“Are you kidding me, Andrey?!” Anzhela stood in the middle of the kitchen, phone in hand, pale as a sheet. “You transferred one hundred and fifty thousand to her?! To your MOTHER?!”
Andrey sat at the table, poking at his cold soup with a spoon, pretending not to hear her.
“Don’t start screeching in my ear,” he muttered. “I already told you. It’s Mom’s anniversary. That only happens once in a lifetime.”
“Once in a lifetime?” Anzhela stepped closer. “Your mother has these ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ anniversaries every year, like clockwork! Last year it was, ‘She’s turning sixty-five, we need to celebrate.’ The year before that, ‘Let’s make the old woman happy.’ And every time, you run to her with money. But now one hundred and fifty thousand! Our savings! Andrey, do you even understand what you’ve done?”
“Stop yelling!” he winced. “Why are you making such a scene? We would’ve spent it on something anyway. At least this way it helped someone.”
“Helped someone?!” Anzhela clenched her fists. “We’re drowning in loans! Buried in debt! For half a year I’ve been going to the store with a strict list, not buying a single extra thing. I stopped getting my nails done, I buy the cheapest makeup I can find! And you blow one hundred and fifty thousand on a restaurant for your mommy!”
“Don’t call her that,” Andrey snapped, lifting his head. “She’s my mother.”
“Yes, yours. But we’re living off my nerves and my patience!” Anzhela’s voice cracked, but she didn’t stop. “I’m tired, do you understand? Every month we twist ourselves inside out, waiting for payday like salvation, and all I hear is, ‘Mom needs help,’ ‘Mom is short on money,’ ‘Mom asked…’”
He leaned back in his chair and gave a crooked smirk.
“Exactly. Mom asked. Her son helped. What’s so terrible about that?”
“What’s terrible is that you’re not a son anymore — you’re a puppet!” she shouted. “She pulls the strings, and you dance!”
“Listen,” Andrey’s voice turned dark and flat. “Don’t throw around insulting words. I’m not going to sit here and listen to you attack my mother.”
“And I’m not going to sit here and listen to you justify betrayal!” Anzhela snapped. “Yes, betrayal. Because you didn’t even tell me! You didn’t discuss it with me! You just took the money and transferred it. As if I’m nothing in this house!”
He stood up and paced around the kitchen, as if trying to calm his irritation.
“Calm down. Money is just money. We’ll earn more.”
“What world do you live in, Andrey?!” She threw up her hands. “Prices are rising, groceries are more expensive, utilities are strangling us! The loan alone is twenty-five thousand a month! And you keep saying, ‘We’ll earn it, we’ll earn it!’ We’ve already been living on the edge for three months!”
“Don’t dramatize,” he muttered. “Everything’s fine.”
“It’s fine for you. It’s not fine for me!” She turned toward the window, staring out at the gray October courtyard. Puddles like mirrors, stray dogs wandering, the wind chasing leaves across the ground. “I saved that money, do you understand? I saved it for a rainy day. And now that rainy day is already here.”
Andrey said nothing. Then he sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “I didn’t realize it mattered that much to you.”
“Because you don’t think at all!” she turned back to him. “Not about this home, not about me! Only ‘Mom, Mom, Mom!’”
He waved his hand in irritation.
“That’s enough! How much longer are you going to keep this up? I’m tired of listening to your complaints! I simply helped my mother. I didn’t steal it, I didn’t drink it away, I didn’t gamble it. I helped her. That’s my duty, in case you care!”
“And I’m your duty!” she cried. “Your wife, your home, your life! Or am I just a roommate who shares your bills?”
A pause fell between them. Only the ticking of the clock and the road noise outside remained. Andrey turned away. The room smelled of cold dinner and resentment.
This story had started long before the shouting. Back when the renovation still felt like “happiness,” and the loan was only supposed to be “a temporary difficulty.”
Anzhela had never been a dreamer. She worked as an accountant at a logistics company — precise, punctual, always carrying some folder under her arm. The apartment had come from her grandmother. It was old, but cozy. Anzhela had done everything herself: chosen the curtains, moved the furniture around, even replaced some of the tiles herself once. Everything had been fine until Svetlana Pavlovna entered their life — his mother.
She was the kind of woman who always knew “how things should be done.” She spoke with such confidence, as if she had never made a single mistake in her life. From the moment she walked through the door, criticism followed: “It’s dirty here,” “The light is too dim,” “These walls are depressing.” And she said it all with the expression of someone who had walked not into her son’s home, but into a dormitory.
