Marina wiped the sweat off her forehead and lowered herself onto the front steps of her apartment building. Her legs pulsed with pain after a twelve-hour shift as a waitress. In three hours her second job—cleaning at an office complex—would begin. If she hurried, she might manage to eat something and rest a little.
That routine had dragged on for ten years. Ten endless years of grinding herself down. Two jobs, sometimes even three. Breakfast swallowed on the run, lunches made from the cheapest food, no vacations, no weekends. But there was a reason for it all—one clear, tangible goal: her own place.
Marina saved every coin she earned. She rented a room in a run-down communal apartment on the city outskirts for next to nothing. She dressed in thrift-store clothes. No entertainment, no cosmetics, no coffee dates with friends. Everything went into savings. Slowly but steadily, her bank balance climbed.
Her parents had died young when she was twenty-two, leaving behind loan debts that their daughter had to pay off. There was no one to lean on. No brothers, no sisters. Only her own hands and a will like steel.
And then, at thirty-two, her dream finally came true.
Marina stood in the middle of a small studio apartment and could hardly believe it. Thirty square meters on the fourth floor of a gray panel building. The previous owners had already done a fresh renovation. The windows faced a quiet courtyard. The metro station was close, along with shops and a clinic.
Hers. Completely hers. An apartment.
She sank to the floor right in the center of the room and cried. Ten years for this moment. Ten years of sacrifice, exhaustion, denying herself everything. But it had been worth it. No one could throw her out now, no landlord could raise the rent, no one could dictate rules. This was her home.
The first months in the new apartment passed in a blur. Marina arranged the space, bought furniture and appliances—nothing fancy, just practical and functional. A sofa bed in the main room, a small wardrobe, a table, chairs. In the kitchen, only the essentials. In the bathroom, a washing machine.
She finally kept only one job—waitressing at the restaurant. The pay was decent, and tips added up. It covered her living expenses and still left room for small savings. She no longer cleaned offices. For the first time in a decade, Marina could sleep at night.
One day a new customer walked into the restaurant. A man around thirty-five, neatly dressed in a suit, with a kind face. He ordered the business lunch, ate slowly, and read something on his tablet. Marina brought the check; he paid and left a generous tip.
“Thank you for the service,” the customer said with a smile. “Delicious—and fast.”
“You’re welcome,” Marina replied. “We’ll be glad to see you again.”
He started coming regularly—about three times a week. Always polite, always tipping well. Sometimes he exchanged a few words with Marina, asking how she was, how her day was going.
A month later, he introduced himself.
“Andrey,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m a manager at the office next door, so I eat here often.”
“Marina,” the waitress said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Gradually, quick chats turned into long conversations. Andrey began staying after lunch, talking when Marina had a break. He told her about work, interests, dreams. Marina shared too—about the apartment she’d saved for so long, about the joy of finally having a home of her own.
“Ten years working two jobs?” Andrey said, amazed. “That’s incredible willpower!”
“I just wanted it badly enough,” Marina smiled. “When you have a goal, the rest doesn’t matter.”
“I truly admire you,” he said sincerely. “Not everyone could do that.”
Andrey invited Marina to the movies. Then came walks in the park, dinners out, trips outside the city. He was attentive and caring, with a great sense of humor. Marina hadn’t felt this happy in years.
Half a year passed without her noticing. Andrey spent all his free time with Marina. He helped around the house, fixed a broken faucet, assembled furniture. Marina felt as if she’d found a kindred spirit.
One evening, as they sat on the sofa watching a film, Andrey turned off the TV and faced her.
“Marina, I need to tell you something.”
“What is it?” she asked, suddenly wary.
He pulled out a small box, opened it. Inside lay a simple silver ring with a small stone.
“Marry me,” Andrey said quietly.
Marina froze. Her heart sped up; her breath caught.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely,” he nodded. “I love you. I want to be with you forever.”
Tears rolled down Marina’s cheeks—happy tears.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I will.”
They had a modest wedding. Only Marina’s closest friends and a few of Andrey’s colleagues. A small reception at the same restaurant where the bride worked. A simple white dress, a bouquet of wildflowers, wedding bands.
Andrey moved into his wife’s apartment. There wasn’t much space, but it was cozy. He didn’t complain—said the only thing that mattered was being together. Marina blossomed day by day. At last, someone truly needed her.
Their first year of marriage felt like a fairy tale. Andrey was the perfect husband. He helped with chores, cooked dinner when Marina worked late. He brought flowers for no reason, kissed her in the mornings, showered her with compliments. Marina felt loved and safe.
In the evenings they sat at the kitchen table, drank tea, talked about the day. They made plans. They dreamed of a seaside vacation, buying a car, maybe having a child in a couple of years.
“I’m so happy I met you,” Marina admitted one day, hugging him.
