her off. “My mother never had these issues. My father worked, she ran the house and raised the kids, and she was happy.”
“Then go marry your mother,” Polina blurted.
Alexey sprang up so fast his chair crashed to the floor.
“Don’t you dare say that!” his face flushed red. “My mother is a saint!”
Polina quietly picked up the chair, sat back down, and didn’t look at him.
“Saint or not, I’m exhausted, Lyosha. You don’t even see how you’re living off me. And not just you—your whole family is hanging off my shoulders.”
He walked to the window and turned away. Outside, dusk had already settled, and a thin October rain tapped at the sill.
“And you don’t see how you’ve changed,” he said softly. “You used to be gentle. Kind. Now you’re always tense, always accusing.”
“I was kind because I didn’t understand what was really going on. Now I do,” Polina gave a bitter half-smile. “Kindness ends the moment people start treating you like a milk cow.”
A heavy silence fell. Only the rain kept drumming, as if someone above were counting out their patience one drop at a time.
Polina hadn’t always been so sharp. A couple of years earlier she’d spent Sundays rushing around the apartment—cooking, washing his shirts, ironing his ties, listening to his work stories. Back then it all felt normal. Alexey joked, brought her coffee in bed, called her his “clever girl.” Then, little by little, everything slid downhill.
At first, his family’s constant requests seemed trivial. Helping didn’t feel hard—she wasn’t stingy. But when “help” became “you’re obligated,” something inside her cracked.
“Polin, Mom wants you to order her medicine,” he’d say casually, like he was asking for a loaf of bread.
“Polin, Elena needs a new phone—hers is cracked.”
“Polin, Mom needs the plumbing replaced—you understand.”
In the beginning, Polina still agreed. Then she started asking questions. And every question triggered a storm: accusations, coldness, silent punishment.
And now it had reached the point where he didn’t ask anymore—he commanded.
That evening Polina sat in the kitchen, scrolling her phone. In her messenger app were a dozen texts from Marina Petrovna: Hi, Polin. Could you transfer a little? The refrigerator has completely fallen apart. Then another: I’ll pay you back when I get my pension.
“Sure you will,” Polina thought, turning off the screen. Nobody ever paid her back. Ever.
She opened their own fridge—the shelf was almost empty. Eggs, a couple of apples, one yogurt. But from the kitchen window she could clearly see the neighboring courtyard, where the women on the bench were gossiping as usual.
“Ira, did you hear Galya and Sergey split up?” drifted up from below. “He dragged his mommy into their home too!”
Polina snorted. Apparently stories like this were everywhere.
The next day she came home late again. It was already dark, and a sharp October wind pushed leaves into puddles. In the elevator she ran into Aunt Zoya—the neighbor who spent every evening discussing everyone else’s life on that bench.
“Oh, Polinka,” Zoya said, studying Polina’s tired face. “Still running nonstop? Does your husband help at least?”
“Helps—sure,” Polina smirked. “Emotionally.”
“The main thing is he isn’t sitting on your neck,” Zoya said in her instructive tone. “A man who’s useless at home is worse than a draft.”
Polina said nothing. She reached her floor, opened the door—and immediately ran into Alexey. He was sitting in the hallway, staring at his phone.
“Hi,” she said flatly.
“Mom called,” he said without looking up. “The refrigerator is done. She needs a new one.”
“I heard,” Polina replied calmly, taking off her coat. “And?”
“And what do you mean, and? Help us buy one. A decent one—around eighty thousand.”
She went still.
“You’re serious? After everything I told you?”
“What’s the problem? You have money.”
“Even if I had a million—I’m not giving them another cent.”
“Don’t shout, the neighbors will hear,” he grumbled, getting to his feet.
“Let them hear!” Polina snapped. “Maybe someone will finally tell you the truth, because I’m tired of doing it!”
Alexey stepped closer, looking down at her.
“You want to shame me? Talk about my mother with the neighbors?”
“You’re the one forcing everyone to talk about her,” Polina yelled. “Because you live like a teenager hiding under her skirt!”
He grabbed her wrist, then released it—like he startled himself.
“Listen, don’t push me,” he said through clenched teeth. “Just do what I’m asking and that’s it.”
“No, Lyosha. That’s it. I can’t anymore.”
He stood there in silence for a moment, then threw out:
“Fine. If you won’t help—live however you want.”
And he stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door.
