“— Who’s that huffing like a locomotive? Seryozha, are you sick?” Veronika called out loudly as she tossed her keys onto the little table in the entryway.
No one answered, but the sounds from the bedroom didn’t stop. It was heavy, strained breathing, broken by a weird rustling and creaking—like someone was trying to cram an enormous watermelon into a tiny plastic bag. Veronika’s brow tightened. She’d come home three hours earlier than usual—the client had moved the meeting, and she’d planned to use the sudden gap for a peaceful shower and some reading. But the apartment wasn’t even pretending to be quiet.
She kicked off her heels and walked down the hallway in her tights, the laminate cool under her feet. The bedroom door was half-open. With every step, the cracking of fabric grew clearer—a thin, miserable sound of threads pulled to the breaking point.
Veronika nudged the door wider and stopped dead on the threshold, feeling all the blood rush out of her face—then surge back in a hot wave to her head.
Tamara Ivanovna stood in front of the wardrobe mirror. Her mother-in-law—massive, broad-framed, built like a monument—was crimson with effort. Stretched across her heavy body, over a wool turtleneck and skirt, was Veronika’s pride: her black mink coat with horizontal panels. The very coat Veronika had saved up for from bonuses for six months, the one she kept in a garment bag and wore only on special occasions.
“Take off my fur coat right now! You thought that because I’m at work you can dig through my closets and try on my things?! You’ll rip it—it’s three sizes too small for you!”
Tamara Ivanovna didn’t even twitch. She only shot her daughter-in-law an annoyed look through the mirror and kept trying to pull the two sides together over her enormous stomach. Her fingers—thick as sausages—yanked at the delicate fur with fierce stubbornness, trying to force the hook into the loop.
“Don’t see the problem,” she muttered, sucking in a deep breath and pulling her belly in so hard her face darkened. “I’m just trying it on. Interesting to see what you’re spending the family money on.”
“What family money?” Veronika stepped into the room, cold anger boiling under her skin. “I bought it with my own money. Every last ruble. Take it off—now! Do you hear that crackling? That’s the lining tearing!”
The coat really was suffering. Veronika wore a size 44; Tamara Ivanovna could barely squeeze into a 56. The expensive fur across her back was stretched so tight the pale hide showed between the pelts. Sleeves made for slim arms bit into her underarms, turning her shoulders into something like ham hocks tied with string. One more move and the whole thing would explode at the seams.
“Nothing’s tearing. Stop inventing drama,” Tamara Ivanovna wheezed, finally managing to fasten the very top hook. The collar tightened around her neck and her voice came out compressed and raspy. “Fur should fit snug. On you it hangs like a coat on a hanger—loose, no shape. A real piece should show your figure, show status.”
She turned sideways to admire herself. It looked absurd. The coat flared open over her hips in a wide triangle, exposing an old-fashioned brown skirt. The sleeves had ridden up nearly to her elbows.
“You’re about to ruin a two-hundred-thousand-ruble coat,” Veronika said quietly, but there was more threat in that calm tone than in any scream. “Tamara Ivanovna, you have three seconds to unhook it and take it off. If you don’t, I’m not responsible for what I do next.”
“Oh, don’t try to scare me,” her mother-in-law snorted, still spinning in front of the mirror, ignoring the dangerous creak of seams with every turn. “Big deal. Some precious thing. We’re family—things are shared. Maybe I want one too. Seryozha says you’re a spendthrift, but I’ll admit, you’ve got taste. Only the style isn’t for you. You need a puffer jacket. Fur is for real women—women with substance.”
The air began to stink of sweat. A sharp, sour body odor mixed with the heavy “Red Moscow” perfume Tamara Ivanovna drenched herself in started drowning out the clean scent of expensive mink. Veronika pictured, with revulsion, that smell sinking into the lining, sweat soaking the silk.
“Your ‘shared’ things are in your own apartment,” Veronika enunciated, stepping closer. “Here, these are my things. And my husband. And apparently you forgot to tell him you were coming today to inspect my wardrobe. Where did you even get a key?”
