Part 1. Metal Shavings and a Dream of Sea Air
The workshop throbbed like a disturbed hive of gigantic steel bees. The stench of warmed rubber and machine oil clung to everything—soaking into skin, hair, even thoughts—until it felt like her mind itself carried that heavy industrial burn. Marina tugged her headscarf back into place and scrutinized a batch of bearings with picky precision. Normally her eyes were sharp and strict, but today her focus kept slipping.
Instead of the gray concrete floor, she saw turquoise water shimmering. Instead of the conveyor’s clang, she heard waves rolling in.
She’d waited two years for this vacation. Two years of saving, saying no to an extra pair of shoes, skipping cafés with friends. Turkey. Ultra all-inclusive. Pure, lazy nothing under a sun that didn’t drill into her skull through a hard hat, but warmed her gently.
During the break, an electric cart pulled up. Pavel—her husband—braked with swagger, almost clipping a pallet of rejects. His face, usually plain and open, wore a strange, restless grin that wouldn’t sit still.
“Marish, you going to lunch?” he yelled over the machinery.
“Coming, Pash. Why are you so twitchy? Something happen in the warehouse?”
“No, no—everything’s fine. It’s just… Mom called.”
Marina tensed inside. Calls from Lyudmila Makhovna rarely promised anything good. The woman was a tank—an emotional bulldozer—paving her way to comfort straight over her relatives.
In the cafeteria, prodding clumped pasta with his fork, Pavel finally forced it out:
“Listen, Marin. Mom says the bathroom tiles are coming loose. And the kitchen ceiling’s yellow—she’s embarrassed to have people over.”
“So?” Marina set her fork down. Her appetite disappeared, like someone switched off the light in her stomach.
“Well… she thought while we’re on vacation, maybe I could pop by and help?”
“Pasha, our flight is in three days. The trip’s paid for. The suitcase is packed. What are you even talking about?”
Pavel looked away, studying scratches in the tabletop.
“I was thinking… maybe we cancel? We’ll lose some money on the fee, but we’ll have enough for materials. And the sea—we’ll do it later somehow. Mom’s crying, says there’s mold, she can’t breathe. She’s asthmatic, you know that.”
Marina looked at him and didn’t see a life partner—she saw soft, pliable clay, shaped however his mother pleased.
“So you’re offering me dust in my lungs and cement bags instead of a hotel?” Marina’s voice dropped low, but something sharp rang through it. “We had an agreement. I worked like a dog for this sea.”
“Oh, stop with the sea, the sea!” Pavel slammed his palm on the table. “You’re selfish, Marina. My mother is sick, asking for help, and all you care about is lying on the beach! Are we family or not? We have to help my mother. Renovation is sacred.”
Part 2. The Whispering “Well-Wishers”
That evening Marina’s phone ran hot.
First her mother, Tamara Ignatyevna.
“Marinochka, don’t you dare come here for your vacation,” she warned instantly, without even saying hello. “I’ve got seedlings on every windowsill—can’t breathe. And that… your father, Uncle Kolya, decided to redo the shelves. So disappear. Fly where you planned. Don’t come hovering around here.”
Marina smirked. At least that was stable—no intrigue, just an honest desire to be left alone.
Then Viktor, Pavel’s brother, called.
“Hey, Marin. Heard our blockhead is dancing to Mom’s tune again?”
“Hey, Vitya. He’s trying. Wants to trade Turkey for wall putty.”
“Don’t you dare!” Viktor barked so loudly she had to pull the phone away. “Last year I was an idiot—I lost the entire summer at her dacha. ‘Vitechkа, just fix the porch.’ Yeah, right. I ended up replacing the roof, building a fence, and then got blamed for buying expensive nails. She’ll drain you dry and won’t even choke. And Pashka—he’s got no spine the moment she raises her voice. Tell them to go to hell.”
But the most useful was Sveta—Marina’s younger sister—showing up in person. Sveta burst into the apartment like a fresh draft, kicked off her shoes, and went straight to the kitchen.
