“Wash His Feet and Keep Quiet!” Her Mother-in-Law Shouted—So She Returned Her Precious Son
Raisa Gavrilovna was holding a rustling plastic bag tightly secured with an ordinary elastic band.
She had no intention of lingering on the threshold until she was invited inside. She pushed decisively past Zhenya, and the entryway immediately filled with the sharp smell of mothballs mixed with cheap laundry soap.
“Arkady isn’t home,” Zhenya warned her at once. “If you came to see your son, you’ve wasted your time.”
“I know perfectly well he isn’t here!” Raisa Gavrilovna snapped, unwinding the gray knitted scarf from her neck. “Misha called me this morning—his work partner. He said the men finished a profitable job and decided to celebrate and unwind a little. They’ve earned it! Arkasha spent the whole week working on ceilings without a moment’s rest. And you’ve probably been sitting here stewing, sulking and feeling sorry for yourself.”
 
“I haven’t called anyone. He went out at six yesterday evening to buy a loaf of bread. It’s ten o’clock on Saturday morning now.”
Her mother-in-law did not even look surprised.
“So what?”
She strode into the kitchen as confidently as if the apartment belonged to her and tossed the plastic bag onto a stool.
“What a tragedy—he stayed out for one night! He’s a young man with hot blood in his veins. Maybe he wanted a little break from your eternally sour face. Are you his wife or his prison guard? You’re always buried in those factory reports, checking figures and fussing over paperwork, but the poor man can’t get one affectionate word from you. A husband should come home to a smiling wife, not someone glaring at him as if he were the enemy!”
Zhenya followed her into the kitchen and leaned against a cabinet.
Nine-year-old Kirill cautiously peered out from the back room. He was wearing sweatpants and held scissors in one hand and a sheet of model-making cardboard in the other.
“Mom, what time are we going to the young technicians’ center?”
Zhenya turned toward her son.
“In an hour, sweetheart. For now, gather all the wooden strips and put them in the box.”
Kirill nodded and silently returned to his room.
Raisa Gavrilovna watched him go with obvious disapproval, inhaled noisily through her nose, and shook her head.
“There, you see? This entire household revolves around that boy! Meanwhile, your own husband gets no attention at all. Arkasha took on another man’s burden. Most men would have taken one look and kept walking, but my son felt sorry for you—a divorced woman with a child. He gave you a family and a decent home!”
Zhenya took the electricity and water bill from the shelf. A bright warning stripe ran along the edge of the paper.
 
“What home are you referring to, Raisa Gavrilovna? This apartment was given to my mother by the knitwear factory years ago. Your son arrived here eighteen months ago carrying one gym bag with two pairs of sweatpants inside. And this”—she raised the bill—“is three months of unpaid utilities. Arkady promised to cover his half after receiving his advance.”
Her mother-in-law did not even bother to look at the bill. She merely waved it away with contempt.
“What are you brandishing those scraps of paper at me for? You’re petty, Zhenka. You torment the man over every last coin! Arkady earns money; it just happens to be tied up in business at the moment. It’s time you understood something simple: the man is the pillar of the family. If he lets himself have a night out once a month, keep quiet and wait patiently at home. I lived with my Gavrila for forty years and never once talked back when he came home drunk!”
Zhenya answered without irritation.
“You chose to tolerate that. I never agreed to live that way.”
“And where exactly will you go?”
Raisa Gavrilovna curled her lips smugly and planted both hands on her hips.
“Who needs a woman over thirty with another man’s child? Young girls chase after skilled tradesmen like my son. Arkady only has to crook his finger and a whole line of women will appear. So when he comes home, you’d better wash his feet and keep your mouth shut. And give him this.”
She jabbed a knotted finger toward the plastic bag on the stool.
“Those are socks made from real sheep’s wool. I knitted them myself. Your floors are always freezing, and I don’t want the family breadwinner catching cold.”
With that, Raisa Gavrilovna turned sharply and headed for the hallway.
“I’ll come back this evening and check on everything! And don’t you dare try any tricks!”
A few moments later, her heavy footsteps faded beyond the door.
 
