“Galya’s expecting us Saturday at nine, so don’t plan anything,” Viktor said in a flat, everyday voice, popping a piece of fried potato into his mouth without even looking at his wife. “We’ll need to get up early so we can buy primer.”
Oksana froze with her fork in midair. The brutal warehouse shift—twelve hours straight packing boxes—still hummed in her legs with leaden heaviness. For the last three hours she’d wanted only three things: a hot shower, dinner, and silence. Slowly she turned her eyes to Viktor. He chewed calmly, scrolling through the news on his phone. His face was the picture of complete ease—almost the indifferent serenity of a full belly.
“Primer? What primer, Vitya?” she asked, hoping she’d heard wrong or that he was making a clumsy joke. “Saturday is my only day off in two weeks. I was planning to sleep till noon and then just lie there.”
Viktor finally looked up, faintly puzzled, as if she’d said something stupid. He set his phone aside, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and began explaining in the tone people use with small children.
“You know Galya started renovating her two-bedroom place. She can’t afford a crew—she’s alone with a kid, you understand. And you’ve got a steady hand. You did our hallway and kitchen perfectly. I told her we’d help. It’s barely anything: strip the old stuff, level the walls, put up wallpaper, freshen the ceilings. We’ll mess with it evenings and weekends for a month—then it’ll be done.”
A low, simmering anger rose inside Oksana. This wasn’t a suggestion. It was a signed-and-sealed plan, and her role in it was unpaid labor. Viktor had already spent her time, her health, her weekends—as if she were his property, like a drill or a rotary hammer he could loan out whenever he wanted.
“Why on earth do you think I’m going to your sister’s and working on that damn renovation?” Oksana said, flinging her fork onto the table. The metal clanged hard against the plate, but not hard enough to knock the smugness off Viktor’s face. “You had no right to promise her my help without even telling me. So you go after work and paste her wallpaper yourself.”
Viktor’s brow tightened. His relaxed posture turned rigid. He didn’t like his decisions being challenged—especially on what he considered “simple household stuff.”
“Don’t start, Oksan,” he grimaced. “What is this selfishness? She’s my sister. Blood. She needs help. What, you’ll break in half if you move a putty knife around for a couple hours? You’re good at it—quick. I’ll be your assistant: I’ll haul trash, move furniture. We’re family. We’re supposed to help each other.”
“Help?” Oksana let out a bitter laugh. “Vitya, I work a physical job. By evening I can’t even feel my back. You sit in an office shuffling papers, and I haul boxes. And you want me to spend my day off traveling across the city, breathing dust, ripping off old wallpaper? And what’s your Galya going to do—stand there giving orders?”
“Galya will look after the child and cook for us,” Viktor snapped, raising his voice. “And don’t you dare belittle my job. I’m tired too. I just don’t whine. I promised my sister we’d come. I gave my word. You want me to look like a loudmouthed liar in front of my relatives? So they can say I can’t even keep my own wife in line?”
Oksana stared at him and saw a stranger. He wasn’t worried that his wife was barely holding herself upright—he was worried about how he’d look in his sister’s eyes. His “good brother” reputation was being built on her back.
“I don’t care what you promised,” she said firmly, standing up. Her appetite evaporated. “That’s your problem. If you want to be a good brother, take vacation time, hire a crew with your money, or go stand by the wall with the putty knife yourself. Don’t drag me into this mess. I’m sleeping on Saturday. End of story.”
“No end of story,” Viktor slapped the table, making the cups rattle. “You’re going because I said so. I already agreed. Galya bought the materials—she’s waiting. If you don’t go, it’ll be a slap in the face to my whole family. You live in my apartment, you eat the food I buy, and you’re acting like a princess? Ungrateful.”
“I buy groceries just as much as you do,” Oksana reminded him icily, heading for the kitchen door. “And we split the utilities. So don’t you start handing me a bill. I didn’t sign up to be a servant to your relatives.”
“We’ll see who signed up for what,” Viktor shouted after her. “You think too much of yourself. Tired, she says… everyone’s tired. Our mothers gave birth in the fields and still worked. And you’ll fall apart from a little spackle? Saturday at nine we’re leaving. Not up for debate.”
