— “What am I to you, the dorm supervisor?! Why the hell is your brother stretched out on my couch in filthy socks? I told you—no relatives staying overnight. Let him go to a hotel or sleep at the station. I don’t care!”
Tatyana hadn’t even managed to kick off her shoes. She stood in the living-room doorway, her car keys clenched so hard her fingers went numb, and felt a scorching, suffocating surge of anger rise from deep in her chest. Twelve hours on her feet. Tough negotiations with suppliers. Gridlock downtown. She’d been fantasizing about silence, a hot shower, and a glass of cold wine.
Instead, she’d come home to a full-blown gypsy camp—inside her own carefully curated two-bedroom apartment.
What she saw could’ve been drawn by a cruel caricaturist. On her dusty-rose velour sofa—the one she’d custom-ordered from Italy, waited three months for, and treated like a sacred object—Oleg was sprawled out like he paid the mortgage. Her husband’s younger brother had his legs tossed over the armrest. The heels of his washed-out socks, gray with baked-in grime, twitched lazily, grinding street dirt into the delicate fabric.
The room was heavy with stale air, the kind that made you want to fling every window wide open. It stank of bargain-bin cigarettes, greasy reheated food, sweat, and a syrupy cologne Oleg apparently thought was “classy.”
Vitaly—Tatyana’s husband—hovered by the window, nervously tugging at the curtain. When he saw her, he instinctively hunched like a kid caught stealing. But after he caught his brother’s look, he quickly tried to look like the man of the house.
“Tan, why are you starting this the second you walk in?” he mumbled without meeting her eyes. “Keep it down—the neighbors will hear. He’s been traveling, he’s tired. We’re family, aren’t we? Olezhek came to conquer the capital. He just needs somewhere to crash for a week or two until he finds a proper job. You can’t toss your own brother out into the night.”
At the sound of his name, Oleg didn’t even consider moving his feet. He turned his head slowly and looked Tatyana over with a sticky, measuring stare—condescending, almost amused—then, with a ridiculous little pinky raised, popped a piece of cheese into his mouth.
Tatyana’s eyes dropped to the coffee table and narrowed. Right on the glossy surface—no plate, no napkin, no board—there were chunks of food dumped in a heap. She recognized them instantly. Her “do not touch” stash. Her small luxuries: twelve-month aged Parmesan and jamón she’d brought back from her last business trip, saving for a special day. Beside it stood an opened bottle of her favorite collectible wine, the cork tossed somewhere on the floor among chip crumbs.
“A week or two?” she repeated softly, and the frost in her voice was worse than shouting. “Vitaly, have you completely lost your mind? You dragged your brother into my apartment—bought and registered, by the way, before our marriage—without even asking me? And now you’re devouring my food like locusts while you ruin my furniture?”
Oleg let out a nasty laugh—high and grating, like Styrofoam dragged across glass.
“Oh, Vit, I told you—she’s a nervous one. A real hysteric,” he drawled, stretching with exaggerated cracks of his joints. “‘My apartment, my cheese.’ Tanya, relax. You won’t go broke from a few slices of meat—you’re the boss lady, right? You earn. But honestly, look at yourself—always on edge, gray face, bags under your eyes. You need a spa, a face mask, not screaming at relatives. Keep that up, you’ll get wrinkles and Vit will trade you in for a younger model.”
He winked, but there wasn’t even a trace of humor in it—just pure, shameless cruelty from someone who felt untouchable. He had his brother backing him, and he loved every second.
Tatyana felt her pulse pounding in her temples like a hammer. Her exhaustion vanished. In its place came a sharp, icy clarity. She swung her arm and threw her keys onto the entryway console. The loud clank made Vitaly flinch, but Oleg didn’t even blink, still chewing.
“You have five minutes,” she said, staring straight at her husband and pretending her brother-in-law’s smirk didn’t exist. “Five minutes to pack his junk and put him outside. The clock is ticking.”
“Tan, stop this circus,” Vitaly finally moved away from the window, deciding attack was easier than defense. He puffed himself up, trying to look intimidating, though his insecurity showed through every gesture. “Oleg is my brother. He’s staying as long as he needs. I’m the husband—I have a say in this home too. Don’t be a bitch. Where’s he supposed to go? Have you seen the time?”