“Heard the news,” she announced, pulling out a bottle of mineral water. “Your Pasha changed his status on Odnoklassniki to ‘Family Above All.’ So he’s getting ready to sacrifice your vacation.”
“He wants to return the tickets, Sveta. Says there won’t be enough money for the renovation if we fly. And his mom has ‘mold.’”
Sveta snorted, twisting open the cap.
“The mold is in her conscience. Marina, are you out of your mind? What compromises? You’re head of quality control—you spot defects from a mile away. Your marriage to Pasha right now? That’s a 100% defective product. If you bend now, he’ll use you as a power tool for the rest of your life.”
“So what should I do—start a fight?”
“Why fight?” Sveta narrowed her eyes, sharp and hungry. “Anger is fuel, sis. Don’t waste it on shouting. Use it like gasoline. Let him choke on his son-of-the-year routine. You’re going on vacation. Period. He can make his choice. Just don’t beg, don’t whine. Act—hard. He thinks you’ll cry and give in. Surprise him.”
Part 3. An Ultimatum in the Name of “Family”
At home the air felt thick as jelly. Pavel paced the apartment like a martyr, loudly rearranging tools in his box.
“I called the tour operator,” he threw out without looking at her. “Tomorrow morning I’m going to file for a refund. Mom already found workers—they’ll strip the old tiles.”
Marina sat in an armchair flipping through a magazine. Inside her, something cold and calculating flared to life. The hurt and self-pity burned away, leaving only clean clarity.
“You’re not going to the tour operator tomorrow, Pasha,” she said evenly.
“And why not?” He spun around, his face twisting with irritation. “I’m the man. I decided. The money is ours.”
“The vacation money is my bonus and my savings. Your paycheck goes to food and your car. Forgot that?”
“Oh, so that’s how we’re talking!” Pavel jumped toward her. “Counting pennies now? And the fact my mother raised me—does that mean nothing? You’ve gotten stingy, Marina. Cold.”
“I’m not stingy. I value my work.”
“Fine then.” Pavel loomed over her, trying to crush her with sheer authority. “Either tomorrow we go to my mother’s together and start the renovation, or… or you’re not my wife anymore. I won’t live with a traitor. Choose: family or your beaches.”
He expected tears. He expected excuses, pleading about exhaustion.
Instead, Marina stood. Slowly, straightening her shoulders, she looked him dead between the eyes—heavy, unblinking.
“An ultimatum? All right. I heard you.”
“Good girl,” Pavel smirked, convinced he’d won. “Up at eight tomorrow. Mom made a shopping list—we’re hitting the building market.”
He went to the bedroom whistling, sure of his unshakable righteousness. Marina stayed in the living room. Her lips pressed into a thin line. Anger bubbled up, demanding release—but she shoved it down, turning it into a plan. No obedience. No bargaining. Only action.
Part 4. Cold Fury
Morning didn’t begin with an alarm.
Pavel woke because the space beside him was empty. The sheet on Marina’s side was cold, smooth.
“Marin?” he shouted, scratching his belly. “Where are you? Did you make coffee?”
Silence.
He stepped into the hall. The suitcase that had stood by the closet for a week was gone. Marina’s jacket was gone—her favorite sneakers too. On the kitchen table lay an envelope.
Pavel tore it open. Inside were apartment keys and a note:
“You made your choice, Pasha. You chose your mother and the renovation. I respect your choice. And I chose myself. Your half of the tour can’t be refunded—there’s a 100% penalty for canceling the day before departure. So your seat on the plane will fly empty. Enjoy the plaster dust.
P.S. You can throw the keys away. When I get back, I’m changing the locks.”
“That witch!” Pavel roared. “How dare she! She ran! She left me!”
He grabbed his phone and started dialing her, but a mechanical voice told him the subscriber was out of range.
Rage mixed with panic. What would he tell his mother? Lyudmila Makhovna was already expecting free labor. And money… there was no money. Marina had taken all the cash they kept in the little box.