Oksana locked herself in the bathroom and turned on the water so she wouldn’t have to hear him droning in the kitchen about women’s duties and family obligation. Her hands shook with humiliation and fury. She knew this wouldn’t end quietly. Viktor was stubborn as a bull—once he decided something, the only way to change his mind was to knock the brain right along with it. And the worst part was that he genuinely didn’t see any problem. To him, her labor was worth nothing—an endless free resource he could generously gift his sister just to feed his own ego.
Friday evening passed under a cold distance you could cut with a knife. Viktor made a show of not noticing her at all, banging cabinet doors while pulling out old, faded T-shirts and sweatpants with stretched knees. He stuffed everything into a large checkered duffel bag, telegraphing with every movement that preparations for “the great relocation” were in full swing—and Oksana’s opinion didn’t factor into the equation.
Oksana sat on the couch, staring blankly at the TV where some pointless series played. She kept hoping that within a day Viktor would cool down, process her refusal, and finally see how absurd his demands were. But the mound of clothes in the hallway said otherwise. Viktor wasn’t just getting ready to “help.” He was preparing for a full-scale occupation of his sister’s apartment, bringing his wife along as the main work tool.
“You set an alarm?” he tossed over his shoulder as he walked by with a roll of painter’s tape. “Up at seven. Galya called—said don’t be late. A window installer will be there by lunchtime. We have to rip out the old frames and prep the opening before he gets there.”
Oksana turned her head slowly. Her fatigue had hardened into a dull, heavy rage. He hadn’t just ignored her yesterday—he’d decided to treat her words like the tantrum of a child who doesn’t want to eat porridge.
“I told you in plain Russian, Vitya,” she said quietly but clearly. “I’m not going anywhere. Not at eight, not by lunchtime. I’m sleeping. Then I’ll do my own things. If your Galya needs frames ripped out, she can grab a crowbar and do it herself. Or ask you.”
Viktor stopped. Red patches crept across his face. He threw the tape onto the shelf and stepped toward the couch, looming over her like a shadow.
“What are you trying to do?” he hissed. “You want to turn my family against me? Galya’s counting on you. She already told everyone her brother and his wife are coming to help. Do you understand that if we don’t show up, I’ll look like a clown? You don’t care about me? You don’t care about my reputation?”
“I don’t care about promises you make with someone else’s hands,” Oksana shot back, holding his gaze. “You sold my time and my strength for a ‘thank you’ from your sister. That’s vile, Vitya.”
At that moment Viktor’s phone, lying on the coffee table, shrieked. The screen lit up: “Sister.” Viktor grabbed it and, as if to finish Oksana off by proving just how “serious” everything was, hit speaker.
“Hi, Vityusha!” Galya’s voice came through loud, demanding, and completely intolerant of pushback. She didn’t sound like she was asking for help; she sounded like a drill sergeant issuing orders. “Listen, I was thinking: when you come tomorrow, have Oksana go straight to the kitchen. The walls are crooked—awful. Let her putty them first or the wallpaper won’t sit right. You start in the living room—rip off the baseboards. And tell her to bring her own putty knives. I’ve only got one, and it’s rusty.”
Oksana listened, and her scalp prickled. Galya was talking about her in the third person, like she was an object—like a vacuum cleaner that needed to be delivered and plugged in. No “please,” no “could she,” no question whether Oksana had her own plans—just blunt instructions.
“Galya,” Oksana said loudly, cutting through the stream of orders. “Do you want to ask whether I even want to come and breathe your cement dust?”
There was a brief pause. Then her sister-in-law’s voice turned shriller with indignation.
“Vitya, what is this? Didn’t you explain it to her? Why is she showing attitude? I’m alone with a child—it’s hard for me! And you two are young and healthy. Is it really so difficult to help your own family? Oksana, stop making things up. We’re one family. Your ‘tiredness’ is just excuses from a lazy egoist. Everyone works. You’re not the only one suffering.”
