Nastya was no longer just lying there — she was practically fused to the couch.
The phone in her hand, her finger mechanically scrolling through the news feed, and in her head — absolute emptiness. Peace was a rare thing. And, as usual, it lasted exactly until the moment the door slammed.
Grigory burst in as if a frozen avalanche was chasing him. His cheeks were flushed, his nose shiny, his jacket half unzipped, boots still on.
— “It’s so cold my ears still don’t realize they’re on me,” he muttered without taking off his shoes and plopped down next to her. “Listen, I have news. Mom decided to move.”
Nastya slightly raised herself, even turned off the phone — seriously, since he looked that way.
— “What do you mean, move?” Her voice was even, but her eyes noticeably narrowed.
— “She sold her place and bought a two-room flat in the building across the street!” Grigory announced happily, as if it were an ice cream purchase, not a family apocalypse announcement. “Now we’ll see each other more often!”
Damn you… — Nastya cursed silently. Three years of marriage, and in that time she’d developed strong immunity to visits from her mother-in-law: endure, nod, smile, then drink valerian for a week. And now — surprise. This woman would be nearby. Always. Right across the street.
— “When did she manage to pull this off?” she asked, trying to keep it civil.
— “Just a couple of days ago. Got a decent realtor, no tricks, everything official,” Grigory sprawled on the couch as if he himself was the realtor.
— “Wait,” Nastya frowned, thinking it through logically. “She had a one-room flat, right? And now prices are crazy. How did she afford a two-room?”
— “Well… some savings. And she inherited from dad. What difference does it make, Nastya? The main thing is she’s close now. Convenient, right?”
— “Uh-huh. Very convenient,” she nodded dryly, feeling something slowly boiling inside her. Even the kettle makes less noise at moments like this.
— “I’ll have to take some time off work to help her move. I’ll tell my boss tomorrow, take a week. You take some too, okay?”
— “Take two,” Nastya said wearily. “What’s needed isn’t a vacation, but a psychotherapist with a vacuum cleaner. Preferably one and the same.”
The next day they went to the lair… sorry, to Angela Viktorovna’s new apartment.
Mother-in-law waited by the entrance with a face as if she’d been invited to an Oscar ceremony.
— “Grishenka! Nastenka! Come here, my dears!” she spread her arms like a fairy godmother in a show where everything went wrong.
Nastya hugged her automatically. The sharp scent of sweet perfume hit her nose, making her want to sneeze and forget everything.
While climbing to the fourth floor (elevators were for weaklings), Angela Viktorovna chirped as if reciting a learned script:
— “Such luck! Such happiness! I can feel it — a new life. Son nearby, daughter-in-law close… Everything will work out! I didn’t do all this for nothing!”
— “Of course, not for nothing,” Nastya muttered under her breath. “With that much drama, definitely not for nothing.”
The door opened — and Nastya froze. Not from delight. More from shock. The ceiling had stains, the walls were blotchy, the wallpaper hung like sad mustaches, and in the corner — black mold, like a greeting from hell.
— “Mom, it’s scary to live here,” Grigory grimaced looking at the mold.
— “Nonsense!” waved the mother-in-law. “We’ll fix everything. Nastya will help, she’s so handy!”
Yeah. Handy. Like Mary Poppins, only with a mop and a panic attack, Nastya thought and forced a smile.
For the next two weeks, Nastya felt like a hero of a cheap talk show. At least they serve coffee there. Here — disinfection, furniture, mopping floors, and Angela Viktorovna as the boss of all chores.
— “Put it higher here,” the mother-in-law instructed, standing in the doorway with a Marie Antoinette expression. “And clean it properly! There’s dust like in Lenin’s museum!”
By day’s end, Nastya could barely stand. But the moment she said the word “tired,” her mother-in-law immediately began to wail:
— “Oh, don’t say that, dear! I’m dying, really. Age, blood pressure, life… Good thing you’re young and strong. Like a tractor, really!”
Thanks, Mom. So nice it makes me want to cry.