“A hostel. A hotel. Under a bridge. A 24-hour shelter. I don’t care,” Tatyana stepped deeper into the room without taking off her shoes. Her boots left dirt on the parquet, and for once she didn’t care—because the real filth in this apartment wasn’t on the floor. “You lost your vote the moment you decided my home and my wallet were yours to use without my consent.”
“Oh here we go—discount drama,” Oleg rolled his eyes, reached for the remote, and cranked up the TV like the conversation was over. “Vit, do something about your woman. She’s killing my appetite. And by the way, your couch is kind of stiff—my back’s sore. If I were you, I’d buy something softer, since I’m sticking around a couple weeks. Maybe put a folding bed in the kitchen? I snore—wouldn’t want to scandalize the newlyweds.”
His audacity was so unreal that Tatyana actually stalled for a second. He wasn’t just unafraid—he was already redesigning her apartment in his head. To him, this was entertainment: roll in from the provinces, climb onto their necks, and watch the “city princess” explode while his brother defended him.
And with his brother’s support, Vitaly grew even bolder.
“He’s staying, Tatyana. End of discussion. I’m sick of your commander voice. At home you’re not the boss. Be a woman—show softness, hospitality. Make a proper dinner—we’re hungry. What we ate was just a snack with the wine. Men need meat.”
Tatyana looked at the empty bottle—worth about half of Vitaly’s monthly paycheck—then at the greasy jamón smears on her expensive tabletop, then at Oleg’s smug, shiny face. Something inside her snapped. The last fuse burned out.
“Dinner?” she repeated, and a smile touched her lips—one that made Vitaly suddenly uneasy. “Fine. I’ll give you dinner.”
She turned on her heel and left the living room—but not toward the stove. She went to the kitchen to drink water and steady herself for what she was about to do.
The kitchen hit her with a draft. The vent window stood wide open, but even the cold evening air couldn’t chase away the bite of cheap smoke. She reached automatically for the water carafe to calm the tremor in her hands—and then her eyes snagged on the windowsill.
In a neat ceramic pot stood her pride and joy: a rare white orchid she’d babied for six months after a failed transplant. Just last week it had pushed up its first spike of buds. Now three fat, crushed cigarette butts were shoved into the loose soil, wedged right between the delicate aerial roots. Ash lay in gray flakes across the snow-white petals and glossy leaves, turning a living plant into an ashtray.
Nausea rose in her throat. This wasn’t just rudeness. It was desecration—of her space, her work, her idea of home.
She glanced at the sink. A mountain of dishes towered over the faucet: greasy pans, plates with dried ketchup, sticky glasses. A brown stain—coffee or sauce—had spread across the countertop she’d chosen specifically because it was “easy to maintain.”
At that moment, shuffling steps sounded behind her. Oleg lumbered into the kitchen, scratching his stomach under a stretched-out T-shirt. He ignored Tatyana standing rigid by the window and went straight for the fridge.
“Hey, Tanya, got any more beer?” he asked, opening the door and staring at the empty shelves. “Me and Vit left a couple cans, didn’t we? Or did you already clean everything up?”
The refrigerator was practically bare. The week’s groceries—salmon steaks, farm cheese, vegetables—were gone. Only a jar of mustard and a lonely lemon remained.
Tatyana turned slowly toward her brother-in-law. Her face had gone flat and still, like a mask.
“You smoked in my kitchen?” she asked quietly. “You put your cigarettes out in my flower?”
Oleg shut the fridge and finally looked at her. His expression was honestly confused—like he couldn’t see the problem.
“The window’s open, it’ll air out,” he said, waving it off as he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “And I couldn’t find an ashtray. Why are you so tense? A flower? Come on. Ash is fertilizer. I read that somewhere. You should thank me—I’m feeding it.”
Vitaly appeared in the doorway, looking even more miserable than he had in the living room, torn between pleasing his brother and fearing his wife.
“What is it now?” he asked, sounding like the victim.
“Your brother turned my kitchen into a smoking den and a dump,” Tatyana pointed at the orchid. “Vitaly, look. Just look.”
Vitaly’s eyes flicked over the cigarette butts. He winced—and immediately started defending him.
“Tan, he didn’t know. He didn’t see an ashtray. He’s simple, country guy—why are you nitpicking? We’ll buy you a new plant. Big deal, some twig in a pot.”
“A twig?” Tatyana echoed.