“You hear that?” Viktor crowed, pointing at the phone like it was evidence. “Even Galya says you’re just being difficult! Stop acting like a victim!”
“Exactly!” Galya chimed in. “Vitya—nine o’clock sharp. And tell her not to forget work clothes, or she’ll get dirty and then she’ll whine. That’s it, I’m busy—I’m running out to buy glue.”
The call cut off. Viktor looked at Oksana like a man who’d just been handed artillery support. He was convinced “public opinion” had shamed her into a corner.
“See?” he said, shoving the phone into his pocket. “People are counting on us. So drop the circus. Up at seven, breakfast, and we go. And wipe that sour look off your face. You’ll smile and do what Galya tells you. She’s stressed from the renovation—you don’t argue with her.”
Oksana stayed silent. Something inside her snapped—like the last thread holding the marriage together broke with a dry crack. She wasn’t looking at a loved one anymore. She was looking at a supervisor who genuinely believed he had the right to control her life. He hadn’t defended her against his sister’s arrogance—he’d joined in. He’d let Galya insult her, call her lazy, and he’d backed her up.
“You really think I’m going after that?” she asked very softly. “You let her wipe her feet on me—and you nodded along.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Viktor waved her off and headed for the bathroom. “Telling the truth isn’t an insult. You are acting selfish. That’s it. Conversation over. We’re leaving in the morning. By the way, where are the car keys? Hand them over—I’ll warm the car up while you’re putting your face on.”
It wasn’t pressure anymore. It was a grab for control. Viktor held his hand out, expecting her to place the keys into his palm—one last obedient gesture that would seal his victory and her surrender.
Saturday morning didn’t begin with the smell of coffee or lazy stretching. It began with the harsh scream of the alarm clock at exactly 7:00 a.m. Oksana didn’t move, pulling the blanket up to her chin. She heard Viktor spring out of bed like a soldier on alert. His footsteps echoed over the laminate floor: into the kitchen, the refrigerator door thumping, the kettle hissing. He behaved as if yesterday’s argument had never happened—or as if he was certain his wife had magically reconsidered overnight and now couldn’t wait to strip wallpaper.
Ten minutes later the bedroom door flew open. Viktor came in chewing a sandwich, already dressed in those same worn sweatpants with stretched knees and a grimy undershirt.
“Why are you lying there?” he asked through a mouthful, looking at the still cocoon of blankets. “It’s 7:15. Galya called—she’s already there, waiting. Get up, eat, and let’s go. I don’t want to get stuck in traffic.”
Oksana slowly pulled the blanket back and sat up. Her head felt heavy after a sleepless night, but her thoughts were crystal clear.
“I’m not going anywhere, Vitya,” she repeated in a level, emotionless voice. “I told you yesterday. Go alone.”
Viktor stopped chewing. His face twisted with irritated disbelief. He honestly couldn’t understand how she could keep resisting when everything was already “decided” and approved by the “boss”—his sister.
“That’s enough,” he said, stepping to the bed and looming over her. “Quit the kindergarten act. You’re going because I said so. I’m not going to blush in front of my sister and explain why my wife decided to stage a strike at the worst possible moment. Get up and get dressed. Now.”
“Don’t yell at me,” Oksana said, staring him straight in the eyes. There was no fear in her gaze—only cold contempt. “I’m not your property. And I’m not your sister’s slave.”
Viktor narrowed his eyes. He realized shouting wouldn’t be enough. He needed leverage—something that would force her to obey physically since she wouldn’t bend morally. His gaze flicked toward the little table in the entryway where the car keys usually lay—keys to their old but reliable foreign car that Oksana drove to work. The car was in her name, though it had been bought during the marriage.
“Oh, so that’s how we’re talking now,” he drawled with a nasty smirk. “Fine. Then so you don’t decide to run off to your mommy or your friends while I’m in the shower, we’ll do it differently.”
He strode into the hallway. Metal jingled. Oksana tensed. Viktor came back into the bedroom, tossing her key ring in his palm—the one with the little plush teddy-bear charm.
