“I’ll bring my mom over on Saturday,” Igor announced during dinner.
At first, I didn’t even realize what he was talking about. I was standing by the sink, scrubbing the frying pan after making cutlets, only half-listening as he talked about the hospital, his mom’s test results, and the new medications she was prescribed.
“Where are you bringing her?” I asked for clarification.
“Here. To our place.”
As soon as he said that, I stopped washing the pan.
I’m 52 years old. I work as a chef at a factory and every day I’m on my feet by 5:30 in the morning. By 11, it already feels like I’ve lived a whole little lifetime: pots, trays, meat, soups, side dishes, endless questions like “Irina, will there be compote today?” and about two hundred hungry men, each convinced their neighbor got a bigger cutlet.
When I come home, I’m not exactly bursting with joy and song—I come back completely exhausted.
So here I am, clutching a frying pan, while the man I’ve been living with for a year and a half casually informs me that his mother will be moving in with us on Saturday.
He doesn’t ask for my opinion.
He just states it as a fact.
“Igor, were you ever planning to discuss this with me?”
He looked at me with such confusion, as if I’d just asked why snow is cold in the winter.
“What’s there to discuss? Mom can’t be left alone right now. You know that.”
Of course, I knew.
Lately, his mother’s health had taken a turn for the worse: her back hurt badly, her blood pressure was all over the place, and then she fell at home. She didn’t have a serious fracture, but walking after that was a struggle. The doctor explained that she’d need someone to look after her for some time.
I genuinely felt sorry for this woman. She was perfectly nice, never did anything to hurt me, and never treated me badly. We didn’t see each other much—mostly for holidays. She’d bring cabbage pies, I’d make salads, and we’d all sit down at the table. Sometimes she would call me Irochka, though I was long past being the carefree Irochka who, after a shift, wanted nothing but to put ointment on her back and spend the evening in silence, speaking to no one until morning.
But having sympathy for someone and agreeing to let them move into your apartment are two very different things.
Especially when Igor has already made the decision for me.
The way I met him was actually kind of funny. My washing machine broke down at the time.
The drum wouldn’t spin, the machine just hummed, pretending to do something, but it was about as effective as some people, as I later found out.
A coworker gave me the number of a repairman.
That’s how I met Igor. An ordinary man, he was fifty-four at the time. Calm, skillful, talkative. He took the machine apart, changed some part, and while working, asked me:
“Do you live alone?”
Right away, I got wary.
“Why? Do you charge more for solo clients?”
He laughed.
A few days later, he messaged me, asked if the washing machine was working fine. Then he showed up again. Soon, he invited me out for coffee.
That’s how it all started, little by little.
After my divorce, I lived alone for several years, and honestly, I got used to it. I had my own apartment—not inherited, not gifted by my parents, and not left to me by my ex-husband. I paid it off all by myself.
That took quite a bit of time.
A LOT of time.
I still remember the day I made the last payment. Afterward, I sat in the kitchen for about ten minutes just holding the receipt. It wasn’t so much from overwhelming happiness—I just stared at the paper and thought, that’s it, now no one can ever kick me out of my own home.
I also decorated the apartment little by little, with my own hands. I changed the kitchen, re-wallpapered, bought a new wardrobe for the bedroom. Sometimes, after all those expenses, there wasn’t any money left for a vacation, but coming home always felt wonderful.
When Igor and I started dating, I was attracted to how independent he seemed. He worked as a private repairman, fixing washing machines, fridges, and other small household appliances. He even had his own little studio.
After three months, he suggested we move in together.
Although, looking back, it wasn’t so much a proposal as him thinking out loud:
“Why am I always running back and forth? I’m here almost every day anyway.”
I agreed.
We decided to rent out his studio to tenants.
Then Igor said:
“Let’s just set the money aside for now. We’ll need it someday.”
For some reason, I thought he was talking about our shared future plans.
Who else would it be about? After all, we were a couple, living under the same roof.
Now I realize that I gave his words a meaning he never intended.
The first few months of living together went smoothly. Igor paid half the utility bills, and we bought groceries either together or separately—whatever worked out. If the faucet started leaking, he’d fix it. If an outlet needed to be replaced—no problem. Hang a shelf? Also done, no questions asked.
But shelves, for some reason, didn’t need fixing every day.
Eating, however, was a daily necessity.
Just like washing the dishes, cleaning the floors, scrubbing the bathroom, changing the bed sheets, cooking, shopping for groceries, doing the laundry, and hanging it to dry.
And somehow, naturally, all these chores gradually ended up being my responsibility.
At first, I didn’t even think much of it.