Last day of vacation. Nastya, like a soldier after battle, gathered the last bits of trash, washed the floors, and reached for her jacket.
— “Where are you off to?” Angela Viktorovna peeked out of the kitchen, spoon in hand.
— “Home. I have work tomorrow.”
— “And who will help me?! I’m all alone here! Groceries, cooking, dishes! It’s all on me! You’re smart, a housekeeper. It’s decided — you come on weekends!”
And slam! The door shut in her face.
Nastya descended the stairs as if she were escaping not an apartment but a psychological trap. Her thoughts were tangled.
Why the hell am I now a personal chef and courier for an adult woman who lived perfectly fine without me five years ago?
At home, Grigory was sitting with his laptop, headphones on, deep in work. Nastya stormed into the room and blurted out:
— “Enough. I’m done! I’m not going to be your mother’s free maid!”
Grigory took off his headphones:
— “What happened?”
— “What happened?” she repeated, her voice trembling. “Your mother decided I’m now a daughter-in-law who does everything. I scrub, I carry, and now I have to cook for her too! I have a job, a life, plans! Let her learn to live here if she wants to be close!”
Grigory stood up, approached, tried to hug her, but Nastya dodged:
— “No. I’m serious. First she moved without consulting. Then she stuck to me like a leech for two weeks. And now she calls me on weekends. Maybe she wants me to make her bed every morning too?”
— “She just can’t manage…” he mumbled. “New place, stress…”
— “Stress?!” Nastya threw her hands up. “Do you know who’s stressed? Me! I live in a 24/7 ‘Help mom’ mode!”
Grigory fell silent.
Sitting on the couch, Nastya added quietly:
— “I don’t mind helping. I mind being obliged. That’s different. She doesn’t ask, she orders. And you stand there agreeing.”
A pause followed. Not silence — a thick pause, like jelly of unspoken words.
— “Okay,” Grigory said quietly. “I’ll talk to her.”
Nastya looked at him, and for the first time in a long while, she felt he really heard her.
Although, honestly, she believed in mold winning more than in a fair talk with her mother-in-law.
The next two months turned into a soap opera. Not the kind you watch and get hooked on, but the kind where you’re the hero, without makeup, without a script, and with bags under your eyes.
Angela Viktorovna called like a fire alarm guard.
— “Nastenka, I ran out of flour, run to the store, pancakes won’t bake themselves,” she declared in a tone as if it were urgent medical help.
— “Sweetheart, I decided to do laundry, but this new machine is a nightmare. Come save this old lady from a technological disaster,” she almost cried into the phone.
— “Natusha, I’m so lonely… Let’s have tea, I just baked a pie — almost edible,” she coaxed with a voice sucking up dusty pity.
Nastya went. Like a fool she went. Helped. Sat. Listened. And while Angela Viktorovna poured tea and told how neighbor Nina got drunk and Pasha from the first floor brought some girl again, Nastya’s own laundry, cleaning, work papers, and the borscht that never started waited at home.
Grigory, meanwhile, perfectly fulfilled one duty — to notice absolutely nothing.
Then, one evening, as if on cue, a new song began.
— “My little apartment,” sighed the mother-in-law with a Joan of Arc-at-the-stake look, “totally wrecked. Mold again on the walls. And it’s harmful, Nastya, for the lungs. We need repairs. Not just a refresh, but a serious overhaul, hauling out junk and new appliances. My fridge breathes like a grandfather after jogging, and the stove is a relic of war.”
Nastya silently scrubbed dishes. Thoroughly. With grinding teeth. Shining — means angry.
— “I calculated,” continued the mother-in-law as if holding a calculator in her mind, “we need half a million. No less. All went to the move. Completely broke.”
Nastya continued her scrubbing. No matter what, no reaction.
But Angela Viktorovna only gave up for a while to gather strength. The next day came the heavy artillery:
— “You have a good job, Nastya… And probably some savings?” The hint was so thick you could fry potatoes on it.
— “You know what they say: a daughter-in-law must care for her mother-in-law. Maria Stepanovna’s daughter-in-law, by the way, takes care of her mother-in-law like crystal…” — that was no longer a hint but a flashing SOS signal with a flag and smoke.
