— So you really think a vacation in Turkey is more important than helping my mother? — Igor’s voice rang out like a taut wire.
Alina turned away from the window, where she had been watching the shameless spring rain splattering against the glass. She was wearing a home T-shirt and had her hair in a bun, but her face looked like that of a CEO on layoff day.
— Yes, Igor. Exactly that. Turkey is more important to me than your mother. Because I want a vacation. Because I worked nights to earn this bonus. And your mother… who is she to me?
— Mom! — he exhaled, as if she had asked who Gagarin was.
— To me. Who. Is. She. — Alina hit the words like tennis balls. — Not to you. To me. Did anyone help me when I ate buckwheat without butter for three months to pay off the mortgage early? Or when I carried your family budget on my shoulders while you were rethinking your life after being fired?
— Don’t be like that, Alya… — he reached out to her, but she stepped back. She looked stern, even proud, though inside she felt the familiar sting and burning — the feeling when you realize you have reached a point of no return.
— And how should I act, Igor? Should I stay silent and send money for her dog’s treatment because “well, mom is having a hard time, you understand,” and I have to be understanding? Stay silent when she calls me a “careerist from the street”? Or when she calls me behind my back a “softling without roots”?
Igor stood, his shoulders pressed against the doorframe like a schoolboy outside the principal’s office. He looked confused, tired, and… somehow pathetic.
— She’s just falling apart right now, Alya. The café closed, the loan remains. If we don’t help her — she’ll fall into a debt pit.
Alina laughed. Bitterly, almost hysterically.
— And if I don’t go on vacation — I’ll fall into depression. Deeply. And you’ll have to pull me out. Or will mom help again? Come with pies and tell me how in her youth they wore one coat for three winters?
— You’re exaggerating. — Igor pulled off his sweater as if he suddenly felt hot. — I just want you to understand: this is family. We are family. And family helps each other.
— Except I’m the punching bag in this family, not a part of it. — Alina suddenly fell silent as if the sound had been cut off. Then she calmly added: — I got a bonus. A big one. Half a million. I wanted to make you happy. To go somewhere together, change the scenery. To invest in myself, in us. But instead, you’re saying again: “Mom’s in trouble, help out.” You know, Igor… I’m tired of being a lifebuoy for strangers.
For three days, he didn’t sleep at home. He wrote that he “needed to think.” And he thought — at his mother’s. He returned Saturday morning, with bags under his eyes and a crumpled shirt.
— Sorry. — He said first thing. — I was wrong. It just all piled up. Mom, creditors, and you with your Turkey…
— Not Turkey. — Alina was standing in the hallway, coat on, bag on her shoulder. — My life, Igor. Mine. Not ours. My personal one. The bonus is mine. The job is mine. The stress is mine. But somehow your family’s problems are mine too. How does that work?
He was silent. Watching her zip up her coat. Alina never slammed doors. Nor threw tantrums. Her calm was always worse than any shouting.
— Where are you going? — he finally managed to say.
— To a hotel. For a couple of days. To get some air. — She smiled. — And you figure things out with your mother. Who is whose family here and who owes whom.
That evening she lay on the pristine white bed in a standard business hotel room. She drank wine from a plastic cup and scrolled through her messengers. The old chat with Igor was called “My Cosmos and Earthquake.” Funny. Now — just “Igor.”
— “Are you leaving me because of money?” — came from him. No period.
— “I’m not leaving because of money. I’m leaving because you always give it to everyone except me. And I’m like waiting in line for your attention. Always last.”
No reply.
She turned off the phone and for the first time in many weeks felt… herself.
The next morning — a call. Of course. Who else would call at eight a.m. on a Saturday but Olga Petrovna?
— Alina, hello. — Her voice was sticky, like spilled jam. — Igor said you’re in a hotel. What a disgrace…
— The disgrace is that you only call me when you need money. — Alina sat up in bed, pulling the sheet over herself. — What happened?
— Nothing. Just thought — maybe you’ve cooled off. Let’s talk like humans. I’m not an enemy, Alinochka. Life happens…
— Olga Petrovna, — Alina interrupted her. — We’ll talk like humans when you call not with “help me,” but “how are you?”
— But you’re proud, independent. So cold.
Alina smirked.
— And you’re as usual, with your thin compliments. Goodbye.
On the third day of her hotel stay, Alina went into a jewelry store. Not for a ring. Just like that. For herself — as a keepsake. Bought earrings. Small, gold. The kind her mother-in-law would never approve of: “Cheap, like from a market.”
She smiled at her reflection. Without makeup. With dark circles under her eyes, but real.