“My son gave it to me,” Tamara Ivanovna said smugly, tugging at a second hook at chest height. “In case of fire or flooding. And I’m his mother—I have the right to check how you live, whether it’s clean, whether Seryozhenka is fed. And while I was at it, I looked at where the budget goes.”
She yanked the fronts of the coat together over her heavy chest. A crisp, dry rip sounded—hrrrrk. Somewhere under her arm, the lining split.
Veronika’s vision darkened. It wasn’t just fabric tearing. It was her patience tearing. For years she had swallowed this woman’s shamelessness—her advice, her surprise visits, her constant criticism. But now, watching this sweaty, brazen body destroy her dream, Veronika understood: the talking part was over.
“I said take it off!” she roared, losing the last of her manners.
“Stop screaming, you hysteric,” Tamara Ivanovna waved her off, tugging at the fur again. “I’ll look properly and then I’ll take it off. Let a person enjoy something. Are you really that stingy? You’ll have more—you’re young, you’ll earn it. But me? Maybe I want to wear it before I die.”
The nerve was unbelievable. Her mother-in-law wasn’t simply trying it on—she was claiming it. She stood in someone else’s bedroom, in someone else’s coat, making it clear with every movement that she was the mistress here, and Veronika was just an inconvenient obstacle who’d come home at the wrong time.
Veronika stared at the hands clenched into the black fur—short fingers with chipped polish crushing the collar.
“You’re not going to take it off,” she said through her teeth. “You’re going to tear it apart.”
She stepped forward, closing the distance until there was almost no space between them. In the mirror, two figures stood: Tamara Ivanovna, huge and black like a mound of hay, and Veronika—slim, tight as a drawn wire.
“Don’t you dare!” her mother-in-law shrieked, noticing the movement. “Let me fasten it!”
“Hands off!” Veronika reached for the collar, ready to end the farce herself.
“Don’t touch me!” Tamara Ivanovna screeched, swatting at her like an annoying insect. Her heavy hand swung clumsily and slapped Veronika’s wrist. “Have you lost your mind? I’m your husband’s mother! I have the right to feel the fur! I need to know if it’s worth it!”
Veronika didn’t back up. That slap was a trigger. Something inside her snapped—the spring that had held years of forced politeness, fake smiles, and swallowed insults. The woman in front of her was no longer an elderly relative deserving automatic respect. She was a thief. A sweaty, brazen thief destroying Veronika’s property while smirking to her face.
“This isn’t ‘fur.’ This is my coat!” Veronika grabbed the fronts with both hands, fingers sinking into the soft mink until she felt the tough hide beneath. “Take it off—I said it! You’re going to rip it to hell!”
“Get off me!” Tamara Ivanovna rasped, backing away. But there was nowhere to go—the wardrobe behind her, the bed to one side. She tried to wrench free with a twist, but the coat clung to her like a second skin, locking her arms in place. “You’ll break my arm! It hurts! Seryozha! Where is that damn son when you need him?!”
“Seryozha won’t save you,” Veronika hissed, staring into her mother-in-law’s small, swollen eyes. “Unhook it. Now.”
At that moment Tamara Ivanovna decided, apparently, that the best defense was an attack. She shoved Veronika with both hands, planting her palms on her chest. That single move finished the coat. A loud, dry, terrifying rip tore through the room—the sound of a dying thing. The seam along the back gave up under the struggle and the strain, splitting by about ten centimeters and exposing the pale lining.
For a heartbeat, both of them went still. Veronika saw the light strip of torn fabric at the shoulder. Rage flooded her vision like a red veil.
“You tore it…” she breathed. Her voice was quiet, but it carried the chill of a grave. “You tore my coat.”
She didn’t ask anymore. She acted.
With a strength that seemed impossible for her slender frame, Veronika yanked the coat fronts apart. The metal hooks, never meant for that kind of violence, tore out of their loops. One of them clinked against the wardrobe mirror.