“You should at least change the wallpaper,” she would say from the doorway, taking off her expensive fur coat. “It’s completely outdated. Andrey, are you a man or not? Give your wife decent living conditions.”
Anzhela would grit her teeth. She wanted to answer back, but she stayed silent — for the sake of peace.
Then came the talk of renovation. “Let’s take out a loan and make everything beautiful,” Svetlana Pavlovna suggested. “Then you won’t be ashamed to invite people over.” Andrey, as usual, gave in. After all, Mom was only “giving advice.”
Anzhela hesitated for a long time. A loan was serious. But under the pressure of two voices — her husband’s and her mother-in-law’s — she gave in. She thought maybe it really was time to update the place. They borrowed a million and started the renovation. Dust, bags of cement, workers — the usual chaos. They stayed with Anzhela’s parents and waited for their “new nest.”
When it was over, the apartment looked like a picture: light walls, laminate flooring, a new kitchen. Even Svetlana Pavlovna nodded approvingly and said, “Now this looks like a proper home.”
But the joy didn’t last long. The loan pressed down on them. Every month, twenty-five thousand disappeared into the bank like into a bottomless pit. They had to save on everything — themselves, food, rest. But Anzhela didn’t complain. She endured it. She believed they would manage. The main thing was that they were together.
Then came the things she didn’t notice at first. Small things. Andrey started spending more and more time on his phone, whispering with his mother. He began asking her advice about everything — how to clean the kettle, how to fry fish, which detergent was better. At first, Anzhela laughed. Then she stopped.
“Can you not live without her at all?” she once asked. “You’re a grown man in your thirties, and your mom still has to tell you what to do.”
He replied with a smirk.
“At least she knows how to do things properly.”
That was the first time Anzhela felt it: they were not living as two people. They were living as three. Not a couple, not a family — more like “mother and son,” with her somewhere off to the side, a third wheel.
Each month became harder. His mother called and asked for “help with medicine,” “a little toward utilities,” “a loan until pension day.” And Andrey never once refused.
Five thousand. Then ten. Then twenty.
Anzhela tried to talk calmly.
“Andrey, we have a hole in our own budget. We can barely handle our own expenses.”
He would just wave her off.
“Don’t start. We’ll manage.”
“We’ll manage” was his favorite phrase. But in the end, she was the one who managed. He helped his mother. She paid the bills.
Until one day, at the beginning of October, she opened the online banking app and saw that terrible number — minus one hundred and fifty thousand. The account where she had been putting money little by little. A thousand here, two thousand there. “Just in case.”
And something inside her snapped.
“You could have at least told me,” she said quietly after the scandal. “At least warned me.”
“What was there to warn you about?” He sat down on the sofa tiredly. “Mom is celebrating her anniversary. Sixty-five, after all. She wanted something nice. I helped.”
“Something nice, you say?” Anzhela gave a bitter smile. “And how are we supposed to live now? On air? Or should I start selling my makeup?”
He said nothing. He turned on the TV. As if on purpose, there was a show about apartment renovations.
“See?” he said. “Those people took out a loan too. Everything turned out fine. The main thing is not to overreact.”
Anzhela stayed silent for a long time. Then she whispered:
“Andrey… I’m not overreacting. I’m tired.”
He turned and looked at her. But he said nothing. And that nothing was worse than any shout.
The next day, she came home from work later than usual. A drizzle fell outside, the pavement shining wet. Her bag was heavy, her head buzzing. The entrance hall smelled of cats and damp clothes. She climbed the stairs, put the key in the lock, and opened the door. The apartment was quiet. Only the TV murmured from the room. Andrey was home again, on his phone again.
“Did you eat?” she asked automatically.
“Mm-hmm. Mom called,” he replied without looking away from the screen. “She had guests over. Said everything went great.”
“At least someone’s happy,” Anzhela muttered and went into the kitchen.
She sat down, opened the notebook where she kept records — expenses, payment dates, interest. The numbers danced before her eyes. She sighed and thought, “No. This can’t go on. Either he grows up, or I leave.”
She closed the notebook, poured herself some tea, and stared for a long time out the window at the reflection of the building across from hers — the same gray panel block, the same чужие окна, other people’s lives. Behind each window, there was probably another Anzhela, another Andrey. And maybe the same kind of mother-in-law.
“It’s time to decide,” she thought.
But the decision would come a little later. For now, there was only the weight that had been building for years.