Oleg snorted and perched on the only clean edge of the table. He grabbed an apple from the bowl, crunched loudly, and started talking with his mouth full:
“See, Vit? That’s what I’m saying—your woman’s heavy. Suffocating. Turning a flower into a tragedy. You’ve got to understand: a guest in the house is sacred. But you’re stalking around, staring, spreading negative energy. A man needs to rest and relax, not listen to your complaints. Be simpler, and people will like you. Maybe your husband will perk up too—he walks around like a beaten dog.”
He said it in her home, eating her apple, after wiping out her food and ruining her things. And the worst part? Vitaly stayed quiet. He leaned on the doorframe and nodded—like he agreed she really was “suffocating,” and that she was somehow at fault for not enjoying filth.
That’s when Tatyana understood: there was nothing left to negotiate. Diplomacy had died, suffocated in cigarette smoke. These weren’t relatives anymore. They were invaders—people who didn’t understand normal human words. They mistook manners for weakness, and patience for permission to spit in her face.
“So it’s fertilizer?” she asked in a strange, calm voice, looking straight at Oleg. “And I’m supposed to be simpler?”
“Exactly,” Oleg nodded with a smug grin. “Learn hospitality while I’m here.”
“Fine,” Tatyana nodded, more to herself than to them. “Lesson learned.”
There was no hysteria left in her. Only a ringing, icy emptiness—inside it, a clear plan took shape. She didn’t shout about money. She didn’t shove Vitaly toward the dishes. It was pointless.
She set the glass of water carefully on the table without taking a sip.
“I’ll be right back,” she said evenly. “And we’ll settle your comfort situation for good.”
Vitaly exhaled in relief, deciding the storm had passed and his wife had finally surrendered.
“That’s my good girl, Tanya,” he smiled. “Go on—throw something together fast. Scrambled eggs with bacon, at least. Me and Oleg will have a smoke.”
“Yeah, hostess,” Oleg chimed in, flicking his lighter. “And don’t be stingy with the mayo.”
Tatyana didn’t answer. She left the kitchen—but not for the bathroom to wash off her makeup, and not for the fridge to grab eggs. Her heels clicked down the hall toward the guest room, where Oleg had already scattered his belongings.
Only one thought hammered in her head: if you don’t cut a tumor out immediately, it kills the body. And she was about to perform surgery—without anesthesia.
She walked in, flipped on the harsh overhead light, and saw his travel bag gaping open, its contents spilling out like intestines.
“Be simpler,” she whispered, stepping toward the bag. “I’ll make it simple for you. Simpler than you can even imagine.”
She didn’t waste time looking for trash bags or folding anything neatly. She moved like a cleaning machine. Jeans on the floor. That “designer” shirt he was proud of hanging on a chair. Chargers, deodorant, dirty underwear scattered across the dresser.
She swept it all into her arms. The fabric, soaked in a чужой smell, made her skin crawl—but disgust was secondary now. She yanked open the zipper on Oleg’s fat sports duffel and began stuffing it with ruthless efficiency. Jeans went first, shirts tossed in on top in a wrinkled heap. She didn’t care if they creased. She was compressing someone else’s life into a bag so she could throw it out of hers.
In went a damp, balled-up towel he’d left on the bedspread. Then, clinking, a bottle of cologne and little trinkets from the nightstand.
The zipper barely closed, whining and catching a T-shirt edge. Tatyana jerked it hard, sealing the bag like a package. The duffel bulged into an ugly shapeless sausage.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?!” Oleg appeared in the doorway. A cigarette still smoldered between his fingers, and his eyes nearly popped out. “Those are my things! That shirt cost a hundred bucks—you’re crushing it like a rag!”
Behind him, Vitaly hovered, terrified.
“Tan, stop!” Vitaly shouted as she dragged the heavy bag off the bed and onto the floor. “Are you out of your mind? Put it back!”
Tatyana didn’t answer. She grabbed the duffel by its short handles and hauled it toward the door. The heavy bag thudded against the floor.
“Leave it!” Oleg lunged to snatch his property, but Tatyana, riding a surge of adrenaline, spun sharply. Using the duffel’s weight like a battering ram, she shoved it forward and forced him to jump back so it didn’t slam his feet.
“Move,” she hissed, continuing down the hall. The bag’s wheels screeched across the parquet, leaving a faint line behind.
Vitaly finally snapped out of it and decided to intervene. He rushed in and grabbed Tatyana by the shoulders, trying to wrench her around and stop the “madness.”