Tamara Ivanovna howled. The sudden jerk made her stagger. The coat flew open, but the sleeves still trapped her thick arms.
“You’re crazy!” she screamed, trying to keep her balance while swinging at Veronika with her free hand. “Help! She’s killing me!”
“Get your arms out!” Veronika grabbed the left sleeve and pulled, using the heavy momentum of Tamara Ivanovna’s body.
She tore at the coat as if she were skinning an animal. Tamara Ivanovna spun like a top, trying to keep her dignity and her footing, failing on both counts. Veronika moved behind her, braced a foot against her mother-in-law’s heel, and yanked the collar down and back with all her force.
The coat—slick with sweat now—finally gave way. With a wet, sucking sound, the sleeves slid off Tamara Ivanovna’s clammy forearms. Freed, her mother-in-law stumbled two awkward steps backward, tangled in her own feet and the rug.
“Oof!” was all she managed before gravity did the rest.
Tamara Ivanovna’s huge body crashed onto the marital bed. The mattress squealed under the impact of a hundred kilos of dead weight. She toppled onto her side, legs kicking up in thick brown tights. Her skirt rode up in a ridiculous way, but Veronika didn’t care.
Veronika stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard, clutching the battered coat to her chest. It was warm—too warm. It reeked of чужое тело, sweat, and “Red Moscow.” With disgust, she flipped it over, assessing the damage: a hook ripped out, the back seam split, the collar greasy and rubbed down. The coat was ruined. Defiled.
On the bed, Tamara Ivanovna started to come to. She groaned, trying to roll over and sit up. Red blotches spread over her face; her hair, usually pinned into a neat “bun,” had come loose.
“You… you’ll pay for this,” she rasped, jabbing a finger at Veronika. “You laid hands on an elderly person! Over a rag! I’ll tell Seryozha everything! I’ll sue you! You’ve made me disabled!”
Veronika lifted her eyes from the coat slowly. There was no fear in her look, no remorse—only cold disgust, as if she were staring at trash that had somehow ended up in her bedroom.
“Shut up,” she said evenly.
Her gaze dropped to the floor where Tamara Ivanovna’s old, dirty gray wool coat lay—same one she’d been wearing for ten years, elbows polished bare, smelling of mothballs. She’d thrown it on the white carpet when she decided to stage her “fashion show.”
Without letting go of the mink, Veronika bent down and grabbed the wool coat with her free hand. The fabric felt rough, unpleasant.
“That’s mine!” Tamara Ivanovna shrieked when she saw it. “Don’t touch it!”
“Take your junk,” Veronika said, and hurled the coat straight into her mother-in-law’s face.
The heavy wool covered Tamara Ivanovna’s head, muffling her stream of curses. Tangled in her own clothing, she flailed on the bed like a giant caterpillar trapped in a cocoon.
“And get out of here,” Veronika added, her hands trembling—not with fear, but with the crash of adrenaline. “I don’t want you in my apartment a minute from now.”
She tossed the ruined mink onto a chair. She didn’t even want to wear it anymore. From this moment on, it would always mean that sweaty, heavy body sprawled across her bed.
Tamara Ivanovna finally pulled the coat off her head. Her face was twisted with rage, lips shaking.
“You’ll regret this,” she hissed, sliding off the bed and frantically searching for the shoes she’d kicked off somewhere. “You’ll crawl to me begging forgiveness. Seryozha will deal with you! He’ll see what you really are! Psycho!”
“Let him,” Veronika said flatly. “I don’t care anymore.”
At that moment, the front door slammed.
“Nika? Mom? You home?” Sergey’s cheerful voice rang out from the hallway. “I can see Mom’s shoes. What’s all this noise? I brought cake!”
Veronika and Tamara Ivanovna both turned toward the corridor. One looked with hope and anticipation of punishment. The other looked with grim resolve—the kind that ends things for good.