Polina stayed alone in the kitchen. She took a cup from the cabinet, poured water, and couldn’t drink. One phrase spun in her mind like a hook: Live however you want.
The next days passed in silence. They barely spoke. Alexey would call his mother on speakerphone, loudly discussing purchases and money, as if deliberately. And Polina, coming home night after night, kept catching herself thinking: why am I even going back there?
At work she was assigned a new project. Her coworkers were young, energetic, eyes bright. With them she felt alive. At home, she felt like she was drowning in mud.
One Friday evening, her boss stopped her as she was leaving.
“Polina, you’re excellent as always. Should we celebrate the end of the quarter? Pizza, tea—sit for a bit?”
Polina stayed. There was laughter, conversation, that lightness she’d forgotten existed. When she left the office after midnight, she suddenly felt afraid to go home.
On the metro she called her best friend from school, Sveta.
“Svet… can I come by for a couple of days?” she asked softly. “I just… need to breathe.”
“Of course. Come,” Sveta replied without questions. “The key’s under the mat. I’m out at the dacha.”
Polina packed a bag—no suitcase, only what she truly needed. Alexey was asleep; on the nightstand his phone screen glowed. A message flashed from Elena: Did you talk to Polina? I hope she isn’t acting up.
Polina exhaled.
“Got it,” she whispered, and slipped out quietly.
Outside smelled of damp pavement. The moon hid behind clouds. October had fully taken over; the air bit at her throat. She walked with one bag, and for the first time in a long while she didn’t feel guilty. Only tired.
She wanted silence—no accusations, no demands, no endless talk about “we have to help Mom.” She wanted, for once, to live for herself.
She didn’t yet know that a conversation was ahead—one that would put everything in its place. A conversation after which life would split into “before” and “after.”
“Polin, you’re something else,” Sveta said, pouring tea into a big mug that read Live how you want. “I knew things with Lyokha weren’t perfect, but I didn’t think it had gotten this bad…”
“I’m the one to blame,” Polina said, wrapped in a blanket. “I tolerated it too long. I kept thinking he’d understand, it would pass. Instead he understood something else—that he could sit on my neck and swing his legs.”
“You know,” Sveta sighed, “it runs in their family. His mom is the same. Always complaining life is hard while she drains her son dry. I grew up in that neighborhood—I’ve seen them.”
Polina stayed quiet, listening to the hum of the city beyond the window, the occasional car horn, the clank of a radiator. October was cold and wet—the perfect month for taking stock.
“So what now?” Sveta asked, settling across from her. “Where do you go from here?”
“I don’t know,” Polina admitted. “I’ll rent a place and live alone. I have work, I have money. We’ll see.”
“Good,” Sveta approved. “Just don’t go back. Those ‘maybe he changed’ fantasies—this isn’t that kind of man. People like that don’t change. They only demand more.”
Polina gave a small smile.
“Yeah. I get it now. When someone treats you like you’re nothing, that’s not love anymore.”
They fell silent. Then Sveta clapped her hands on her knees.
“Come on—let’s put on a show so we don’t sit here like two widows staring out the window.”
“Okay,” Polina nodded. “Just not for long. Tomorrow I want to stop by the apartment and pick up a few things.”
The next morning she stood outside her apartment door and hesitated a long time before putting the key in the lock. Her heart hammered like it knew this wouldn’t be a conversation—it would be a final stop.
She opened the door, and a wave of fried onions hit her, along with the sound of the television and someone laughing. Polina froze in the hallway: in the kitchen sat Alexey, his mother, and his sister. Marina Petrovna was stirring a pan, Elena was flipping through a magazine, and Alexey was pouring tea.
“Well, look who showed up,” Elena said first, not even lifting her eyes. “We thought you’d run off for good.”
“Lena, don’t,” Alexey said, but without much bite. “Hi, Polina.”
“Hi. I’m here for my things,” she answered calmly, taking off her jacket.
“What things?” Marina Petrovna cut in. “You have a husband, not a train station. You come and go like a guest.”
“Marina Petrovna,” Polina replied evenly, “your son told me himself that this apartment is his and I can leave anytime. So don’t worry—I’m leaving.”
“Oh, stop it,” her mother-in-law waved a hand. “Young people fight. Don’t sulk over nonsense. A family has to be kept together.”
“A family?” Polina repeated, looking her straight in the eye. “Where exactly do you see a family when the wife works for everyone except herself?”
A pause. Elena let out a quiet snort.