Zhenya remained motionless beside the kitchen table for several seconds.
Her hands were steady. Strangely, she no longer felt hurt. In place of pain came a remarkably clear realization: it was time to bring this long-running performance to an end.
She walked to her son’s room.
“Kirill, start getting ready.”
The boy soon appeared in the hallway with his backpack already over his shoulders.
“Grandma Raisa was yelling again?”
“She made a little noise. We’re going to Aunt Lilia’s now. You’ll stay with her until this evening. You can draw together, and then she’ll take you to the model exhibition. All right?”
Kirill agreed immediately.
“Okay. Will Arkady come back?”
Zhenya looked calmly at her son.
“Arkady is going to live somewhere else from now on. Put your shoes on.”
She drove Kirill to her sister’s apartment in the neighboring district.
Lilia opened the door wearing an apron, traces of flour still clinging to her fingers. The moment she saw her sister, her expression grew wary.
“Zhenya, are you sure you’re all right? You don’t look like yourself.”
“I’m fine, Lilia. I’ll pick up the little one this evening. I just need to finish something at home while I have the day off.”
Zhenya was back at the apartment by eleven.
About twenty minutes later, Arkady appeared.
He did not so much walk inside as tumble through the doorway, slamming his shoulder into the wall.
The sleeve of his work jacket was smeared with plaster, and gray construction dust had dried on his trousers. He reeked of stale alcohol, cheap tobacco, and the cloying strawberry scent of some bar air freshener or cocktail.
 
He blinked heavily several times, trying to focus on his wife.
“Oh, look who came to welcome me! Where’s your smile, sweetheart? Why are you standing there like a scarecrow?”
Zhenya did not move.
“Where’s the money for the household bills, Arkady?”
“What money?”
He tried to unzip his jacket and nearly lost his balance.
“The guys and I finished the job! We handed over the entire sales floor—three-level ceilings and everything. I’m the foreman, so naturally I had to treat the crew! After a week like that, I have the right to unwind, don’t I? Of course I do! I’m a man, after all!”
Without removing or even unlacing his filthy boots, Arkady stomped into the living room and collapsed heavily onto the sofa, still wearing his work jacket.
“Bring me a pickle,” he demanded hoarsely. “And put together something to eat. Can you hear me? Mother stopped by this morning, then she called me. She was right about you. You think far too highly of yourself! I took in you and that boy and gave you a proper life, yet you can’t even put a bowl of soup in front of your husband on time.”
Less than two minutes later, Arkady’s eyes closed.
His head drooped until his chin rested on his chest, and soon loud, rasping snores filled the room.
Zhenya looked at the dirty soles of his boots lying on the bedspread.
She felt no anger.
 
It suddenly seemed as though an enormous bag of useless rubbish had been lying in the middle of her room for far too long—and she had finally decided to take it out.
Zhenya went to the enclosed balcony and took two large canvas bags and a sturdy cardboard box from the shelving unit.
After that, she moved quickly, without pausing unnecessarily.
She opened the wardrobe and removed Arkady’s jackets, shirts, work trousers, and camouflage vest from their hangers one by one.
She packed his T-shirts, sweaters, underwear, and socks into the box.
Then she went into the bathroom.
Everything belonging to her husband disappeared from the shelf: his razor, shaving foam, cologne, old comb, and the opened tube of ointment he used for his lower back.
Arkady continued snoring on the sofa, occasionally twitching or jerking one leg.
A heavy green plastic case stood beside the shoe rack. Inside was the hammer drill Arkady had bought on an installment plan a month earlier. In reality, the payments came out of their shared household money, although he never missed an opportunity to boast about being a prosperous and successful tradesman.
Zhenya placed the case beside the packed bags.
She added Arkady’s worn-out sneakers, winter boots, and house slippers. She intended to leave not a single one of his belongings in her apartment.
At a quarter to twelve, Zhenya called a moving service.
“Hello. I need a van and one strong mover. There isn’t much luggage—two canvas bags, one box, and a case of tools. I’ll also need help getting an intoxicated man down to the vehicle. He can move his legs, but he can barely keep his balance. I’ll pay extra for helping with the passenger.”
The dispatcher did not sound surprised.
“No problem. The van should be there in about twenty minutes.”
Before long, firm footsteps sounded outside the front door. A sturdy young man in dark work clothes, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, appeared on the landing.
He glanced at the belongings lined up against the wall.
“Everything ready to go?”
“Yes, it’s all here,” Zhenya replied calmly. “Take the bags and the box down first. Then I’ll need your help lifting that man. I doubt he can make it to the van on his own.”
The mover looked into the living room, saw Arkady asleep on the sofa, and gave an understanding grin.
 
