Elena was sitting on the couch with a book when Dmitry burst into the room, phone in hand. His face looked troubled, his brows pulled tight.
“Lena—Mom called.”
“And?” his wife asked, not lifting her eyes from the page.
“She wants us to come this weekend. Says she needs help with canning. And there’s a lot to do in the garden—dig up the beds, take down the greenhouse for winter.”
Elena closed her book and looked up.
“Dima, I’m not going.”
“What do you mean, you’re not going?” Dmitry’s forehead creased. “She’s there by herself. It’s hard for her.”
“I’ve got plans. I want to go to the salon, meet up with my friends. And honestly, I want to rest at home. I worked nonstop all week.”
“Lenusik, she’s my mother. She’s family!”
“Family is you and me,” Elena said calmly. “Your mother is your mother. If you want to help her—go. I’m not stopping you. But I’m not going.”
Dima’s face turned red. He grabbed his temples and paced.
“Do you realize she’ll be hurt? She’ll say you don’t love her!”
“I respect Irina Petrovna. But I’m not spending my weekend on jars and garden work. I don’t want to.”
“You only ever think about yourself!” he snapped. “You remember my mother only when she’s lying sick in bed!”
“That’s unfair and you know it,” Elena said, rising. “I call her regularly, ask how she’s doing. I always congratulate her on holidays and buy gifts. But that doesn’t mean I have to drive out to the Moscow region every weekend and break my back in her garden.”
“So you’re not going?”
“No.”
Dmitry spun around and stormed out. Ten minutes later he was dragging a duffel bag from the closet and shoving clothes into it.
“What are you doing?” Elena asked, leaning into the bedroom.
“Packing. Since you refuse to help my mother, I’ll go alone.”
“Then go. I’m not stopping you.”
“Not stopping me!” Dmitry flung a T-shirt into the bag. “Easy for you to say! I’ll have to do everything myself—carry jars, dig the beds!”
“Hire someone. A day laborer. Or ask the neighbors.”
“The neighbors!” he barked, zipping the bag shut. “They’ve got their own lives! But we’re family. We’re supposed to help each other!”
Elena let out a tired breath. There was no point arguing. Once Dmitry got started, there was no shutting him down.
“Go, Dima. Have a nice weekend.”
He muttered something under his breath, grabbed the bag, and slammed the door. Elena watched him leave through the window. Fine. Now she could spend the weekend exactly as she wanted.
Saturday and Sunday disappeared in a blur. Elena went to the hairdresser’s, met friends at a café, watched a series she’d been saving for months. No calls. No texts. Nothing but silence.
On Monday morning Dmitry returned. The door banged. He tossed his bag in the hallway and walked into the kitchen, where Elena was finishing her coffee before work.
“So, did you enjoy your little vacation?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Yes, actually. I had a great weekend. How was your trip?”
“Like prison labor!” Dmitry dropped into a chair. “I hauled buckets of vegetables alone! I sealed jars alone! I dug beds alone! My back hurts so much I can barely straighten up!”
“Dima, I suggested hiring someone.”
“Hiring someone costs money! And you could’ve simply come and helped!”
Elena set her cup on the saucer.
“I could have. I didn’t want to. I had plans.”
“Your plans!” he slammed his fist on the table. “Your plans are always more important than family!”
“Dima, stop,” Elena said, standing. “I’m tired of these fights. If you want to help your mom, help her. But don’t force me to do something I don’t want to do.”
“By the way, Mom is really offended,” Dmitry threw after her as she walked away. “She says you don’t love her. That you’re avoiding her on purpose.”
Elena paused in the doorway.
“That’s not true. I respect Irina Petrovna. But I’m not spending weekends canning and digging. That’s my right.”
“Right! You’ve got nothing but rights! You’ve forgotten about obligations!”
“What obligations?” Elena turned around. “An obligation to work for my mother-in-law every weekend? No, Dima. That’s not an obligation.”
Dmitry ground his teeth but said nothing. Elena left for work, leaving him staring out the window with a dark look.
After that, their marriage felt different—cold, stretched tight. Dmitry kept going to his mother’s every weekend, but Elena stopped coming along. Every time he tried to hint at another joint trip, she refused calmly and firmly.
“Dima, I’m not going. And we’re not discussing it again.”
“As you wish,” he would answer, icy, and slam the door.
He usually returned late Sunday night, exhausted and angry, tossed a few cutting remarks at Elena, then went straight to bed. Elena stopped reacting. She learned to let the jabs slide.
Months passed. Autumn turned into winter. Then, one day in early December, Dmitry came back earlier than usual—not on Sunday night, but Saturday afternoon. He looked shaken.
“What happened?” Elena asked, glancing up from her laptop.
“Mom’s having trouble with the heating.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The stove’s acting up. It barely warms the house. She can’t even use a space heater—the wiring’s old, it won’t take the load. She’s freezing.”
Elena pushed her laptop aside.
“Then call a repairman. Have him look at the stove. And check the wiring too.”
“A repairman!” Dmitry waved his hand. “That’s money again. I don’t even know what they’ll charge.”