“Again with the money talk. Honestly, I don’t get it—why are you so stingy? You’re not poor.”
Polina turned to her.
“It’s not about money, Elena. It’s about respect. Asking is one thing. Acting like I’m obligated is another.”
Marina Petrovna shook her head.
“This generation… Women used to endure. Now the moment something happens, they grab a bag and leave.”
“Yeah,” Polina said. “And that’s why later three of them sit on a bench complaining about their lives. I don’t want that.”
Elena smirked; Alexey stood and walked toward Polina.
“Polin, enough with the drama. Mom’s right—everyone argues sometimes. Let’s just talk.”
“It’s too late, Lyosh,” Polina said, gathering papers from the table. “Everything that needed to be said has already been said.”
“You’re still stuck on that evening? I said it in the heat of the moment,” he lowered his voice. “I’m sorry—who hasn’t said things they regret?”
Polina stopped and looked at him.
“If you’d just yelled, I could’ve understood. But you didn’t say it out of anger—you said it because that’s what you believe. I could feel it.”
He dropped his gaze.
“I didn’t want it to end like this. It’s just… Mom’s old. I’m used to helping her.”
“Helping is one thing. Dumping responsibility on someone else is another,” Polina cut him off. “You didn’t even realize what you were losing.”
“And what am I losing?” he flared up. “We can start over!”
“No, we can’t,” she said firmly. “Because you don’t want to change. It’s comfortable for you when I pay and you get to play ‘the man of the house.’ But that isn’t a family. It’s a transaction.”
Silence filled the kitchen. Elena looked away. Marina Petrovna stopped stirring the pan. Alexey stood there with clenched fists, but no words left.
Polina picked up her bag and jacket and zipped it closed.
“I wish you happiness, Lyosha,” she said. “And I hope one day you understand that respect isn’t measured in money.”
“Wait…” he said quietly. “Maybe I can fix it.”
Polina gave a short, sad laugh.
“You can fix what breaks by accident. Ours was cracking for a long time—I just didn’t want to hear it.”
And she walked out.
Autumn met her with cool air. Polina went down the steps and breathed in—damp, but clean. On the nearby bench, the same grandmothers were sitting, discussing everyone as always.
“Oh, Polinka!” Aunt Zoya called. “Why are you without your husband?”
Polina paused and smiled.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Zoya. I’m just heading home.”
“But you lived there…”
“Now I’ll have my own home,” Polina said calmly. “Without anyone else giving orders.”
Zoya muttered something after her, but Polina was already walking away.
A week later she rented a small one-bedroom on the outskirts of town. No fancy renovation, but it was clean and bright—and most importantly, quiet. In the mornings she made coffee, turned on the radio, and for the first time in ages she didn’t wait for someone to ask her for money or scold her for not helping.
In the evenings she called Sveta, laughed, planned a vacation. Sometimes she thought of Lyosha—not with anger, but like someone from her past: someone you can pity, but you don’t want back.
One day at the end of October, as she came home from work, she spotted Aunt Zoya near the entrance again.
“Polinka!” Zoya shouted. “Did you hear? Your Lyoshka had a fight with his mother. She was yelling that the family fell apart because of you.”
Polina only shrugged.
“Let her yell,” she said calmly. “Everyone has their own truth.”
Zoya frowned, and Polina walked on.
The stairwell smelled of fresh paint—someone was renovating. As she climbed the steps, Polina thought maybe none of it had happened for nothing. Sometimes you have to go through scandals and losses to finally hear yourself.
That evening she lit a candle on the windowsill and sat down with a cup of tea. Outside, the first snow of the year fell—thin, soft flakes settling slowly on the street, erasing the last traces of autumn grime.
“A clean page,” Polina whispered.
Her phone buzzed—one message from an unknown number: Polina, I’ve realized everything. I’m sorry. If you can—let’s talk.
She stared at the screen for a long time, then turned the phone off and placed it on the table.
“No, Lyosha,” she murmured. “My life is different now.”
Outside, the snowfall thickened, covering everything in a smooth white layer—as if nature itself had decided to draw a line.
Polina leaned back in her chair and, for the first time in a long while, smiled.
Not from joy—from peace. Because she finally understood the most important thing: life isn’t about who supports whom financially. It’s about who stays close—not for profit, but because they truly want to.
And if one day fate brings into her home someone who understands that—then none of it was in vain.
The end.