“Me too,” Andrey kissed her. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
The second year was no different from the first—same harmony, same understanding. They grew comfortable together, settled into everyday life. Marina felt grateful that her years of struggle hadn’t been in vain. Her apartment had become a family nest filled with warmth and love.
Then everything changed—on an ordinary evening.
Andrey came home gloomy and distracted. He ate dinner in silence, tried several times to say something, then stopped. Marina grew worried.
“Andryusha, what’s wrong?” she asked, sitting beside him on the sofa.
“My mom called,” he finally said.
“Valentina Sergeyevna? Did something happen?”
Andrey nodded, dragging a hand over his face.
“She says she’s not well. Her health is weak. It’s hard for her to manage the house alone.”
Marina frowned. They rarely saw her mother-in-law—maybe three times in two years. Valentina Sergeyevna lived in a private house on the outskirts. She was in her early sixties, sturdy and energetic, never looking sick at all.
“Maybe we should hire a caregiver,” Marina offered. “Or a cleaning woman a couple times a week?”
“Mom doesn’t want strangers,” Andrey shook his head. “She says she needs family nearby.”
“And what are you suggesting?”
He hesitated, avoiding Marina’s eyes.
“She wants us to move in with her. Just for a while. Help her, support her.”
Marina felt a chill spread through her.
“Move in? With her?”
“Only temporarily,” Andrey repeated. “A month, maybe two—until she gets stronger.”
“But we have our own apartment. Why would we move?”
“Marina, please understand,” he turned to her. “She’s my mother. She’s sixty-two. Her health isn’t what it used to be. I can’t leave her alone.”
“Andrey, I get it, but—”
“Please,” he cut her off. “It really won’t be long. Just to help. You wouldn’t refuse, would you?”
Marina looked into his eyes—saw pleading and hope there—and exhaled.
“Fine. But only temporarily. One month at most.”
“Thank you, sweetheart!” Andrey hugged her. “You’re the best!”
A week later they packed. Two big bags—clothes, toiletries, documents. Andrey locked their apartment and handed the keys to a neighbor, asking her to water the plants and air the place out.
Valentina Sergeyevna’s house stood in an old neighborhood: a one-story building with peeling paint. The fence leaned, the gate squealed. The yard was overgrown with weeds. Marina looked around, surprised.
“You said your mom’s place was fine…”
“Well… it’s a bit messy,” Andrey said uncertainly. “Nothing serious.”
Valentina Sergeyevna met them on the porch wearing an old robe, her hair uncombed, her face displeased.
“Finally,” she grumbled. “I’ve been waiting for you for three hours.”
“Mom, we told you we’d come in the evening,” Andrey began.
“You’re still late,” Valentina Sergeyevna snapped. “Come in. Why are you standing there?”
Inside, the house smelled musty and damp. A narrow hallway was piled with boxes, old shoes, rags. The living room held ancient furniture, a worn carpet, dusty curtains.
“I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping,” the mother-in-law announced, heading down the corridor.
Marina and Andrey followed. Valentina Sergeyevna opened the first door—an entire room jammed to the ceiling with things: old clothes, books, boxes, piles of junk.
“That’s my storage,” she said. “Don’t go in there.”
The second room was Valentina Sergeyevna’s bedroom: a large bed, a wardrobe, a vanity. The windows were covered with heavy curtains; even in daylight it was dim.
“And where are we?” Marina asked cautiously.
“In the kitchen,” Valentina Sergeyevna replied as if it were obvious.
Marina stared.
“In the kitchen? How is that supposed to work?”
“I put a folding daybed there,” the older woman shrugged. “You’ll sleep on that.”
Marina froze. The kitchen? On a fold-out couch?
“Mom, are you serious?” Andrey protested. “How are we supposed to sleep in the kitchen?”
“And where else?” she shrugged again. “The rooms are taken. You’re here for a short time—deal with it.”
Marina turned to her husband. Andrey looked away, guilty.
“Andryosh… you promised we’d have a room.”
“I thought Mom would clear one out,” he mumbled.
“Why would I clear anything?” Valentina Sergeyevna cut in. “I have important things in there. I’m not throwing them out.”
Marina stepped into the kitchen. It was narrow: a table, two chairs, an old stove. Against the wall stood a fold-out daybed with a sagging mattress. The blanket was gray and washed-out, the pillows thin and flat.
“I can’t sleep here,” she said quietly, turning to Andrey.
“Marina, please—just hold on for a day or two,” Andrey begged. “I’ll talk to Mom. We’ll ask her to free at least one room…”
“I’m not freeing anything!” Valentina Sergeyevna snapped. “You came to help, so help. Don’t demand comfort.”
Marina pressed her lips together. She wanted to turn around and go straight home. But Andrey looked at her with such hope… Fine. One day. She could endure one day.