“The keys stay with me,” he announced, shoving them deep into his pocket. “I blocked your car with mine, so you won’t be able to drive anyway. And you won’t get far on foot. So your options are simple: either you get up right now and we go help family like normal people, or you sit here locked in without a car and without money.”
Oksana watched him in silence. This was no longer a marital dispute. This was outright violence. He was stripping her of freedom of movement, trying to break her by force.
“Have you completely lost your mind, Vitya?” she asked quietly. “Did you just steal my keys?”
“I didn’t steal them—I’m holding them until the nonsense blows out of your head,” Viktor snapped. “You have twenty minutes to get ready. I’m showering. When I come out, you’d better be set. Tools are in the hallway—make sure you don’t forget your putty knives. And wipe that expression off your face—Galya hates sour looks.”
He turned and left, slamming the bathroom door. A moment later the water roared to life. Viktor showered with the satisfaction of a man who believed he’d handled things. He was sure that without the car and with the threat of a family scandal hanging over her, Oksana would cave. He knew she hated fights. He’d been counting on that patience for years—the patience that let him sit on her shoulders and call it love.
As soon as the water’s noise evened out and grew steady and loud, Oksana stood up. There was no hysteria in her, no urge to cry. Inside her was a ringing emptiness with space for only one thing: clean, deliberate action.
She pulled out a large travel bag from the closet. Her movements were quick and precise. Jeans, a few sweaters, underwear, socks—everything went in, folded into tight stacks. She didn’t sort through memories. She didn’t say goodbye to anything. She took only what she needed to live for the next little while. From the shelf she grabbed her documents: passport, diploma, her work record book she’d recently taken out to make a copy. Her laptop and charger went in too.
Then she went to the hall closet and rose on tiptoe, reaching to the very top shelf beneath a pile of old hats. Her fingers found cold metal. A spare set of keys—for the car and the apartment. Viktor, in his self-confidence, had completely forgotten that he himself had once insisted she make duplicates “just in case.”
She dressed quickly: comfortable jeans, sneakers, a light jacket. She tied her hair back. Her eyes caught the mirror. A tired woman stared back—but determined, jaw set hard. That woman no longer had to endure.
Oksana zipped the bag shut. The shower still ran—Viktor liked to linger, humming under his breath. He had no idea his “lesson” had collapsed the moment he decided to use force.
She stepped out onto the landing. The lock clicked behind her, cutting her off from her old life—off from the renovation, off from Galya, off from the man who thought she was an object. Down in the courtyard, she walked to her car. Viktor really had blocked it with his own vehicle, but he’d done it carelessly, leaving just enough room to maneuver if someone was willing to mount the curb.
Oksana got behind the wheel, started the engine, and—without sparing the suspension—bumped up over the curb and out of the trap. She didn’t look back at the apartment windows. Pedal down. Away.
Viktor came out of the bathroom whistling some cheerful tune, rubbing his hair with a towel. The hot water had washed away the last of his sleep, and he felt energized—ready to command the day. The apartment was quiet, and he mistook that silence for obedient waiting. He was sure Oksana was sitting in the entryway, sulking, but dressed for work and ready to go. His plan had worked: he’d shown who was in charge, and the “woman’s rebellion” had been crushed before it started.
“So, ready to work for the good of the family?” he called loudly as he stepped into the bedroom. “See? I told you everything would be fine, you just need to—”
The words died in his throat. The bedroom was empty. The bed was roughly made, but Oksana wasn’t there—and neither were her things. The closet door hung slightly open, and dark gaps yawned on the shelves where her sweaters and jeans used to be. Viktor frowned, a sticky chill of unease spreading in his stomach. He rushed into the hallway. The shoe rack was thinner too—her favorite sneakers and boots were gone.
“Oksana!” he barked, checking the kitchen even though he already knew.
He ran to the window. The spot where her car had been was empty. On the asphalt, only tire marks remained—cutting across the curb and straight through the grass. She’d left. She’d had the nerve to take her own car and outsmart him.
Heat surged into his head. Viktor snatched up his phone and dialed her number.