After all, I’m a cook—it’s no problem for me to whip up dinner. Or make soup. With three potatoes and half a chicken, I could probably feed the whole building.
But knowing how to cook is one thing.
It’s another thing entirely when people start treating it as your unquestionable duty.
One day, I came home after an especially tough shift. The day was awful: two coworkers didn’t show up, so the three of us had to do the work of five.
Igor was lying on the couch watching TV.
“Is there anything to eat?” he asked.
I replied:
“The fridge is all yours.”
He actually seemed offended.
“I’m asking seriously.”
“And I’m giving you a serious answer. There are eggs, cheese, and sausage in there.”
He sighed heavily:
“I see. You’re tired.”
He said it in a tone that made it sound like he was giving me an official diagnosis.
Half an hour passed, and I finally got up from the couch and made an omelet.
Is it my own fault? Maybe, to some extent, yes.
Honestly, making food was easier than starting yet another unpleasant conversation.
Gradually, little things like that kept piling up.
“Ir, can you iron my shirt?”
“Ir, where did you put the clean towels?”
“Ir, would you make some tea?”
Sometimes I would reply:
“Igor, the kettle isn’t going anywhere without you.”
He’d laugh.
“Is it really that hard for you?”
Such convenient words.
It’s true—for things like pouring tea, ironing a shirt, or cleaning up a plate, it doesn’t take much time.
But somehow, the person asking for the favor always finds it difficult to actually do it themselves.
One day, we did try to have a serious talk about household chores.
I said:
“Let’s figure out who’s responsible for what. I work too, you know.”
He looked at me with a completely serious face.
“What’s there to assign? I handle the man’s work around here.”
“Like what, exactly?”
“What do you mean? Everything around the house.”
I looked around.
“Igor, then list the things you actually do.”
He paused to think.
“I fixed the faucet.”
“Once. Back in November.”
“I replaced the hallway light.”
“In January.”
“I checked your car.”
“I don’t even have a car.”
He was quiet for a moment, then said:
“Here we go again.”
And that was the end of our conversation about sharing chores.
I was especially uneasy about his studio situation.
All this time, Igor kept renting it out to tenants and regularly got paid for it. I never asked exactly how much. I don’t like to pry into someone else’s finances or find out who makes what.
But one day, I did gently suggest:
“Maybe we could try saving money together? Like for renovations or a trip together.”
He replied:
“I’m already saving my own money.”
“For what?”
“For the future.”
I even tried to joke:
“Did you include me in that future?”
He smirked:
“Don’t start.”
That was one of his favorite phrases whenever a woman asked a question he didn’t want to answer.
Still, I didn’t take the situation too seriously back then.
We just lived our lives. Hardly ever argued. He didn’t drink, didn’t chase after other women, and went to work.
At our age, you know, sometimes you’re just glad your man isn’t calling his ex-wife in the middle of the night or throwing loud parties with friends until 3 a.m.
Maybe that’s why it took me so long to notice the obvious: Igor had it pretty good.
His own apartment brought him extra income.
And he lived at my place.
We split the utility bills evenly.
But all the everyday chores fell on me.
He had things arranged very comfortably.
Comfortable, for sure—for him.
But I didn’t really see it clearly until we had that conversation about his mom.
After he told me about Saturday, I asked:
“Where exactly will she be living?”
“In the small room.”
My apartment has two rooms. The small one is my favorite. It’s cozy with a sofa, wardrobe, and a table. Sometimes after work, I settle in there with a book or binge-watch shows, especially when Igor turns on his television programs.
“For how long?”
“We’ll see.”
“And who’s going to take care of her?”
At that question, he started getting annoyed.
“What do you mean, who?”
“I mean it exactly as I asked.”
“Well, you, of course.”
I honestly couldn’t believe my ears at first.
“Me?”
“Ira, who else? It’s not going to be me.”
Lovely.
I put the frying pan in the drying rack, wiped my hands with a towel, and sat down at the table.
“Please explain to me why it can’t be you?”
He shrugged.
“Because I have a job.”
I laughed out loud.
Not because it was funny—just because I had no other reaction at that point.
“So I go to the factory for fun, then?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what exactly did you mean?”
He was silent for a moment, then finally said:
“Well, caring for the elderly is sort of a woman’s job.”
At that point, I didn’t say a word.
I just looked at Igor and mentally replayed everything that had happened over the past year and a half.
Tea.
Shirts.
Dirty plates.
“What do we have to eat?”
“Where did you put my socks?”
“You’re a woman.”
And now, add to all that his mom, who needed constant care.