Sergey froze in the bedroom doorway, a ribbon-tied box with a Napoleon cake gripped awkwardly in his hand. The smile he’d walked in with slid slowly off his face, replaced by bewildered disgust. What he saw looked like a scene from a cheap crime report: his wife disheveled, eyes blazing; laundry tossed over the bed; his mother panting and clutching her old coat to her chest like a life preserver.
“What is going on here?” Sergey’s voice came out unnaturally loud in the stuffy room, thick with the smell of a fight. “Mom—why are you… like this? Veronika?”
Tamara Ivanovna sensed backup and instantly switched roles. The aggressor became the victim. She didn’t cry—tears were for the weak—but her face twisted into a mask of righteous suffering. She stretched a puffy hand toward her son, pointing at Veronika as if she were the devil in human form.
“She attacked me, son!” her mother-in-law wailed, her voice ringing with metallic accusation. “I just came by while you weren’t here—wanted to wipe some dust, tidy up… I saw the fur coat and thought: let me try it on, be happy for the young ones. And she—she stormed in like a madwoman! Grabbed me, shoved me, nearly tore my arms off! Look at me! I barely survived!”
Sergey shifted his heavy gaze to his wife. There was no question in his eyes—only a verdict already written. He carefully, as if afraid of getting dirty, set the cake on the dresser, right on top of Veronika’s magazines, and stepped to his mother.
“Is that true?” he asked, not looking at Veronika, scanning Tamara Ivanovna’s flushed face for injuries. “You laid hands on my mother?”
Veronika gave a short, bitter laugh—the kind of laugh you make when the absurdity of your own life suddenly becomes obvious. She jerked her chin toward the chair where the black, mangled mink lay in a heap.
“Open your eyes, Seryozha,” she said in an icy tone. “Your mother broke into my home, took my coat that costs more than three of your paychecks, and squeezed herself into it. She tore it. Split it at the seams because she decided she has the right to wear anything that’s lying around here. I just took off what doesn’t belong to her.”
Sergey didn’t even glance at the chair. He went to the bed and helped his mother sit up more comfortably, adjusting her clothes with careful hands.
“A coat?” he repeated with genuine confusion, finally turning to his wife. “You staged this circus over a piece of clothing? Veronika, are you out of your mind? That’s my mother! So she put it on, so she tried it. She just wanted to feel beautiful. She’s never had things like that. You could’ve offered it yourself instead of throwing yourself at an older woman like a guard dog!”
“She tore it, Sergey!” Veronika raised her voice, trying to break through his wall of blindness. “The lining is shredded, the hooks are ripped out! It’s a thing—my personal thing! Why the hell was she even in my closet?”
“Choke on your coat!” Sergey snapped, his face twisting with anger. In that instant he looked exactly like his mother. “Petty little miser. Clutching your junk like a dragon. My mother is a living person! What if her heart gave out? What if her blood pressure spiked from your screaming? Would you wear your mink to her funeral?”
Tamara Ivanovna nodded enthusiastically, backing her son now that she’d regained herself. She sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders squared like a victor.
“Exactly, Andryusha… oh—Seryozha,” she chimed in. “I told her: we’re one family, everything is shared. And she says, ‘Get out.’ Like I’m some mangy dog! And she threw my coat in my face! Can you imagine? My coat—the one I wore taking you to school—and she threw it on the floor!”
Sergey’s fists clenched. He stepped toward Veronika, looming over her.
“You will apologize. Now,” he said through his teeth. “You will ask my mother’s forgiveness for pushing her. And for begrudging her that stupid coat. We’ll take it to a tailor, they’ll stitch your precious hide, nothing will happen to it. But you— you ruined the relationship.”
Veronika looked at her husband and felt something inside her die—everything that had tied them together for three years. Love. Respect. Plans. All of it crumbled into dust. The man in front of her wasn’t the one she’d married. It was Tamara Ivanovna’s son—small, spiteful, ready to crush his wife so long as Mommy was pleased.
“Are you serious?” she asked quietly. “You’re blaming me? She came in without permission. She damaged my property. And I’m the one who should apologize?”