“The subscriber is switched off or out of range,” a mechanical voice reported.
“You—” Viktor spat, hurling the towel onto the floor. “Just wait. You’ll come crawling back on your knees!”
His phone buzzed again, but it wasn’t Oksana. Galya’s photo flashed. It was her third call in ten minutes. Teeth clenched, Viktor pulled on his jeans and bolted out. He had to take a taxi—he’d left his own car boxed in the yard, and in the chaos he couldn’t even find its keys among the scattered junk.
Galya’s door stood wide open. Her apartment was a wreck: walls stripped down to raw concrete, heaps of old newspapers on the floor, the damp smell of dust that clung to your throat. Galya sat in the middle of the living room on an upside-down paint bucket, arms folded, face twisted with anger. When she saw her brother arriving alone, she sprang up like she’d been stung.
“Do you even know what time it is?!” she screamed instead of greeting him, spit flying. “It’s ten! The window guy will be here in an hour and nothing is done! Where’s your little queen? Why are you alone? We agreed you’d come together!”
Viktor stood amid the mess, feeling cornered. He was ashamed to admit the truth—that his wife had simply walked out on him and his “authority.”
“She… had something urgent,” he mumbled, avoiding her eyes. “Work called. She couldn’t.”
“What urgent thing?!” Galya shrieked, stepping right into his space. “You promised me! I bought the materials, I scheduled people, counting on her help! Who’s going to do it now—me? My back hurts! What were you thinking when you promised? Or does your wife not respect you at all?”
“Shut up, Galya!” Viktor snapped, losing it. “Not now! She ran, okay? Packed her stuff and took off while I was in the shower! Happy?”
His phone pinged with a message. Viktor pulled it out. It was from Oksana. He opened it, and the letters seemed to jump in front of his eyes. The text was short and lethal:
“I’m filing for divorce through the government portal. I’ll pick up the rest of my things later, when you’re not home. I left the apartment keys in the mailbox. And your sister can do her own renovation—or marry you herself, since you care so much about her walls. Goodbye.”
Viktor went still, staring at the screen. The ground seemed to tilt under his feet. Divorce. She hadn’t just left—she’d decided everything. Over some pathetic renovation and his sister’s whims, he’d lost his wife, his routine, his comfort.
Galya yanked the phone from his limp hand and skimmed the message. Her face lengthened—then flushed a dark, furious red.
“That filthy brat!” she roared, hurling his phone onto a bag of cement. “Look what she wrote! ‘Marry your sister’! She’s sick in the head! Good riddance! Who needs a hysteric like that? Don’t worry, Vitya—we’ll find you a normal, hardworking one. And now—grab the putty knife. Time doesn’t wait!”
Viktor slowly raised his eyes to his sister. For the first time in years he saw her not as a struggling relative who needed help, but as a brazen, selfish woman who had been draining him dry. She stood in the filth demanding, demanding, demanding—without even asking how he felt.
“Go to hell,” Viktor said quietly.
“What?” Galya blinked. “What did you say?”
“Go to hell with your renovation!” Viktor roared so loudly plaster sifted down from the ceiling. “This is your fault! You’ve been in our lives nonstop—‘Vitya, bring this, Vitya, help, Vitya, give money’! I lost my family because of your wants! Oksana was right—you’re a leech!”
“A leech?!” Galya choked on outrage and shoved him in the chest. “You’re the leech! A spineless doormat! You couldn’t put your woman in her place, and now you’re blaming your sister? You’re nothing without me! I raised you, I helped you, and you can’t spare one day for me? Get out! Don’t you ever set foot here again!”
“I will!” Viktor kicked the paint bucket. It clattered across the floor, spilling white sludge over the filthy linoleum. “Live in this pigsty, then! Paste your own damn wallpaper! I hate you!”
He spun and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the frame cracked. Galya stood in the ruined room, ankle-deep in white paint, fists clenched, cursing her brother, his wife, and the whole world. And Viktor ran down the stairwell knowing he had nowhere to go—only an empty apartment, a cold bed, and a divorce filing he could no longer cancel with shouting or threats.