His mother, not mine.
And Igor and I weren’t even married. Not that I think a wedding ring automatically makes a woman the caretaker for her husband’s relatives. But it wasn’t even about that. Not once did he ask if I could take on the responsibility, or if I even wanted to. There was no talk about how we’d arrange things. We could have looked for a helper, discussed other options, or he could have taken some time off work.
But none of that happened.
The solution was brutally simple: his mom moves into my apartment, and I’m the one who takes care of her.
“Igor, what about your studio apartment?”
He frowned.
“What does the studio have to do with this?”
“Well, you could let your mom stay there.”
“It’s too small.”
“But it’s yours.”
“I have tenants living there.”
“So give them a heads up in advance.”
He looked at me as if I’d suggested throwing a family with a baby onto the street.
“I’m not giving up my income.”
“So I’m supposed to give up my free time, my energy, and my own room?”
“Irina, we’re talking about my mother!”
“Exactly, Igor. Your mother.”
After I said that, he stood up from the table.
“I never expected this from you.”
“What exactly didn’t you expect?”
“For you to be like this.”
“Like what, exactly?”
He started pacing around the kitchen.
“Heartless. Selfish. A person needs help, and here you are fighting over your apartment!”
At that point, I was honestly curious how far this would go.
“Alright, let’s consider another option. You take a break from work and care for your mom. We’ll live on my salary and the rental income from your studio.”
He replied instantly:
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“I’m a man. My duty is to work.”
“So what does that make me?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
And yes, I really did.
A man is supposed to go to work and earn money.
But a woman is also expected to work. Then, after her shift, she must come home, make dinner, tidy up the house, do the laundry, and if needed, take care of his relatives too.
What a perfect arrangement. Especially for the man.
I asked him:
“Have you even talked to your mom? Does she know she’s moving in with us?”
“Not yet.”
Turns out, even his mother had no idea about her son’s plans.
And meanwhile, I had already been assigned a new position—responsible for taking care of her.
That’s when I calmly said:
“You’re not bringing your mom here on Saturday.”
He smirked.
“And why not?”
“Because I don’t agree to it.”
“So what am I here, nobody to you?”
That question genuinely caught me off guard.
“Igor, do you really want to hear my answer?”
“I do.”
“Then listen. This is my apartment.”
He noticeably paled.
Until that moment, I had never used those words against him. Not even when I was upset did I remind him that he was living in my place. It always felt humiliating to constantly emphasize to a grown man that the roof over his head belonged to a woman.
But this time, I just couldn’t keep quiet.
“You’ve been living here for a year and a half,” I said. “All the while, you have your own apartment, which you rent out. Without asking me, you decided to move another person into my home, and at the same time, you made me responsible for her care. So yes, Igor. I am the one who decides who lives here.”
He was silent for about a minute.
Then he said:
“So that’s how you’re going to talk to me now.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Well then, stay alone in your precious apartment!”
I looked at him and answered:
“Alright.”
Apparently, he didn’t expect that reaction at all.
He probably thought I’d be afraid of him leaving, start making excuses and try to smooth things over. That I’d say something like, ‘Come on, don’t be mad. Let’s just discuss this calmly.’
But at that moment, an unexpected sense of calm came over me.
“Well then, please pack your things.”
“What did you say?”
“You yourself suggested I live alone. I don’t mind.”
That’s when he really blew up.
Suddenly, I was heartless, calculating, and ungrateful. Supposedly, he’d spent a whole year and a half of his life on me. And who, honestly, would want me at the age of fifty-two with such a character?
That last argument was especially striking.
This man had lived in my apartment for a year and a half, eaten the meals I cooked, enjoyed all the comforts, and yet for some reason was convinced that losing him was my worst fear in life.
I replied:
“Igor, let’s skip the theatrics. Just pack up.”
He went into the room and started slamming the closet doors so loudly you’d think the poor closet was to blame for all his problems.
After a while, he came out with his bag.
“Will you leave the keys?” I asked.
He threw them onto the nightstand.
Not gently, but actually hurled them.
After that, he declared:
“You’ll regret this.”
I answered:
“Maybe.”
And I wasn’t trying to look strong or unshakable. Deep down, I really wondered if I’d regret what happened one day.
After all, I’m just a human being, not made of stone.
Of course, things weren’t easy for me after he left.
When the door closed behind Igor, I didn’t walk around the apartment celebrating my new freedom. Instead, I sat at the kitchen table and burst into tears.
My tears weren’t just about Igor himself, but about another failed chapter in my personal life.