Ever since Anzhela saw that cursed bank statement, silence settled over the apartment. Not ordinary silence — thick, heavy, sticky silence. They spoke only when necessary: “Pass the salt,” “Did you turn off the water?” “Did you make the payment?” That was all. No jokes, no smiles, no “How was your day?”
They lived like neighbors. Only at night could one hear someone quietly turning over in bed — each on their own side.
Andrey seemed not to notice the crack between them. Everything went on “as usual”: work, phone calls, rare dinners. Except now Anzhela stopped asking who he was texting. And he stopped explaining.
Two weeks passed. October dragged on, damp and cold. Fog in the morning, freezing drizzle in the evening. People wrapped themselves in jackets and hurried home, but at home there was the same dampness — only inside the soul.
One evening, Andrey came home later than usual. He took off his shoes by the door, but didn’t go farther into the hallway. He just stood there, scrolling through his phone.
Anzhela sat in the kitchen, calculating what was left before the next payment day.
“Your mother again?” she asked without looking up.
“Yeah. So what?” he answered calmly. “Her washing machine broke. She asked me to check where she could buy one cheaper.”
“I hope not at our expense,” Anzhela said sharply.
He exhaled heavily, took off his jacket, and tossed it onto the hanger.
“There you go again. Everything was normal. I just asked about prices. I’m not buying anything.”
“Not yet,” she muttered.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” he raised his voice. “Do you think I don’t see the way you look at me? Suspiciously, like I’m some kind of thief!”
“How else am I supposed to look when you’ve already ‘helped’ once?” she cut him off. “One hundred and fifty thousand, remember?”
“How long are you going to bring that up?!” Andrey flared. “Yes, I transferred it! Yes, I didn’t tell you! That’s it, enough already! It’s not like I cheated on you!”
“And how is this better?” Anzhela stood up. “Money is our life. Our stability. And you threw it away as if it belonged to strangers!”
He came closer, almost right up to her.
“Money is just paper. But Mom is a person.”
“And what am I?!” she shouted. “What am I to you? A bank account?”
A silence fell. Andrey stepped back and said quietly:
“You’re tired. Go get some sleep.”
She didn’t answer. She sat back down and stared at the notebook. But the numbers no longer made sense. Everything blurred.
A couple of days later, Svetlana Pavlovna called. As always, suddenly, without a “hello” or “how are you?”
“Andryusha, I have a problem,” she began in an artificially weary voice. “I don’t have grandchildren, so at least you can help me. My car needs repairs. The transmission went out, can you imagine? I drove it for so many years, and now this.”
“How much do you need?” he asked automatically.
“Well, eighty thousand at least. I’ll try to handle it myself, of course, but if you happen to have the chance…”
“Mom, things are hard right now,” Andrey began. “We have the loan, you know that.”
“The loan, the loan…” she drawled. “So I’m supposed to walk everywhere, is that it? I did everything for you. I would’ve given you the shirt off my back. And now you begrudge me eighty thousand?”
Anzhela stood behind the kitchen door, listening to him mumble, listening to him make excuses the way he always did. As if he had turned back into a teenager.
“Mom, don’t pressure me,” he muttered. “I’ll think about it, okay?”
He hung up and noticed Anzhela’s stare.
“So, you’re going to think about it again?” she asked coldly.
“Don’t start,” he muttered. “She’s my mother. Things are hard for her.”
“Things aren’t hard for her, Andrey. They’re convenient. Very convenient — having a son with money and no backbone.”
He turned around, fists tightening.
“Enough! I told you not to interfere! This is my business!”
“Our business!” she exclaimed. “Our business, because everything we have is bought on credit! And if you give her even one ruble, I…”
“What?” he interrupted, challenging her. “What will you do?”
“Then it won’t be us living here anymore. It’ll be you and your mother,” Anzhela said calmly. “And you can take the apartment with you too, if you can manage it.”
He grimaced, wanted to say something, but stayed silent. Then he slammed the door and left.
She sat down at the table and covered her face with her hands. Her head buzzed: “Is this really how it happens? You live with a person, and then suddenly realize he has a whole world where you’re not allowed in.”
The days stretched out the same, like the gray buildings outside the window. Work — home. Home — work. Andrey started coming home later, always irritated. His phone was always with him: under the pillow, in the bathroom, in the kitchen — he never let it out of his sight.
Anzhela couldn’t take it anymore. One morning, after he left for work, she opened his old laptop. His messages were synced there. Not out of curiosity — out of desperation.