“Dima, she lives in a house. Heating is not optional. You can’t leave it like this.”
“I know,” he said, dropping onto the couch beside her. “I just don’t know what to do. The place is old—everything is falling apart. First the roof leaks, then the fence collapses, now the stove. How much can we keep pouring into it?”
“Maybe sell it?” Elena suggested carefully. “Sell the house and use the money to buy Irina Petrovna a small apartment in the city. Central heating, simpler utilities, closer to stores…”
Dmitry’s face twisted.
“Sell it?! Are you out of your mind?! That’s Mom’s home! She’s lived there her whole life!”
“So what? If it’s in such bad shape that something breaks every month—”
“I’m not selling anything!” Dmitry jumped up. “It’s an inheritance. It’ll be mine someday!”
Elena raised an eyebrow.
“Ah. So that’s what this is really about.”
“It’s not about inheritance! It’s just… it’s the family home. You can’t sell it!”
“Fine,” Elena said, turning back to her laptop. “Then don’t sell it. Call a repairman and fix the stove.”
Dmitry fell silent. He paced the room, scratching the back of his head. Then he stopped and stared at Elena.
“I’m moving Mom into your Moscow apartment,” he announced. “Retirees deserve to live in comfort.”
Elena slowly closed her laptop and looked at him.
“What did you just say?”
“I said I’m bringing Mom here. Into this apartment. She’ll live with us. It’s warm, it’s convenient, the clinic is nearby.”
“Dima,” Elena said, very evenly, “this apartment is mine. My parents left it to me. And no one but me decides who lives here.”
“Lena, think! Mom is freezing alone in that house! She’s sixty-five! How is she supposed to survive winter?”
“I’ll say it again: call a repairman. Fix the stove.”
“And if they can’t fix it? Then what?”
“Sell the house. Buy an apartment.”
“I’m not selling the house!”
“Then that’s your problem,” Elena said, standing. “But you are not moving Irina Petrovna into my apartment.”
Dmitry stepped closer, blocking her way.
“Why not? It’s a big place—three rooms. There’s enough space for everyone.”
“Because I don’t want to live with my mother-in-law!” Elena’s voice rose. “Do you understand? I don’t want to. This is my space, and I’m not letting anyone trample over it.”
“She’s my mother!”
“And that’s your issue, not mine. She’s not coming into my home.”
“You heartless selfish woman!” Dmitry shouted. “My mother is freezing and you don’t care!”
“I do care!” Elena shot back. “I offered a solution—sell the house and buy a city apartment. You refused. Which means it isn’t about caring for your mother. It’s about your greed!”
“How dare you!”
“I dare because I can see right through you! Your inheritance matters more to you than your mother’s comfort! You’d rather let her freeze there as long as you get that house one day!”
Dmitry grabbed Elena by the shoulders.
“Shut up!”
“Take your hands off me,” Elena said in a voice like ice. “Now.”
He released her. Stepped back. He was breathing hard, eyes bloodshot.
“If you bring Irina Petrovna here,” Elena said slowly, “I will throw you both out. You and her. Do you understand?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I would. This is my apartment. And I have every right to decide who lives in it.”
“I’m your husband!”
“A husband who doesn’t respect my boundaries,” Elena replied, moving past him toward the bedroom. “A husband who tries to shove his mother into my life. Who pressures and threatens.”
“Lena!”
“I don’t want to hear it. If you don’t like my terms, you can pack your things.”
The bedroom door slammed. Elena leaned against it, fists clenched. Her hands were trembling, her heart pounding. But she wasn’t going to back down.
This was her home—left to her by her parents who had died two years earlier. The only thing she still had from them. And no Dmitry, no Irina Petrovna had any right to take it from her.
Half an hour later, the front door slammed. Elena stepped out of the bedroom—Dmitry was gone. His bag was gone too. So he’d packed and left.
“Good,” she thought. “Let him live with his mother if she matters more.”
For the first week Elena waited for a call. Dmitry stayed silent. No texts, no visits. The cold-shoulder treatment—trying to win by ignoring her. It wouldn’t work.
The second week went the same way. Silence. Elena kept living her life—work, friends, TV shows. It felt strange: relief mixed with anxiety. On one hand, peace. On the other—what now?
By the third week, Elena made a decision. She went to court and filed for divorce. There was nothing to divide. The apartment was Elena’s, inherited. They had no car, no savings. Simple. Quick.
Two weeks after she filed, Elena came home from work and found Dmitry standing by her door—gaunt, thinner, dark circles under his eyes.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
“Hi. What happened?”
“Can I come in? We need to talk.”
Elena hesitated for a second, then nodded and let him inside.
Dmitry went to the kitchen and sat at the table. Elena filled the kettle, silently took out two mugs.
“Lena, I didn’t mean it like that,” he began. “About Mom. I lost my temper.”
“I see.”
“I was just worried about her. I said something stupid.”
“Dima, you didn’t say something ‘stupid.’ You clearly stated you were moving your mother into my apartment—without my consent.”
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I just wanted Mom to be warm.”
“At the expense of my comfort,” Elena said, placing a mug in front of him. “You were ready to sacrifice my peace so your mother could have it.”