— “Maybe you should take a loan? You’re young, they’ll give it to you…” she said as casually as if it were about bread.
Nastya felt squeezed. Like a jar of pickles: a little more — and the lid would burst off.
Once she decided to leave work early. She wanted to lie down, be alone, have silence. But instead… Nastya went to her mother-in-law’s in advance to “settle things.”
The door to the stairwell was ajar. Voices came from inside. Familiar. So familiar it made her knees tremble.
— “Tell her to transfer everything immediately. You’re her husband, let him fulfill his duty. Daughter-in-law should help mother-in-law,” Angela Viktorovna dictated.
— “Of course, Mom. I’ll talk to her. She’ll understand that it’s hard for you. She has normal savings. We’ll sort it out,” Grigory answered confidently. As if it were a trip to the countryside, not a money drain.
— “I didn’t choose her just like that, son,” purred the mother-in-law. “I knew she had a dowry, an apartment, and decent earnings…”
Nastya stopped listening. She pushed the door open.
Grigory jumped up like he’d been caught doing something far less decent.
Angela Viktorovna instantly switched to “poor relative” mode:
— “Nastenka, dear! We were just talking about you… I feel bad, really. But the repairs are urgent. I’ll pay you back, honest to God, penny by penny!”
Nastya looked around the room. The same as two weeks ago. Same mold, same junk. Only now she clearly saw: it’s not repairs that are needed. It’s a complete demolition. Of relationships.
— “No,” she said calmly.
— “What?” Angela Viktorovna blinked as if slapped.
— “I said no. I won’t give you money. Neither now, nor later. Never.”
— “Nastya, what are you doing? She’s my mother!” Grigory boiled.
— “Yours. Not mine. And I’m tired of being a walking banking app. So pack your things and go to Mommy. Since you’re so coordinated with my money.”
— “Are you crazy?” he grabbed her hand, but Nastya pulled away.
— “I woke up, actually.”
She left. Without looking back. And while going down, her mind was clear — no anger, no hysteria. Only tiredness and relief.
At home she didn’t even take off her shoes. Straight to the bedroom. Closet. Suitcase. The process began — methodical, like in the army. All his things — in the suitcase. Even those shirts he had given her.
Half an hour later — a knock on the door. Behind it — a two-voice concert.
— “Nastenka! Darling, why are you doing this? We’re family! I’m like your own…” the mother-in-law spread herself on the threshold.
— “Don’t call me darling. I’m not your daughter. And I never was,” clear and without breaking.
Grigory tried to add his two cents, pacing the apartment like a cat being washed:
— “Nastya, let’s talk. Want me to tell Mom the repairs can wait?”
— “Too late, Grisha. You had a chance. I washed it, ironed it, and kicked it out.”
Bags. Suitcase. In the hallway. Nastya opened the door.
— “Leave. Both of you.”
— “This is outrageous!” the mother-in-law yelled. “How dare you?!”
— “I dare. This is my apartment. And I decide who lives here. And who goes out.”
When the door closed, Nastya’s first act was to take out her phone. She transferred every last kopek to her mother. Better to her than those ‘relatives.’ Then she called:
— “Hi, Mom. I thought… I’m divorcing. Yes, finally.”
The next day — the application. Loud. Clear. Without hysteria.
There was hardly anything to split. Even the joint account now seemed petty.
Grigory moved in with his mom. That’s where they belonged. They often ran into Nastya — in the store, at the pharmacy, at the bus stop.
— “Natusha, forgive me! I was wrong!” Grigory pleaded with puppy eyes.
And the mother-in-law, seeing Nastya, would grab her phone and theatrically start:
— “Can you imagine, so ungrateful! We gave her our soul, and she!…”
Nastya walked past. Without stopping. Without pity.
She knew for sure — she had gotten rid of parasites. Let them whisper, discuss, play the offended. She cleaned out what had long since stunk in her life.
And for the first time in a long time, she breathed easily.