“I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Don’t worry—we’ll deliver everything properly.”
He quickly carried the belongings downstairs. Then he returned, walked over to the sofa, and shook Arkady rather unceremoniously by the shoulder.
“Hey, foreman! Up you get. Time to board. Your shift is over!”
Arkady muttered something unintelligible. With great effort, he pried open his eyes and tried to make out the stranger standing over him.
“Who are you? Zhenya, who is this? Where are you taking me?”
Zhenya pulled the hood over his shoulders and said evenly:
“Get up, Arkasha. We’re going for a ride. A wonderful place is waiting for you, with personal service and round-the-clock care.”
Her husband had no idea what was happening.
“Where? To work? I want to sleep,” he mumbled.
The mover hooked his arms securely under Arkady’s, hauled him off the sofa, and set him on his feet. Then he guided him toward the door.
Arkady could barely negotiate the stairs. He repeatedly grabbed the banister and cursed the bright daylight.
Zhenya followed behind. In one hand she carried the green case containing the hammer drill; in the other, the bag of wool socks his mother had brought that morning.
 
The courtyard was almost empty.
The mover seated Arkady on the wooden floor of the van and propped him against his own canvas bags. Zhenya took the front passenger seat beside the driver.
The journey to Raisa Gavrilovna’s home took no more than fifteen minutes.
Her mother-in-law lived on the second floor of an old four-story building without an elevator, in a cramped one-room apartment.
When the van stopped, Zhenya turned to the mover.
“Please take everything up to apartment thirteen. Help him upstairs too, and sit him carefully against the wall.”
She paid for the trip and added extra for his assistance.
The young man quickly carried both canvas bags upstairs. He placed the box directly beside the vinyl-covered door and left the tool case next to it.
Then it was Arkady’s turn.
The mover supported him under the arms and guided him to the second floor. By then, Arkady had gone almost completely limp. At his mother’s door, he slid down the whitewashed wall and landed on the doormat. His head hung loosely, and a line of drool appeared on his collar.
“All done, ma’am,” the mover said with a wink.
He turned and hurried downstairs.
Zhenya walked to the door and held down the bell for several seconds.
The shuffle of slippers came from inside, followed by Raisa Gavrilovna’s irritated voice.
“Who on earth is that now? A person can’t get a moment’s peace even on a Saturday!”
The inner latch clicked, and the door swung open.
Raisa Gavrilovna froze in the doorway. She wore an old, faded flannel robe, and her fingers were wet—apparently, she had been rinsing laundry. First she stared in bewilderment at the belongings stacked by the wall. Then her gaze shifted to Zhenya. Finally, she noticed her own son peacefully snoring on the dusty doormat.
Her eyes widened.
“What is this supposed to be?” she shrieked, nervously clutching the edge of her robe. “Arkasha! What happened to you? What have you done to my son, you lunatic?”
Zhenya answered loudly and clearly, ensuring that the neighbors could hear every word.
 
“I haven’t done anything to him. I simply delivered this valuable cargo to his official place of residence. Take back your precious breadwinner.”
“Have you completely lost your mind? Why did you bring him here?”
Raisa Gavrilovna tried to rouse her son with her foot.
“Arkasha! Wake up! Get up when I’m talking to you! What did that madwoman do to you?”
With enormous effort, Arkady lifted his heavy head. He surveyed the familiar landing through clouded eyes and croaked:
“Mom, give me some pickle brine. I’m dying.”
“You see, Raisa Gavrilovna,” Zhenya continued, indicating her husband, “only a few hours ago, you gave me an entire lecture. You explained how a wife should wait on a man, wash his feet, forgive his drinking, and never contradict him. So I decided to return your exclusive, one-of-a-kind treasure. Look after him, feed him, and make sure the pickle brine arrives on time. You have forty years of experience. I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“How dare you speak to me in that tone!”
Dark red patches spread across her mother-in-law’s face as she shook her fists in fury.
“You’re his lawful wife! You are obligated to take care of your husband! He rescued you when no one else wanted you and your child! Take Arkasha back this instant! I’ll call the police! I’ll drag you through every court for treating him like this!”
Zhenya stepped down one stair and smiled.
“Call anyone you like. The apartment belongs to me; I acquired it before our marriage. Arkady isn’t even registered there. At our wedding, you were the one who insisted that your son remain registered at your address because you were afraid I might somehow lay claim to your apartment. Now you can live together and enjoy the company of your breadwinner every single day.”
Raisa Gavrilovna clutched both cheeks.
“What am I supposed to do with him? There’s only one bed in my room! I barely have enough space for myself!”
“Make him a bed on the floor. You explained this morning that a man needs proper rest after working hard. I brought every one of his belongings, right down to his last shirt. His hammer drill is here, and so are his shoes. Oh, I nearly forgot.”
Zhenya took out the rustling bundle and tossed it directly onto Arkady’s lap.
“Here are the wool socks. You’d better put them on your little boy immediately. There’s a draft in this stairwell, and we wouldn’t want your precious breadwinner catching cold.”
“You vile creature!” Raisa Gavrilovna screamed. “You snake! Arkasha will file for divorce tomorrow! You’ll be left with nothing, and you won’t see another penny from him! Who will want you then, with that boy of yours?”
Zhenya was already walking down the stairs.
“I’ll file for divorce myself on Monday. And don’t worry about money. Kirill has a father—a responsible man who pays child support on time. Your forty-year-old son, on the other hand, can now live off you until a ripe old age. Have a lovely weekend, Raisa Gavrilovna!”
 