“Yes, you should!” Sergey barked. “Because she’s my mother. And in my house she will be respected! If your clothes matter more than people, I don’t even know who you are. A greedy egoist. Mom always said you think too highly of yourself. Now your rotten nature is showing. Ready to tear someone’s throat out over a rag.”
“She tore it on purpose!” Veronika burst out, pointing at her mother-in-law. “She knew she didn’t fit, but she kept pulling! She wanted to ruin it because she’s jealous!”
“Shut your mouth!” Sergey lifted his hand—but didn’t strike. He just chopped the air hard beside her face. “Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that! She’s a saint—she gave her life for me! And you… you’ve gotten spoiled. So what, your precious fur got wrinkled. Your coat isn’t worth a cent if you stop being human over it.”
Veronika took a step back. Her mind cleared, as if a fog she’d lived in for years suddenly dissolved. She saw them both: Tamara Ivanovna, sweaty and triumphant, sitting on their marital bed like a conqueror; and Sergey, spitting rage, ready to destroy his wife for his mother’s whim.
This wasn’t a quarrel. It was the end. The point of no return had been crossed the moment Sergey called humiliation and destruction “just trying it on.”
“Fine,” Veronika said. Her voice no longer shook with anger. It was empty and ringing, like a metal bucket. “Are you done?”
“No, I’m not!” Sergey grew louder, drunk on his own impunity. “You’re going to the kitchen, set the table, pour Mom some tea, and apologize. And if I see so much as a sideways look at her again, you’ll regret it. Understood? We’re family, and you’ll behave like a normal wife—not like some market hysteric.”
Tamara Ivanovna gave a satisfied little snort, fixing her hair. She could already taste the victory—and the Napoleon cake.
“And get that coat out of sight,” Sergey added, nodding toward the chair with open disgust. “I can’t stand looking at it. Because of it, Mom nearly had a heart attack.”
Veronika looked at him in silence. Then she looked down at her hands. On her right hand, her wedding band gave a dull glint—thin gold, once a symbol of forever. Now it burned her skin like hot iron.
Slowly, with effort—like she was stripping off a piece of herself—Veronika pulled the ring from her finger. It resisted, as if it sensed what was coming, but finally slid over the joint and dropped into her palm: small, cold, completely чужое. Sergey still stood there with his mouth slightly open, waiting for her to submit, certain of his authority.
“Tea?” Veronika repeated, her face turned to stone. “You want tea?”
She snapped her hand up. The gold circle flew like a thrown stone, cutting a short arc through the air, and struck Sergey hard in the cheekbone—just under his left eye—with a dull thud.
“Here,” she spat. “Choke on your gold.”
Sergey gasped and grabbed his face. He stumbled back into the dresser, almost knocking the cake over. A dark red mark began blooming on his skin.
“What are you doing, idiot?!” he roared, pulling his hand away, staring at her in disbelief. “You almost took my eye out!”
“Get out,” Veronika said softly—so softly that Tamara Ivanovna on the bed stopped breathing for a second. “Both of you. Out of my apartment. Right now.”
“You’ve completely lost it,” Sergey tried to take control again, stepping toward her. “This is my home too! I’m not going anywhere until you calm down and apologize to my mother! You’ll pick up the ring and—”
Veronika didn’t let him finish. She didn’t scream or stamp her feet. She turned into pure motion.
In one swift burst she crossed the space, grabbed him by the front of his pressed shirt, and shoved him toward the bedroom exit with a force that didn’t seem possible for her build. Sergey lost his footing on the slick laminate, slid a couple of meters, and slammed his shoulder into the doorframe.
“I said—get out!” Veronika shouted, spinning toward her mother-in-law.
Tamara Ivanovna, suddenly sensing danger, tried to sink into the mattress, as if she could melt into the bedding. Her eyes darted around, searching her son for rescue while he rubbed his bruised shoulder.
“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked when Veronika reached the bed. “Seryozha, do something! She’s rabid!”
