Olga woke up on Saturday and instinctively checked her phone first. No missed calls. No messages demanding she do something, rush somewhere, rescue someone. Just quiet. She stretched and smiled— for the first time in years, the day began without that familiar knot of anxiety.
It had been six months since the divorce. Six months of living to her own tempo, without orbiting other people’s needs and without feeling guilty for choosing herself. She went to work, met friends, and finally read the books she’d been postponing for years. And the best part was this: nobody called to scold her, demand explanations, or shove their plans onto her.
Olga got up, brewed coffee, and curled up on the sofa with her tablet. She wanted an unhurried day—watch a movie, cook something tasty, maybe take a walk in the park. No duties. No expectations. Freedom felt strangely normal now, though half a year earlier she wouldn’t have believed she could live this way.
The apartment she lived in belonged to her alone. Olga had bought it with her own money long before she ever met Maksim. Back then she worked as a manager at a trading company, saved every spare coin, and dreamed of having her own place. When she finally scraped together a down payment and qualified for a mortgage, she felt like she’d climbed a mountain.
It was a modest one-bedroom in an old building on the outskirts of town. But it was her territory—her stronghold. She put her heart into every detail: choosing furniture, matching colors, placing things exactly as she liked. And when she finally made the last mortgage payment, she celebrated in a way that felt perfectly hers—bought a bottle of champagne and drank it alone, sitting on her own couch, in her own apartment, now completely free and clear.
Maksim came into her life later. They met at a company event through mutual friends. He was charming, funny, generous with compliments. Olga didn’t jump into a relationship right away—she saw too many warning signs in the way he behaved. But he kept pushing, promising he’d change, insisting that with her he’d be different.
After they married, Maksim moved into her place. Olga didn’t demand a prenup—she trusted him, wanted to believe everything would be fine. Still, she kept the apartment documents separate, locked in her safe. Something in her gut told her it mattered. In the end, that small precaution saved her.
The marriage lasted three years—three years during which Olga slowly realized she’d misjudged everything. Maksim didn’t work. One week he was “searching for himself,” the next he complained about his health, and sometimes he simply did nothing at all. Olga was the only one bringing money home. He, meanwhile, spent it on hobbies, nights out with friends, and little entertainments. Whenever Olga tried to talk about it, he took offense, accused her of being heartless, and insisted she didn’t understand his “inner turmoil.”
The divorce was the natural conclusion of those years. At first Maksim tried to claim the apartment, but when he saw the papers proving it had been purchased before the marriage and fully paid off by Olga, his interest vanished. He packed his things, slammed the door, and walked out. No calls, no texts, no attempts to reconnect—like the three years they’d spent together had never happened.
Olga didn’t cry. She simply let out a long breath of relief and started over. She cleared out anything that reminded her of him, changed the locks, rearranged the furniture. Slowly, the space became hers again—quiet, cozy, safe.
She knew Maksim had a mother—Tamara Ivanovna. During the marriage the woman called now and then, always asking for something: money for her son, emotional support for him, a trip over with groceries. Olga complied, even while feeling she was being used. Tamara Ivanovna never asked how Olga was doing, never showed interest in her life. To her, a daughter-in-law existed only as a convenient resource for her son.
Olga still remembered the time Tamara Ivanovna called and asked for a large sum so Maksim could buy a computer. Naturally, he wanted the most expensive one. Olga refused—she didn’t have that kind of money, and she saw no sense in spending a fortune on a gaming setup for a grown man who refused to work. Tamara Ivanovna sulked, ignored calls for a week, then rang back to accuse Olga of being selfish.
After the divorce, Tamara Ivanovna stopped calling altogether. Olga assumed that chapter was closed.
It wasn’t.
On Wednesday, when Olga came home from work, the doorbell rang. She glanced through the peephole and saw Tamara Ivanovna. The woman stood there gripping a heavy bag, her face tired but determined.
Olga went still. She hadn’t expected this. She couldn’t imagine what her ex–mother-in-law wanted. For a few seconds she stood in silence, weighing whether she should even open the door. Then she exhaled, turned the key, and opened it.
“Hi, Olya,” Tamara Ivanovna said, stepping forward without waiting to be invited.
Olga stayed in the doorway, not moving aside. She positioned herself so Tamara Ivanovna had to stop right on the threshold.
“Hello,” Olga replied evenly.
“May I come in? This bag is heavy, I’m exhausted. The trip was long, the buses are terrible— I waited at the stop for half an hour…”
Olga said nothing. She simply looked at her, waiting for the real reason she’d come.
Tamara Ivanovna understood she wasn’t going to be let in on autopilot and started talking right there, without crossing the threshold.
“Olya, I know you and Maksim got divorced. He told me. But I hope you don’t hold anything against me. It’s not my fault things didn’t work out. I always wished you well, I always tried not to interfere…”
Olga remained silent. She listened to the flood of words and felt a cold steadiness settling inside her.