Zhenya walked out of the building.
Even from the courtyard, she could still hear her mother-in-law’s piercing cries from the second floor. They were accompanied by Arkady’s drunken whining as he demanded that someone remove his boots and complained that his head was splitting.
A cold October wind drove dry maple leaves across the yard. The scents of damp asphalt and smoke from the heating plant mingled in the air.
Zhenya took a deep breath of the cool air.
It felt as though an enormous cast-iron slab had finally been lifted from her shoulders after she had carried it obediently for the past eighteen months.
There was a hardware store near the bus stop. Zhenya went inside, bought a new lock for her front door, and called a locksmith.
By two that afternoon, the lock had been replaced.
Arkady’s old keys went straight into the courtyard trash bin.
At around six, Lilia brought Kirill home.
The boy entered the hallway and immediately sniffed the air. The kitchen smelled of potatoes fried with onions.
“Mom, where’s Arkady?”
Zhenya transferred the potatoes to a large serving dish, walked over to her son, and put an arm around his shoulders.
“Arkady moved in with his mother, Kirill. He won’t be coming back.”
The boy was silent for a moment. Then he studied his mother’s face and asked softly:
 
“Does that mean no one will shout anymore?”
“No one, sweetheart. Go wash your hands. Dinner is ready.”
Two months passed.
During that time, Arkady tried to contact Zhenya three times.
The first time, he screamed into the phone and threatened her.
The second time, he complained about his miserable life and swore that he finally understood everything and would give up his drinking sprees.
The third time, he unexpectedly demanded the return of an old extension cord.
After that, Zhenya blocked his number.
Their marriage was dissolved quietly, without a lengthy dispute. Arkady did not even bother to attend the hearing.
In early December, Zhenya went grocery shopping and unexpectedly ran into an old acquaintance in the produce section. Everyone called the elderly woman Trofimovna. She lived on the first floor of Raisa Gavrilovna’s building.
The woman recognized Zhenya immediately.
“Zhenya, hello, my dear!” she whispered, rolling her cart of cabbages closer. “I looked at you and wondered whether it was really you. Your eyes are completely different now—they’re shining! You look five years younger!”
“Hello, Trofimovna.”
The old woman moved even closer and lowered her voice conspiratorially.
“Do you know what’s happening at Raisa’s place on the second floor? It’s a scandal for the whole building! Her Arkasha was fired back in November. Apparently, he ruined something at a job site and then got into a drunken argument with the supervisor. Now he has no work and lives entirely off his mother.”
Trofimovna shook her head in disapproval.
“Some suspicious friends of his keep visiting too. There’s noise and smoke on the landing, and no one can get past them. Last week, Raisa was practically crying outside the building. She complained to the neighbors that her son takes almost her entire pension to pay for his amusements. She kept moaning, ‘What did I do to deserve this punishment in my old age?’”
Zhenya placed a bag of mandarins into her shopping basket and allowed herself the faintest smile.
“She’s simply reaping what she raised, Trofimovna.”
 
“That’s exactly what I told her to her face!” the old woman exclaimed. “She wiped his nose and coddled him his entire life, even when his hair was turning gray. Now she’s the one suffering because of him.”
Zhenya said goodbye and left the store.
The air outside was frosty. Beneath the streetlights, the season’s first large snowflakes drifted slowly toward the ground.
Kirill was waiting for her at home. They had planned to spend the evening assembling a wooden frame for his school certificate.
A long evening lay ahead of them.
Peaceful.
Quiet.
And, at last, completely free.