“Enough! I said enough!” he screamed into her face, spitting as he yelled. “You’re acting like a psycho! Calm down right now!”
His fingers dug painfully through the thin fabric of her blouse. In three years of marriage, it was the first time he’d used force on her. He didn’t hit her—no—but that rough restraint was the final straw. The “beloved husband” image shattered completely. In front of her stood a sweaty, aggressive stranger protecting a shameless relative.
Tatyana didn’t thrash or scream. She dropped her weight down and sideways, using some movie move—and, surprisingly, his grip loosened. Freeing one arm, she shoved Vitaly hard in the chest. He stumbled and slammed into the wall, knocking down a picture.
“Don’t touch me,” her voice rang with tension, but it was steel. “Touch me again and you’ll regret you were born.”
While Vitaly regained his balance and Oleg cursed, trying to figure out how to save his “designer clothes,” Tatyana was already at the front door. She yanked the lock and flung the heavy metal door open. Cold stairwell air flooded the smoky apartment.
The duffel sat at the threshold. She didn’t pick it up. She drew back her leg and kicked it with all the strength she had—pouring every ounce of fury and humiliation into the blow.
The bag tumbled out onto the landing, skidding across concrete, smacking the railing, flipping once, and stopping near a neighbor’s doormat. The impact echoed through the stairwell.
“Your stuff has officially moved out,” Tatyana said, turning back to the two men in the hall, their mouths hanging open. Her chest rose and fell, her hair was messy, but her eyes burned with the kind of fire that makes armies retreat.
“You’re insane…” Oleg whispered, staring at his duffel on the landing like it was a garbage sack. “Vit, did you see that? She’s not normal!”
Vitaly stepped toward the open door, his face blotching red.
“What have you done?” he rasped. “How are you going to look him in the eye now? That’s my brother! You humiliated him—you humiliated me! Drag the bag back in. Now!”
Tatyana stood in the doorway, blocking the entrance like a wall.
“Back in?” she gave a bitter half-smile. “There is no ‘back in.’ Not for the bag. Not for him. And now listen carefully.”
She took one step backward—not to yield, but to plant herself beside the intercom.
“If in one minute you’re both gone—you, Oleg, and you, Vitaly—I’m calling the police,” she said clearly. “I’ll show them the deed. I’ll file a report for illegal entry and harassment. And believe me, I have enough connections and anger to make sure you have a wonderful night in a holding cell.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Vitaly clenched his fists, but fear flashed in his eyes. He knew the apartment was hers—fully—and legally he was nobody here, especially if she decided to make it a principle.
“Time’s running,” Tatyana said, lifting her wrist and staring at an imaginary watch. “Fifty-nine seconds.”
“Fine—screw you!” Oleg shrieked, realizing the free hotel was over. He squeezed past his brother, shot Tatyana a venomous glare, and dashed onto the landing for his precious bag. “Vit, let’s go! We’ll find a normal place where women don’t chew your brain out! Don’t humiliate yourself in front of this psycho!”
Vitaly froze. His eyes jumped from his wife—now a cold statue of consequences—to the open door where his brother waited. He had to choose. Right then. And Tatyana could see the gears turning—cowardice, wounded pride, resentment. He couldn’t forgive her for being stronger.
“You’re such a bitch, Tanya,” he spat at last, snatching his jacket from the hook. “I won’t forget this.”
“Neither will I,” she replied without blinking. “Close the door behind you. From the other side.”
Vitaly stood there with the jacket in his hands, as if expecting the lights to come up and someone to yell “cut.” But the hallway light burned brutally bright, showing every speck of dust and every line of disgust on his wife’s face. He stared at her—not at the familiar, convenient Tanya who made breakfasts and planned vacations, but at a stranger with ice in her eyes and iron in her spine.
“You’re a greedy piece of trash,” he snarled, yanking his jacket zipper. It jammed; he tore at it until threads snapped. “You threw a real person out into the street over clothes and your precious apartment.”
“I threw out a parasite,” Tatyana corrected calmly, not moving an inch. “And you chose to leave with him. That’s your decision, Vitaly. And by the way…”
She held out her palm, wiggling her fingers in a clear demand.
“Your keys.”
Vitaly’s face turned purple. For a second it looked like he might lunge at her. But her cold calm hit him like a bucket of ice. He understood she wasn’t joking about the police. This apartment was her fortress. He was just a demoted guard.