“You see, I’m going through a very difficult time,” Tamara Ivanovna went on. “I’m completely alone. Maksim moved to another city, found a job there, rents a room. He can’t help me—he’s barely getting by himself. And I have nothing to live on. The neighbors say they’ll cut off my gas soon for nonpayment. They might shut off the electricity too…”
Olga listened and understood exactly where this was heading. Her face stayed calm, but her eyes hardened.
“So I thought… maybe you could help me,” Tamara Ivanovna said. “Just for a little while. I’m not a stranger to you—we were family for years. You’ve always been kind, always willing. Remember how you helped me and Maksim? You’re such a good girl…”
“Tamara Ivanovna,” Olga interrupted, “why did you come here?”
The bluntness threw the woman off. She hadn’t expected this kind of chill.
“Well, I’m explaining… I need help. At least a little money to pay the bills. Or maybe I could stay with you for a while, until I sort things out. I’ll be quiet, I won’t get in your way, I’ll clean up after myself…”
Olga tilted her head, studying her ex–mother-in-law. She saw an older woman with a worn face and a heavy bag. But she also saw the tactic—pressing on pity, counting on Olga being unable to refuse.
“Why are you coming to me now?” Olga asked calmly. “You had a son you’ve been supporting for years.”
Tamara Ivanovna blinked, as if she hadn’t quite understood.
“Well… Maksim is far away now. Things are hard for him too. I can’t burden him. He’s only just gotten a job, started a new life…”
“So he can’t be burdened,” Olga said, “but I can?”
“No, no—of course not! It’s just… you’re here, nearby. You have a big apartment, you live alone. There’s lots of space, and I won’t take up much. Just a week, two at most…”
Olga straightened.
“Tamara Ivanovna, let’s be honest. While I was married to your son, you constantly asked me for help—money for his needs, my time, my energy, my support. And I gave it. What did you do? You defended him, excused him, said he was ‘finding himself’ and just needed time. You never once asked how I managed, being the one supporting a grown man. You didn’t care.”
Tamara Ivanovna opened her mouth to protest, but Olga continued:
“And now, after the divorce, you came to me for help. Not to the son you devoted your life to— to me. Why?”
“Olya, you understand… we were family… I always thought of you almost like a daughter…”
“We were,” Olga said. “Past tense. We aren’t now. And you never thought of me as your daughter—don’t pretend.”
“But it’s not my fault he grew up this way! I did everything I could! I raised him alone—his father left early…”
Olga gave a small, dry smile—no cruelty, only certainty.
“Tamara Ivanovna, you raised a son who doesn’t know how to work, doesn’t know how to take responsibility, and believes everyone owes him. You taught him that. You always protected him, excused him, solved his problems for him. And now you’re living with the results. But it isn’t my problem.”
“Olya, how can you talk like that?! I’m an old woman, it’s hard for me alone! My health isn’t what it used to be—my blood pressure spikes, my legs hurt…”
“And was it easy for me,” Olga asked, “to support your son for three years? To pay every bill, cook, clean, work, and listen to him complain about life—while also taking your calls asking for more money for him?”
Tamara Ivanovna went pale. She clearly hadn’t expected such a hard, straightforward answer.
“I… I thought you loved him…”
“I did,” Olga said. “But even love has limits when someone is simply using you. And the two of you used me.”
The woman tried a different approach. She stepped closer, her face turning pleading, her eyes filling with tears.
“Olenka, surely you won’t throw me out. Let me stay for a week at least. I’ll be quiet, I won’t bother you. I’ll cook, I’ll clean. You won’t even notice I’m here…”
Olga shook her head.
“No.”
“But why?! I’m not asking for the impossible! A week is nothing!”
“Because help is responsibility, not a habit of dumping your burdens on the most convenient person,” Olga said firmly. “You spent your whole life helping Maksim, and now he’s moved away and left you. That’s your shared responsibility. Not mine.”
“But you’re kind! You’ve always been kind! You’ve always helped everyone!”
“Kindness doesn’t mean I’m obligated to solve other people’s problems at my own expense. I was kind for three years. Where did it get me? A divorce— and me alone, pulling myself out from under debts that piled up because of your son. I’m still paying for his dental work, his ‘design courses,’ his new phone. So don’t lecture me about kindness.”
Tamara Ivanovna’s expression snapped. The pleading mask fell away and anger surfaced—eyes narrowing, lips tightening.
“So that’s who you are! I always knew you were cold and calculating! Maksim told me you never understood him, never supported him—said you only cared about money!”
Olga didn’t flinch.
“Maksim said a lot of things. But he still never got a job. He learned to spend my money fast enough, though.”
“You’re heartless! How can you turn away an elderly woman? My health is bad—I could collapse outside, and then what? That will be on your conscience!”
“I’m not throwing anyone out,” Olga said evenly. “I’m simply not letting into my home someone who believes I owe them.”
“You do owe me! We were family! You were my daughter-in-law!”
“We were. Now you’re the mother of my ex-husband. Nothing more.”
Tamara Ivanovna stood there breathing heavily, gripping the handle of her bag. Her face flushed, her eyes bright with rage and hurt. She couldn’t believe her plan hadn’t worked.
“You’ll regret this!” she shouted. “Maksim will find out how you treated me! He’ll never forgive you! I’ll tell him everything!”