At fifty-two, the last thing I want is to start all over again. I don’t want to meet someone new, explain my habits, talk about the kind of music I love, how much sugar I put in my tea, or why I prefer sleeping with the window closed.
I just want to have someone close by my side.
The truth is, I had grown attached to Igor.
We laughed together, spent summers at the lake. One night when I had a fever, he went to the pharmacy for medicine. For my birthday, he gave me beautiful earrings that I still wear.
I can’t say he was some kind of monster.
Maybe that’s what makes decisions like this extra hard.
When someone is clearly a terrible person, things become obvious right away.
But when a person seems pretty normal, yet treats your life as just an add-on to their own, you start doubting yourself. You start wondering: Am I just too demanding? Should I have handled things differently?
A few days later, his mother called me.
Honestly, I was bracing myself for reproach and accusations.
But the conversation started nothing like I’d expected.
“Ira, did you and Igor have a fight?” she asked.
“Yes, we did,” I replied.
“Was it because of me?” she continued.
I hesitated before answering.
“Partly because of you,” I admitted.
She let out a heavy sigh, then said something I never would’ve expected:
“He told me he was planning to move me into your place. I immediately told him not to even think about it!”
I stayed silent, not knowing how to respond.
She went on:
“How long have we known each other? A year and a half? And why in the world should you be expected to care for me, clean up after me? I have my own son, after all.”
I was so surprised I almost dropped the phone.
It turned out his mom had already made arrangements with her niece, who would come by in the mornings to help her. Igor was supposed to visit his mother in the evenings after work, and later, they were planning to hire a woman to come for a few hours each day.
So, there was a solution all along.
Everything could have been organized differently.
And there was never any need for me to turn into a free caregiver, giving up my room, my rest, and my personal time.
At the end of our conversation, his mother added:
“Igor has been sly like that since childhood. If there’s a chance to hand off his responsibilities to someone else, he’ll always take it.”
For the first time in days, I actually laughed.
After that, Igor messaged me twice.
At first, the message was short and cold:
“I hope you’re happy.”
I didn’t reply.
A week later, I received another message:
“Maybe we could meet and talk things over calmly?”
I didn’t reply to him either.
It wasn’t because I wanted to act like some proud heroine from a TV drama.
I just truly didn’t understand what exactly we needed to discuss.
Was it all the things he’d said in a fit of anger? Fine, let’s say it was.
But then what about everything else? Were all the things he’d been saying for a year and a half also just said in the heat of the moment?
Like his firm belief that housework should only be a woman’s responsibility?
Or his insistence that the income from his own apartment was only his personal money?
Or that I should take care of all the chores because, in his words, “it’s not difficult for you”?
Honestly, I still miss him sometimes.
Especially in the evenings.
Igor used to sit on the couch, watching the news and grumbling about the anchors. I’d ask him to turn down the volume, and he’d lower it just a notch or two, then announce:
“There, now it’s quiet.”
These days, I almost never turn on the TV.
On the other hand, no one asks me at nine in the evening anymore if there’s something tasty to snack on.
And you know what I find most surprising?
About a week after he left, I came home after a shift, warmed up some leftover soup from the day before, sliced a piece of bread and sat down to eat dinner.
And suddenly I realized just how exhausted I was after a year and a half of constantly thinking about someone else’s comfort and remembering every little thing.
Making sure dinner was ready.
That clean clothes were in their place.
That we never ran out of groceries.
That the house was clean and organized.
That everyone was in a good mood.
That everything was convenient for everyone.
What hurts me the most is that Igor probably still thinks we broke up because I refused to take care of his sick mother.
But I’m sure it wasn’t about her at all.
His mother was actually the least to blame for what happened.
It’s just that, on that night, Igor finally showed me openly which role he expected me to play in his life.
He didn’t see me as an equal partner with whom he could discuss problems and look for solutions together.
He needed someone who would take on all the things he didn’t want to deal with himself.
Maybe I really was too harsh when I asked him to leave. Maybe we should have given ourselves more time, had a calm conversation and tried to find a different solution. Even now, I sometimes think about that.
But then I remember that we actually had a good solution from the very beginning.
Igor had his own apartment.
He had income from renting it out.
He had arms, legs, a sound mind, and a job. Plus, he had his own mother, who truly needed help.
Yet the very first person he decided to shift all these responsibilities onto was me.
And now I keep asking myself: was I right to immediately tell Igor to move out? Or should you sometimes put aside your own interests in a relationship and support your loved one, even if it means caring for your partner’s mother?
What would you have done in my place? Would you have agreed to let your significant other’s sick mother move in and take care of her all by yourself, just for love?