That evening they tried to sleep on the fold-out daybed. The mattress really did dip in the middle; they kept sliding toward each other. The blanket was thin and cold. The pillows were hard. From the next room came Valentina Sergeyevna’s loud snoring.
“Andrey, I won’t be able to sleep here,” Marina whispered.
“Tomorrow I’ll talk to her. I promise,” he said, pulling her close.
The night was a nightmare. Marina twisted and turned, searching for a comfortable position. Her back stiffened, her neck ached. Toward morning she managed to doze for a couple of hours. She woke up with sharp pain in her lower back.
Andrey was already up and gone to work. He’d left a note on the table: “Sorry, my love. Today we’ll definitely solve the room issue.”
Marina stretched and groaned. Her spine burned; every movement shot pain through her waist. She forced herself up and went to the bathroom to wash her face.
Valentina Sergeyevna sat at the kitchen table drinking tea.
“Good morning,” Marina said.
“What’s good about it,” the older woman grumbled. “Pour me more tea.”
Marina silently topped up her cup and set it down.
“And bring the cookies. Top shelf.”
Marina fetched the cookies and put them on a saucer.
“And sugar? You forgot sugar.”
Marina placed the sugar bowl beside the cup.
“There. That’s better,” Valentina Sergeyevna nodded. “So you can follow instructions.”
Marina felt her fists clench. Inhale. Exhale. Calm down. Just one day.
The day turned into a trial. Valentina Sergeyevna didn’t give Marina a moment of peace. Tea, food, fetch this, hand me that, clean this, carry that. Marina rushed around the house obeying orders.
“Go to the store—there’s no bread,” her mother-in-law said after lunch.
Marina went and bought bread.
“You forgot milk!” Valentina Sergeyevna snapped. “What am I supposed to drink my tea with?”
Back to the store for milk.
“And butter—there’s no butter!”
A third trip. Marina could feel anger boiling inside, but she stayed silent. In the evening Andrey would come back, they’d talk, and everything would be resolved.
Andrey came home late, exhausted. He ate in silence and fell asleep on the daybed. Marina tried to bring up leaving, but he was already out cold.
The second night on that daybed was worse than the first. Marina’s back hurt so much she couldn’t lie on her back. She rolled onto her side until her arms went numb. In the morning she got up shattered, with a migraine.
The day began with new demands.
“Marina, run to the pharmacy—my blood pressure pills are finished.”
Marina dressed and went. She returned half an hour later.
“Wrong ones!” Valentina Sergeyevna barked. “I need different pills!”
“But you named these exactly—”
“Don’t argue with me! Go exchange them!”
Marina clenched her teeth, went back, explained, exchanged the medicine.
“Now that’s right,” her mother-in-law approved. “And now—store. We need potatoes.”
“But I was just there!”
“So what? You didn’t buy potatoes. Go.”
Something inside Marina finally started to snap. Her hands trembled, her breathing quickened.
“Valentina Sergeyevna, maybe you could go yourself? My back hurts from your daybed…”
“How dare you talk to me like that!” her mother-in-law flared up. “I’m sick, I’m old! You’re young and healthy! Your job is to help!”
“My job?” Marina repeated. “Since when?”
“Since you married my son!” Valentina Sergeyevna stood up. “You thought you’d settle into a cozy little nest? Not a chance, sweetheart. Family is work!”
Marina turned and went into the kitchen, her heart pounding, her temples throbbing. She grabbed her phone and called Andrey.
“Andrey, we need to talk. Now.”
“What happened?” he asked, alarmed.
“I can’t stay here anymore. Come home, please.”
“Marina, I’m at work—”
“I don’t care!” she raised her voice. “Come now—or I’m leaving on my own!”
An hour later Andrey burst in, anxious and confused.
“What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is your mother is using me like a servant!” Marina exploded. “I’ve run to the store five times a day! She orders me around, humiliates me!”
“Mom’s just used to a certain routine—”
“A routine?” Marina’s voice rang with anger. “This isn’t a routine. This is tyranny!”
“Please, don’t yell,” Andrey glanced toward the door where Valentina Sergeyevna was listening.
“I’ll yell because otherwise you won’t hear me!”
“Marina, please… just hang on a little longer—”
“No!” Marina went to the bag and started shoving her things inside. “I’m not hanging on!”
“Where are you going?”
“Home. To my apartment.”
“But Mom—”
“Your mom can manage without me,” Marina zipped the bag. “Andrey, look at me. I’ve slept two nights on a dead daybed in a kitchen. My back hurts so badly I can barely walk. Your mother runs me around like a maid. You think that’s normal?”
Andrey said nothing, head lowered.
“I worked two jobs for ten years,” Marina said slowly, staring at him. “Saved every cent. Denied myself everything. Do you know why?”
Andrey looked up.