Olga opened the door wider, making it clear the conversation was over.
“Tamara Ivanovna, Maksim doesn’t forgive or condemn me anymore. We’re divorced. His opinion no longer affects my life. Neither does yours.”
“How dare you! You’re nobody—some ordinary girl with no family name! I took you into our family like my own!”
“You took me in as free labor for your son,” Olga said. “And I’m not doing that anymore.”
“I didn’t ask for anything impossible!”
“You asked to step back into my life,” Olga replied. “That’s already too much.”
Calmly, Olga added, “My home isn’t a temporary shelter from other people’s choices. You and Maksim built the situation you’re in. You raised him, indulged him, never taught him to stand on his own feet. That’s your responsibility. Not mine.”
“You want to leave me out on the street? At my age?”
“No. I’m simply not taking responsibility for your life. You have a son, relatives, social services. Go to them.”
“What services? It’s all bureaucracy—lines, papers! It’s easier to come to you, and you…”
“Easier doesn’t mean right. It’s easier to come to me because you’re used to me always saying yes. But that time is over.”
Tamara Ivanovna stood with her mouth slightly open, unable to find an answer. She’d expected anything—pity, sympathy, even a screaming match—just not this calm, clear refusal.
“You’re… you’re cruel,” she repeated more quietly now, without the earlier fury—just stating it.
“Maybe,” Olga said. “But I’m not going to be convenient anymore for people who treat me like their emergency tool.”
“So what am I supposed to do now? Where am I supposed to go?”
“I don’t know,” Olga replied. “That’s your life. You’re an adult. Figure it out.”
“But I’m alone… completely alone…”
“You’re not alone. You have a son—the same one you helped for years, defended, sacrificed everything for. Go to him.”
“He’s far… tickets are expensive…”
“Then call him. Ask him for help. He’s your son, your blood. And I’m your former daughter-in-law—someone you no longer have any claim over.”
Tamara Ivanovna lingered for a few more seconds, staring at Olga, still hoping she’d soften. Olga didn’t. Her face stayed composed, her gaze steady as steel.
Finally, the woman turned away. She hoisted her heavy bag, adjusted the scarf on her head, and slowly headed for the stairs. No goodbye. No glance back. She simply left. Olga listened as the footsteps faded and the entrance door creaked shut downstairs.
Olga remained in the doorway until the sound disappeared. Then she closed the door, turned the key, and leaned back against it.
Her hands weren’t shaking. Inside, everything was quiet. No guilt. No doubt. Only clarity—and a lightness, as if someone had lifted a heavy weight off her shoulders.
She went into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and sat at the table. Outside, evening was settling in; streetlights flickered on. Olga stared out the window and thought about how much she had changed in six months.
Before, she would have let Tamara Ivanovna in. She would have felt sorry for her, helped, given money or a place to sleep—because that’s what “good people” do, because she had always been kind and accommodating. But that kindness had always turned against her. People got used to taking, treated her generosity as weakness, stopped respecting her.
Now she understood: help should go to those who deserve it—those who appreciate it instead of demanding it; those who can repay not only with money, but with respect, gratitude, and reciprocity.
Tamara Ivanovna had never been grateful. She took and demanded more. Just like her son. They both believed Olga owed them simply because they existed.
Olga got up, walked to the window, and looked down. A woman with a bag was walking along the street—maybe Tamara Ivanovna, maybe not. Olga didn’t bother to focus. It wasn’t her concern anymore.
She returned to the living room, turned on a lamp, and sat down with a book. The evening passed quietly, evenly. No anxious thoughts, no pangs of conscience—only pleasant silence and the sense that she’d made the right choice.
Her phone buzzed a few times—probably Tamara Ivanovna texting. Or Maksim. Olga didn’t even check. She already knew what would be there: accusations, reproaches, attempts to squeeze pity from her. But it didn’t work anymore. She had outgrown that role.
The next day, a friend asked how she was doing.
“Great,” Olga said. “My ex–mother-in-law came by yesterday, asking for help.”
“And what did you do?”
“Nothing,” Olga replied. “I said no.”
Her friend lifted her eyebrows in surprise.
“Seriously? You’re usually the one who helps everyone…”
“I used to,” Olga said. “Not anymore. I realized I’m not obligated to fix other people’s lives—especially when those problems exist because they refuse to take responsibility.”
“You’ve changed.”
“Yes,” Olga said. “And it’s a good thing.”
Her friend smiled.
“I’m happy for you. You were always too soft. People took advantage.”
“They won’t now.”
A week passed. Maksim called late one evening. Olga didn’t answer. He left a voice message—shouting, accusing her of being cold, demanding an explanation for why she hadn’t helped his mother. Olga listened to the message to the end and deleted it. No emotion—just confirmation: he was exactly the same. Nothing had changed.
That’s when she realized she was finally free of the past. The old roles were over. She was no longer Maksim’s wife, no longer Tamara Ivanovna’s helper, no longer the convenient girl who “owed” everyone something. She was simply Olga—someone with her own life, her own boundaries, and her own right to say “no.”
And it was the best thing that could have happened to her.