“Choke on your keys!” he shouted, yanking the set from his pocket and throwing it to the floor. Metal clanged against the tile; one key skittered under the shoe rack. “Eat your jamón alone! You’ll die here with your fancy rags and no one will even give you water!”
From the landing came Oleg’s voice—now braver, safely outside:
“Vit! Stop talking and move! Let’s go! We’ll find a place where men are respected, not where we have to listen to some frigid hysteric! Let her rot with her renovations!”
Vitaly shot Tatyana one last look—full of hatred and helpless rage. There was no regret for the marriage, only wounded ego. He shoved the door with his shoulder and went out into the stairwell, where his brother was still spitting venom at the “spoiled city woman.”
Tatyana didn’t watch them leave. She didn’t say a word. She simply took the cold handle and slammed the door shut.
The heavy metal cut off the shouting, turning it into muffled noise. She turned the lower lock—once. Twice. Three times. Then snapped the night latch into place. After a beat of thought, she also locked the upper deadbolt—the one they almost never used.
Each click in the quiet hallway sounded like a final shot fired into her old life.
She pressed her forehead to the cold door and closed her eyes. Her heart pounded up in her throat, adrenaline still boiling, demanding motion—but rage was giving way to a strange, hollow relief. No tears. No self-pity. Only the clear awareness that the abscess had burst and the poison was finally out.
From the stairwell came the ding of the elevator, a few more curses from Oleg, and then the metallic slam of the lift doors. Silence. Blessed, thick silence—belonging only to her.
Tatyana peeled herself away from the door and looked at the keys her husband had thrown on the floor. She didn’t pick them up. Later—during cleanup. Right now there was something more important.
She went back to the kitchen. It still reeked of tobacco, but now it smelled like victory over chaos. She approached the windowsill. The white orchid, dusted with ash, looked pathetic and dirty. The butts jammed into its roots like poisonous mushrooms were literally killing it.
Tatyana didn’t try to shake off the ash or “save” it. Disgust outweighed pity. She pinched the pot with two fingers, careful not to touch the leaves, opened the trash bin under the sink, and let go.
The ceramic dropped with a dull thud onto the bottom, on top of empty packaging.
“There you go,” she said aloud. Her voice was rough—but steady. “No reminders. No filth.”
She flung the window open wide. Freezing air rushed in, pushing out the stale scent of чужое присутствие. The cold burned her face, but it felt good—like washing herself in ice.
Then she grabbed a big black trash bag. With the methodical focus of a professional cleaner, she started wiping the place of them. Empty beer cans. Dirty napkins. Food scraps. She didn’t wash the dishes—she gathered everything those men had touched and threw it out. Even the half-eaten apple Oleg had bitten.
When the counter was clear, she pulled out disinfectant spray. The sharp bite of bleach mixed with winter air. She scrubbed with furious determination, erasing invisible traces until the countertop squeaked with cleanliness.
Only then did she step into the living room. The sofa. Her sofa. A dark smudge remained where Oleg’s filthy heels had been. Tatyana stared at it for a couple of seconds, then simply flipped the cushion over. Tomorrow she’d book a deep clean. Or buy a new cover. That was solvable. Everything was solvable—once no one was hanging off her neck.
On the side table sat the opened bottle of collectible wine. They hadn’t managed to finish it. Tatyana lifted it and read the label: Château Margaux. It had been breathing for over an hour.
She didn’t look for a clean glass. She took the heavy crystal one kept for guests and poured herself a dark ruby splash.
She sank onto her couch and stretched her legs out—right where, half an hour ago, dirty socks had been. Now there was only emptiness. Clean space. She took a long sip. The wine was complex and dry, with blackcurrant and oak.
The apartment was quiet. No TV blaring. No husband whining. No oily jokes from his brother.
She looked at the front door—the place her three-year marriage had just disappeared behind. She was supposed to be terrified, alone in her thirties. That’s what her mother said. That’s what friends said. But she wasn’t afraid. She felt like she’d finally kicked off shoes that had been pinching her feet all day.
Tatyana took another sip, leaned her head back against the couch, and for the first time that evening smiled—truly—up at the ceiling.
“Fine,” she whispered into the silence. “If I’m the dorm supervisor, then at least in my dorm—there’s going to be perfect order.”