“Whatever,” Pavel hissed, yanking on his pants. “She’ll crawl back. Where’s she going to go? The apartment’s shared… Wait—no. The apartment is hers. Inherited from her grandmother. Damn it!”
He drove to his mother’s place. Lyudmila Makhovna greeted him dressed for battle: an old robe, a headscarf, a putty knife in her hand.
“And where is that princess?” she demanded at once, peering past him.
“She flew out, Mom. Left us.”
“Snake!” his mother threw her hands up. “Nothing, son—we’ll manage without her. You’ve got hands, don’t you? Go on—start ripping off the tiles while I make tea. She at least left money?”
“No, Mom. Took everything.”
Lyudmila Makhovna’s face stretched.
“Took it? And what are we buying cement with? And tiles? And paying the guy? I’ve got only my pension!”
“I’ll pay from my salary. Or borrow,” Pavel muttered.
“Go work, you useless thing,” his mother snapped. “Your father raised a rag.”
Grinding his teeth, Pavel marched into the bathroom. His anger at his wife needed somewhere to go. He grabbed the rotary hammer.
“I’ll show her,” he thought, driving the chisel into the wall. “She’ll come back and see I did everything top-class. She’ll regret it.”
He worked like a man possessed. Tiles flew, dust filled the air. It felt to him like he wasn’t smashing ceramic—he was smashing Marina’s stubbornness.
Then, in a frenzy, the chisel hit something hard deep inside the wall.
Crack.
The sound was ugly—wet. A hiss followed, and a tight, scalding jet of water slapped Pavel in the face.
Part 5. Collapse Among the Ruins of Everyday Life
“Shut it off! Shut off the riser, you idiot!” Lyudmila Makhovna screamed, splashing through ankle-deep water.
Pavel stumbled around the apartment, sliding on the soaked floor. The shutoff valve was rusted solid and wouldn’t budge. Boiling water kept blasting out, flooding the fresh laminate in the hallway, seeping down to the neighbors. Steam filled the place, turning it into a hammam—only not the kind you pay for at a Turkish resort, but a private little hell.
The water finally stopped an hour later, when the emergency crew arrived and shut off water for the entire building.
By then the downstairs neighbors were pounding on the door. And not just any neighbors—a local prosecutor’s family who had just finished a renovation with Venetian plaster.
Pavel sat on a stool in the middle of the wrecked, flooded kitchen. He was drenched, red as a boiled lobster from burns and steam, and completely crushed.
“So, son—renovated enough?” his mother asked with venom. “Who’s paying now—me? I’m a pensioner! You’re the one who punched a hole in the pipe, you crooked-handed disaster!”
“Mom, I was trying to help you…”
“Helped! You did me a favor, all right! Better you’d flown off with that… wife of yours!”
At that moment Pavel’s phone chirped. A message popped up.
It was Marina.
A photo—tanned legs against a backdrop of bright blue sea, and a glass with an orange cocktail sweating in the sun. Under it, a caption:
“Vitya wrote that you’ve got a flood. Hope you learned how to swim. I’m filing for divorce when I land. You can pick up your things—I’ve already changed the locks. A handyman came an hour ago. Your ex.”
Pavel dropped the phone into a puddle on the floor.
The initiative was gone for good. His swagger peeled off him like old plaster. He was left alone with an enraged mother, neighbors screaming and threatening lawsuits for huge sums, and the realization that he had nowhere to go back to.
His factory salary wouldn’t cover the damages even in five years. Now he’d have to live here—in dampness and mold—under the endless reproaches of a mother who would saw at him three times harder than before.
He remembered Marina’s calm, cold look before she left. She hadn’t screamed. She had simply erased his world with one decision—and left him to shovel through what he’d cooked up himself.
Somewhere far away, the sea was roaring—washing fatigue off the woman who had finally learned to respect herself.
And here, in a cramped apartment stinking of wet rot, Pavel covered his face with filthy hands and howled like a wounded whale, realizing that this lesson had cost him his entire past life.