Freedom doesn’t always look glossy. Sometimes it looks like a morning with coffee from a vending machine and a call from your mother-in-law you don’t answer.
— You don’t understand, Alina, we’re not asking you forever! — Igor was nervous, crumpling a napkin in his hands like a first grader at the dentist’s. — Just… a loan. For a month. Maximum two.
They were sitting in a café near the mall. Lots of glass around, many people, not a speck of coziness. The table by the window, where he called her, wasn’t a date but a session of arbitration court. Only without lawyers and coffee with cream.
Alina nodded. Slowly.
— I understand. Just a loan. And again in words. And again without receipts. Like with your brother. Like with the coffee shop mom opened “for a new life,” but closed after eight months.
— Enough with your mom, mom… — Igor leaned back in his chair and pressed his temples. — She’s not eternal, you know? She’s already on pills. Blood pressure, nerves, doctors… what are you trying to achieve? A stroke?
— But I can’t get one, right? — Alina interrupted. — Apparently, I’m allowed to live without sleep, rest, or support? Have you ever thought that if someone always has to help, maybe others should at least learn not to interfere?
Igor was silent. Outside, a gray woman in a white hat with a dog was rummaging through a trash can — looking for something thrown away by mistake. Alina suddenly thought: it’s true — people who always need something recognize each other at first glance.
— I’m not against family, Igor. I’m against you putting my interests on the altar of your debts every time. Not even your own. Your mother’s. Your brother’s. The dog with kidney disease.
— You’re mocking again! — he snapped. — You laugh your whole life, sneer, make a joke out of every situation. And I, by the way, am trying… doing something at least!
— What did you do? — she leaned toward him. — What exactly did you do in the last year? Sitting at your mother’s, working over there temporarily. And who pays the mortgage? Who?
He was silent. Pressed his lips. Then suddenly said:
— Because you’re a careerist, Alya. Everything to you — achievements, bonuses, bosses… Life is like Excel for you. And I’m a living person! I can’t live by a spreadsheet like you!
Alina chuckled. Very calmly. Very tiredly.
— I don’t live in Excel. I live in reality. Where you pay electricity not with emotions, but with money. Where the mortgage is deducted from the card, not from hopes. And if you’re a living person, why don’t I feel alive next to you?
She left first. He didn’t catch up. Just watched how she, in a gray coat — not a new one, by the way — got into a taxi, didn’t look back, didn’t call. She didn’t even finish her cup of coffee. A drop remained on the saucer. Like a memory. Or like a spit.
Alina got home and immediately turned on her laptop. She was one of those who cope with work. When angry, she cleaned the stove until it shone or sorted tax reports until midnight. Now — numbers.
But it didn’t work. Numbers blurred, thoughts jumped. She closed the laptop and just sat on the floor in the hallway. Between the nightstand and the shoe rack. Sat hugging her knees until her toes went numb.
—I don’t want to be their bank. — she whispered into the silence. — Don’t want to be their bank. Don’t want to be their bank…
She repeated it like a mantra. But it didn’t get easier.
The next day she received a summons. Not court — worse. Family meeting. Formally — “just sit down, discuss.” In fact — interrogation with accusations.
Olga Petrovna waited for her at the entrance, in a coat the color of raw clay and with lips the color of a quail.
— Alinochka, finally, — she flailed her hands theatrically. — We thought you were completely offended…
— I’m not offended, I just moved out. — Alina looked at her coldly. — You have your own there. Family walls, your son, family debts.
Olga Petrovna faltered for a second. Then said:
— You know, I always thought you were smart. But apparently, one doesn’t relate to the other.
— Exactly, — Alina nodded. — I’m smart. And that’s why now I’ll get my things and leave. Because a smart woman doesn’t live with a man who puts her second after his mother.
Upstairs — an old carpet, the smell of valerian, and Igor’s voice like a beaten dog.
— Why are you like this? — he rasped when she came in. — Do you really think it’s that simple? That you can just take and leave?
— No, — she answered. — I think we could have talked a hundred times, listened, understood. But you only heard your mother’s screams. And now it’s too late. Now — yes, just leave.
She grabbed her suitcase. It was hastily but neatly packed. Alina always packed neatly. Even when she was leaving for nowhere.
— Do you still need me? — he asked, almost whispering. — Or have you decided everything?
— I needed you when I asked for something simple: “Understand me.” — She stepped closer. Looked him straight in the eyes. — But every time you first asked your mother if you could.
— That’s cruel, Alya.
— You know what’s cruel? — Alina stopped at the door. — Telling a woman she’s too smart. And too strong. Just because the man next to her turned out weaker than her mother.
And she left.