Veronika grabbed her by the elbow, fingers digging hard into soft flesh through the wool turtleneck.
“Up,” Veronika ordered, yanking her forward so Tamara Ivanovna nearly pitched face-first. “Stop lying on my bed. Move!”
She practically hauled the heavy woman off the mattress. Tamara Ivanovna wheezed and protested, getting tangled in her own feet, but Veronika didn’t let her fall—she drove her forward with a hard palm between the shoulder blades, out into the hallway. Stripped of her usual swagger, the mother-in-law shuffled faster, pushed along by fear of that sudden, icy rage.
“Stop shoving me!” Tamara Ivanovna screamed, fighting for balance. “Let me at least put my shoes on! Seryozha, are you a man or what?! Control your psycho!”
Sergey stepped into the corridor, blocking their way. His face was red, fists clenched.
“Stop!” he bellowed, reaching for Veronika’s arms. “What do you think you’re doing? Don’t touch my mother! You’re asking for it!”
Instead of answering, Veronika drove her shoulder into him, using Tamara Ivanovna’s momentum like a battering ram.
“Go live with your mommy!” she shouted right into his face. “Move in together, breathe mothballs, try on each other’s clothes—you’re made for each other! Out!”
She shoved Sergey hard in the chest. He stumbled backward, tripped on the bathroom threshold, and spilled into the entryway. A moment later Tamara Ivanovna, shoved along in panicked little steps, stumbled out after him.
“My things! My things!” Tamara Ivanovna screeched, twisting around—her old wool coat still lay on the bedroom floor.
“Take your garbage!” Veronika shot back, darted into the room, snatched up the gray coat, and flung it into the hallway without looking. It clipped the shelf, knocking keys and loose change to the floor, then collapsed in a dirty heap.
Sergey reached for his jacket, but Veronika was faster. She yanked his windbreaker off the hook, grabbed his boots from the mat, and his laptop bag—and threw it all toward the front door.
“Open the door,” she ordered, stepping toward him. A metal shoehorn had ended up in her hand—the only “weapon” within reach. Her face was so set, so final, that Sergey instinctively backed up and turned the lock.
“You’ll regret this, Veronika,” he hissed as he pulled the door open to the stairwell. “You’ll come crawling. You’ll rot alone in this apartment with your rags. Who needs you like this—crazy?”
“Get out,” Veronika said, and shoved him onto the landing. Sergey barely stayed upright, grabbing the railing. He was in socks, jacket in his hands, a red welt under his eye.
Tamara Ivanovna squeezed past him, clutching her wool coat to her chest, afraid of another shove. The instant she reached the “safety” of the stairwell, her voice returned in full.
“Whore!” she screamed, spitting. “Pig! We’ll file a report! You’ll dance for me! Seryozha, call the police—she beat us!”
Veronika grabbed Sergey’s shoes—expensive leather Oxfords he was proud of—and hurled them down the stairwell. They clattered and bounced off concrete steps, banging against the railings as they fell.
“You can run after your shoes—you won’t die,” she called.
“You’re insane!” Sergey lunged forward, but the heavy metal door slammed shut in his face with a thunderous crash.
Veronika turned the key twice with shaking hands, then snapped the night latch into place. From the stairwell came dull fists hammering the door and Tamara Ivanovna’s hysterical shrieks, mixed with Sergey’s threats to break the lock. But the sounds already felt far away, like they belonged to another world.
Veronika leaned her back against the cold metal and slowly slid down to the floor. In the hallway, keys were scattered, the doormat kicked aside. The silence that settled over the apartment wasn’t sharp or heavy.
It was clean.
It was the silence of being free.
She looked at her hands. A pale imprint of the ring still circled her finger, but it would fade. In the bedroom, the ruined two-hundred-thousand-ruble coat lay on the chair. On the dresser, the untouched cake waited. None of it mattered anymore.
What mattered was that the air no longer stank of чужой sweat and cheap manipulation.
She was home. Alone.
And for the first time in three years, she could breathe—fully.”