“To buy an apartment—my own. A place where I could live like a human being. Not camp out in your mother’s kitchen!” Her voice broke into a shout.
“Marina, calm down—”
“I didn’t work for ten years just to live on your mother’s kitchen floor!” she yelled.
Valentina Sergeyevna stormed into the room.
“What’s this? Why are you shouting?”
“I’m leaving,” Marina said curtly, lifting her bag.
“Leaving? And who’s going to look after me?” the older woman screeched.
“Hire a caregiver.”
“You rude, ill-mannered little brat!” Valentina Sergeyevna yelled. “Andryusha, do you hear how she’s talking to me?”
“Mom, please…”
“No! I won’t let some woman teach me how to live! You make your wife stay!”
Marina stared at her husband, waiting for him to speak—for him to defend her. Would he? Or would he, once again, side with his mother?
Andrey stayed silent. Head down, shifting from foot to foot.
“Got it,” Marina said quietly. “Goodbye, Andrey.”
She left the house and slammed the door. Took the bus back to her apartment. The keys were with the neighbor; she picked them up and unlocked the door.
Her apartment greeted her with silence and familiar comfort. Marina walked into the room and sat on the sofa—soft, familiar, hers. In her own home. There were no tears. Only relief. Huge, overwhelming relief.
An hour later someone rang the bell. Marina looked through the peephole—Andrey. Flushed, disheveled, clearly frantic.
“Please open,” he pleaded.
She opened the door. Andrey rushed inside.
“How could you do that?!” he shouted. “You upset my mother! She’s crying—her blood pressure shot up!”
“And?” Marina asked calmly.
“And what do you mean, and? You have to apologize!”
“I don’t.”
“Marina!”
“Andrey, listen to me,” she said, sitting on the sofa with her arms crossed. “I’m not apologizing. I’m not going back. If you want to live at your mother’s place—on her kitchen couch—that’s your choice. But it won’t be with me.”
“You’re my wife!”
“I was,” Marina corrected. “I was your wife—until the moment you chose your mother.”
“I didn’t choose anyone!”
“You brought me there without warning me we’d be sleeping in the kitchen. You stayed silent while she treated me like dirt. You didn’t protect me when she called me an insolent girl.”
Andrey opened his mouth, but no words came.
“You know what hurts the most?” Marina continued. “I truly loved you. I believed we were a family. But it turns out your family is you and your mother—and I’m just an add-on.”
“That’s not true…”
“It is,” Marina said firmly. “And I don’t want to be an add-on. I want to be a person—with my own opinion, my own needs, my own comfort.”
“Marina… let’s talk calmly—”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Tomorrow I’m filing for divorce.”
Andrey went pale.
“You’re serious?”
“Completely.”
“But we loved each other!”
“We did,” Marina agreed. “Past tense. Now I see I was wrong about you.”
Andrey sank onto a chair, covering his face with his hands.
“My God… what have I done?”
“You chose your mother over your wife,” Marina said. “That’s what you did.”
“I can fix it!”
“No,” Marina shook her head. “You can’t. Because tomorrow your mother will demand something again—and you’ll choose her again.”
“No!”
“Yes. Because that’s who you are. It’s not good or bad—it’s just the truth. But I don’t want to live inside that truth.”
Andrey stood and went to the door.
“You’ll regret this,” he said quietly. “You’ll end up alone. Without a family.”
“I do have a family,” Marina smiled. “I am my own family. And that’s enough.”
He left, slamming the door behind him. Marina stayed on the sofa, staring out the window. Her chest felt calm—calm for the first time in two days.
The next morning she filed for divorce. A month later, the marriage was officially dissolved. Andrey didn’t fight it and didn’t try to claim part of the apartment. He understood it had been bought before the marriage, with Marina’s money.
Marina returned to her normal life: work, home, meeting friends. No demanding mother-in-law, no kitchen daybeds. Only peace and freedom.
A year and a half passed. Marina met Oleg at a gym—calm, independent, a man with no difficult relatives. His parents had died long ago, and he had no brothers or sisters.
“You don’t have anyone?” Marina asked in surprise on one of their dates.
“I have you,” Oleg smiled. “Isn’t that enough?”
Marina smiled back. No—it wasn’t just enough. It was more than enough.
A year later, they got married. Quietly, without drama. They registered at the civil office and celebrated with friends. Oleg moved into Marina’s apartment. He helped with repairs, bought furniture, made the home warmer.
“You know,” he said once, hugging her in the kitchen, “I’m glad you didn’t agree to live in some stranger’s kitchen under her rules.”
“Why?” Marina asked.
“Because then we never would have met,” Oleg said. “And I can’t imagine life without you.”
Marina pressed against him and closed her eyes. Ten years of work, two years of a failed marriage, a year and a half alone—everything had led her here, to real happiness.
And you know what?
It was worth it.