“Baby, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“You know,” Elena said, sitting across from him, “these two weeks gave me time to think. And I realized something. Life is calmer without you. Easier. Nobody demands, pressures, tries to bend me to their will.”
Dmitry turned pale.
“What are you saying?”
“I filed for divorce.”
“What?!”
“You heard me. I filed. In a month it’ll be official.”
“Lena, wait! Let’s talk about it! I told you—I didn’t mean it!”
“It’s not about whether you meant to,” Elena answered, exhausted. “It’s about the fact that you don’t respect me. My boundaries, my choices, my space. You think you have the right to dictate how I live.”
“I’m not dictating!”
“You are. Every week you tried to force me to go to your mother’s. You pressured me, manipulated me. And then you decided to move her into my apartment without my permission.”
Dmitry lowered his head.
“I thought you’d give in. Eventually.”
“Exactly. You assumed you could wear me down. That I wouldn’t dare fight back. But I did. And I don’t want to live under constant pressure anymore.”
“Lena, I love you.”
“And I’m tired of you,” Elena said honestly. “Tired of the arguments, the conflict, the attempts to push your mother on me. I’m good without you. I’m peaceful.”
Dmitry didn’t answer. He stared into his tea as it cooled. Then he stood.
“So it’s decided?”
“Yes.”
“And nothing can change your mind?”
“No.”
He nodded and headed for the door. In the doorway, he turned.
“Mom will be happy. She always said you weren’t right for me.”
“Perfect,” Elena replied calmly. “Then everyone gets what they want.”
When the door closed behind him, Elena finished her cold tea. Washed the mugs. Wiped the table. Then she went into the living room, lay down on the couch, and stared at the ceiling.
Divorce. An official ending. It was strange, but she felt more relief than sadness—like a heavy weight had finally slid off her shoulders.
Dmitry didn’t appear again before the hearing. He didn’t call. He stayed silent. Elena stayed busy—work, friends, planning a renovation.
Yes, a renovation. She’d wanted to redo the wallpaper in the bedroom for ages, replace the living room furniture. Now, with no one to argue or impose their opinion, she could finally do it.
On the appointed day Elena went to court. Dmitry showed up too—the process wouldn’t happen without him. They sat on opposite benches and avoided each other’s eyes.
The judge read the formalities and asked the standard questions. Both answered yes: yes, we want the divorce. No, we have no claims against each other. We’re not dividing property.
Twenty minutes later it was done. The judge announced the decision: the marriage was dissolved. The certificate could be picked up at the registry office in a week.
Elena walked out of the courtroom and breathed in deeply. Free. Officially free.
Dmitry caught up with her outside.
“Lena, wait.”
Elena stopped and turned.
“What?”
“I just wanted to say… you were right. About Mom. I really was only thinking about her. And I kept forgetting about you.”
“Good that you finally understood.”
“I’m sorry. Truly.”
“I forgive you,” Elena shrugged. “But it doesn’t change anything. We don’t fit.”
“I know,” Dmitry nodded. “I wish you happiness.”
“And I wish you the same.”
He turned and walked away. Elena watched him go, then pulled out her phone and texted her friend: “It’s done. I’m free. Want to celebrate tonight?”
The reply came instantly: “YES! Of course! Seven o’clock at our favorite café!”
Elena smiled and put her phone back in her bag. Yes, tonight deserved a toast—new beginnings. No toxic husband. No intrusive mother-in-law. No endless fights.
A week later Elena picked up her divorce certificate at the registry office. She came home—no, now it truly felt like home—and looked around. Quiet. Calm. No doors slamming, no shouting, no demands. Bliss.
Elena put on music, took a bottle of wine from the fridge, poured herself a glass, and raised it.
“To freedom. To independence. To having the courage to set boundaries in time.”
The wine was pleasantly sharp. Elena took a sip and walked to the window. The city glittered in the evening light. Somewhere out there Dmitry was living with his mother, or back in some rented place. Somewhere out there Irina Petrovna was still freezing in her house with the failing stove.
But those were their problems—not hers.
Elena had plans of her own: do the renovation, maybe find a higher-paying job, finally take a trip—she’d always wanted to see St. Petersburg.
So much ahead. And no one would ever again say, “No, we’re going to Mom’s. She needs help.”
Her phone buzzed. A message from her friend: “Len, I know a guy—single, decent, works in IT. Want me to introduce you?”
Elena smirked. Too soon. Let her enjoy her freedom first. And later… maybe. If she met someone worthy—someone who would respect her boundaries and wouldn’t try to force his relatives into her life.
“Thanks, Masha. Not yet. But someday—why not?” Elena typed back.
Her friend sent a winking emoji: “Reserved. Waiting for the signal!”
Elena finished her wine and went to bed. She lay there with her arms spread out. Silence. No snoring beside her. No tossing and turning. No one waking her at six a.m. to rush off to the Moscow region.
“Good,” she thought. “So damn good.”
Let people call her cruel. Let them say she left her husband because of his mother. Let them talk. Elena knew the truth—she protected herself. Her space. Her life.
And that was the most important decision she’d ever made.