Without shouting. Without a scene. Without “you’ll regret it.” Just one suitcase and earrings in her ears.
A week later, she filed for divorce. Two weeks later, her new status was official. And three weeks later, she received a letter. From a notary.
With the wording:
Property division. Question of apartment ownership. Clarification of joint debt.
Alina raised her eyebrows.
— It’s started.
And that was just the beginning…
Alina approached the notary wearing gloves. It was chilly, and she couldn’t decide in the morning whether to wear a coat or a raincoat. In the end, she chose a strict dark blue coat and heels. Divorce isn’t a reason to look like a victim, she told herself, looking in the mirror.
— Good afternoon. Alinochka, right? — the notary, a woman about fifty with the face of a lifelong labor teacher, looked over her glasses. — You’re here about the apartment? Well, come in, I’ll explain everything. Though I warn you, my tea is terrible.
Behind the glass partition sat Igor. In a stretched gray hoodie and with a “Pyaterochka” grocery bag, as if he came not to divide property, but to buy potatoes. His eyes were like a hamster’s at a search — either he stole something himself or he knew exactly who did.
— Hi, — he exhaled as if out of breath.
— Hello, — Alina nodded evenly.
They sat opposite each other. The notary and one protocol separated them, in which black on white it was written: mortgage on both names, shares equal, but payments were made mostly by one side, and the other was in a state of… uh… philosophical idleness.
— Look, colleagues, — the notary began, poking at the papers with a pen labeled “Rosreestr,” — you have an apartment registered in marriage. But the mortgage payments were mostly made by Alinka. This is clearly visible from the statement. Which, by the way, I have here. Half the debt is paid. And now the fun begins.
Alina didn’t even flinch. She already knew everything. In recent weeks she had studied the Civil, Family, and just in case, Land Code. And now she was almost sure that in the next life she’d be born a lawyer.
— So. Alina demands her share. And wants the apartment sold, and the proceeds split in half. Correct?
— Almost, — Alina said calmly. — I want the apartment sold, the husband’s share deducted proportionally to his contribution. That’s twenty-seven thousand rubles. For two years.
Igor blushed.
— That’s cruel, — he hissed. — I also… I lived there! There are my labors, my repairs! I laid the kitchen tiles myself, remember?
— I remember. And how you blew the wiring after that — I remember too. — Alina smiled coldly. — I had to call an electrician and pay from the bonus. So thanks, but no.
— You turn everything into money, — he exhaled angrily. — And love? And feelings? And how we started?
— We started with one suitcase, two backpacks, and big hopes. — Alina looked sharply at his face. — And ended with your mother on my pillow and your inaction.
— She just asked you to stay, Alya. Why like this?
— And I asked you to choose. — She leaned forward. — But you chose to be a son. Not a husband.
The notary coughed.
— So. Emotions aside, but legally. The apartment sale. After paying off the remaining mortgage, the amount is divided. Eighty-six percent to Alina. The rest to Igor.
— Keep your pennies! — Igor suddenly jumped up. — Take everything! Live here! Just don’t make me a monster! I… I just wanted us to be together!
— And I wanted to be in a family, not a scheme where I’m always written off as an expense, — she whispered. — We’re not a couple, Igor. We’re an accountant and a losing project.
Two days later she packed boxes.
The apartment emptied quickly — it happens when people have long lived in different worlds. Alina left Igor his old T-shirts, a photo album, and the coffee grinder he always fixed and never fixed.
You always leave something behind. Even when it seems nothing holds you.
She stood at the door with keys in hand. It was strange. Like the last act of a play — when the audience is gone, but you’re still in costume and don’t know what to do with your line.
There was a knock.
— Who’s there? — she shouted, reluctantly going to the door.
— It’s me, — he was outside. — Can you… give me the keys?
Alina silently opened. For a second they felt awkward. As if they were two former actors meeting on a stage where everything was already played.
— Here, — she handed over the bunch.
— Where are you now? — he asked without looking into her eyes.
— Where I’m valued. And not called to a family meeting to be stripped bare.
— I ruined everything, didn’t I?
— No, — Alina smiled. — You just didn’t fix anything.
She closed the door behind her. No slam. No theater. Just a click of the lock — and that was it.
And then she walked away. Slowly. Through the yard, past an old woman with newspapers, past the swings where once she and Igor kissed at three in the morning, laughing at some TV show.
She walked — and felt lighter with every step.
— Alina! — a voice called behind her.
She turned. He stood at the entrance, still holding the keys.
— If anything… I still love you. Still do.
— And I love myself, — she answered quietly. — Finally.
And she left.
With a light heart, in heels, and with a firm intention never again to lease out her interests — even “for a month, maximum two.”