And she saw the correspondence.
Not with another woman. With his mother.
Svetlana Pavlovna wrote long messages full of reproach:
“You’ve completely forgotten about me. Always with that wife of yours. And I’m nobody to you now.”
“You should remember that I raised you.”
“Women come and go, but a mother is forever.”
And he answered obediently:
“Don’t be upset, Mom. Anzhela is just nervous.”
“I’ll give you the money soon.”
“Yes, maybe I’ll sell the TV. At least I’ll be able to help you.”
Anzhela sat for a long time, reading those lines. It felt as if her heart was being squeezed in a fist. He would sell the TV to “help Mom”? This was no longer help. This was dependence. As if he had two lives inside him — one real, and one that belonged to his mother.
She closed the laptop. Her chest beat with one thought: “Enough. It’s either me or her.”
That evening, when he came home, papers were already lying on the table. Not court papers. Just a printout of the messages and a sheet calculating their expenses for the year.
Anzhela sat calmly. Too calmly.
“Sit down,” she said.
He became wary, but sat. Silently. She handed him the sheets.
“What is this?” he frowned.
“What I found out today,” she replied. “Read it. Or remember it, since you wrote it yourself.”
He looked through them and turned pale.
“You went through my laptop?”
“I did,” she answered calmly. “And do you know why? Because I can’t keep living in someone else’s marriage. A marriage where a third person decides everything.”
“She’s my mother!” he cried. “Do you even understand what you’re saying?”
“I understand,” she said firmly. “That’s why I’m saying it directly. Andrey, I can’t carry this anymore. Not emotionally, not financially. I can’t live with a man who says ‘Mom’ more often than he says ‘we.’”
He stood up and paced around the room nervously.
“You’re just jealous!” he finally said. “That’s all! You have some kind of complex. You want me to forget my mother! Well, I’m not that kind of person, understand? I won’t abandon my mother!”
“I’m not asking you to abandon her,” Anzhela said quietly. “I’m asking you to choose. Because it’s impossible to live as three.”
He froze. Then he laughed — nervously, bitterly.
“Are you giving me an ultimatum?”
“No. Just a fact.” She stood up. “I’m not going to keep dragging this marriage on my shoulders. The loan is mine. The apartment is mine. Everything else… is your decision.”
He stepped toward her.
“Wait. Are you serious? You want to throw me out?”
“I don’t want to. I have to.”
He lowered his eyes, looked at the floor, then at her. There was no anger in his eyes now — only confusion.
“Anzhela…” he breathed. “Why like this? We’ve been through so much together…”
“We have,” she nodded. “Only you went in a different direction.”
She turned away, went into the room, and took his bag out of the wardrobe. Everything was like that moment earlier — quick, calm, without hysteria. Clothes into the bag, jacket on top.
Andrey stood by the door, not moving. His lips barely moved: “You’ll regret this… you’ll understand later…” But she wasn’t listening anymore.
When the door closed behind him, the apartment seemed to exhale. It became quiet. Even the radiators seemed to stop making noise.
A week of silence passed. Then came the calls. He wrote, called, asked to “talk.” He came to the door. Left notes.
Anzhela didn’t open it.
Then a text came from Svetlana Pavlovna:
“Proud of yourself, are you? You destroyed a family. My son has no roof over his head now. You’re happy, aren’t you?”
Anzhela deleted the message.
“I’m not happy,” she thought. “I’m just free.”
She began living again. Even with debts. Even while saving every coin. She bought herself a new mug, new curtains. Small things — but they were hers. She paid the loan on time, handled her affairs calmly. No constant excuses, no outside demands.
Sometimes in the evening, she would turn on an old TV series and catch herself thinking that the apartment was finally quiet — not filled with “Andryusha, buy this,” “Andryusha, help me with that.”
A year later, she met him by chance in a shopping mall. He was with a new wife — young, well-groomed — and guess who was beside them? Svetlana Pavlovna.
They walked as three, like one family. Mother in front, son and daughter-in-law slightly behind her, carrying bags.
He noticed Anzhela. Froze. Gave an awkward nod. She answered with a brief glance — without anger, without regret. She simply looked at him and walked on.
At home, as she poured herself tea, she suddenly smiled.
Because for the first time in a long while, she felt she had her own home. A real one. Without someone else’s phone calls, without someone else’s pressure.
Her own air. Her own silence. Her own life.
And in that silence, there was no loneliness.
Only peace.
The kind you can’t buy for any one hundred and fifty thousand.