Victoria woke up at half past six—as always, without an alarm or delays. Outside the window, a gray strip of dawn was barely visible, and the house already demanded attention. The coffee maker started as usual, filling the kitchen with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The woman mechanically took out three cups: for herself, her husband, and her mother-in-law.
Artem didn’t wake up until eleven. Valentina Petrovna arrived at breakfast with her characteristic look of displeasure.
“Porridge again?” she grumbled, sitting down at the table. “Back in the day, housewives knew how to set a proper table. Pancakes, syrniki, pies…”
Victoria silently stirred the porridge, listening to another remark. Her mother-in-law had moved in with them six months ago—supposedly temporarily. She sold her apartment, went on a trip with friends, and upon returning, settled in the newlyweds’ living room. The apartment belonged to Artem from his grandfather, but Victoria bore the full responsibility for its upkeep.
“Mom, good morning,” Artem appeared yawning in a rumpled T-shirt.
“Son!” Valentina Petrovna immediately perked up. “Come, I’ll pour you some porridge. Vika, make your husband a stronger coffee.”
Victoria poured the drink and set it in front of Artem. He didn’t even take his eyes off his phone screen.
“Are you going to work today?” she asked cautiously.
“Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after,” he replied, scrolling through his feed. “No decent offers. Just nonsense.”
Six months ago, he quit his manager position, claiming the boss was a tyrant and the team was poison. He promised to find a better job within a month. That month stretched to two, then three… Now Artem spent time on the couch playing games or watching videos.
“The money is almost gone,” Victoria said quietly.
“But you work,” he shrugged. “You have a salary.”
“Part-time. Barely enough for the essentials.”
“We’ll get through this. I’ll find something good soon.”
Valentina Petrovna nodded approvingly:
“That’s right, son. Don’t accept the first job that comes along. You’re educated, smart. Something suitable will come.”
Victoria finished her coffee and cleared the dishes from the table. Dirty plates from the previous evening still stood in the sink—no one had bothered to clean up after dinner, as usual. She turned on the water and began washing.
“By the way,” added her mother-in-law, “yesterday’s borscht was sour. Probably the sour cream was spoiled.”
“The sour cream was fresh,” Victoria quietly objected.
“Well, my stomach rebelled all night. Be more careful with groceries next time.”
Working at the library gave Victoria four hours of peace each day. There was silence, books, friendly readers. The salary was small but at least steady. On her way home, she stopped at the store to buy what was needed for dinner.
At home, the scene was unchanged: Artem buried in his game, and Valentina Petrovna commenting on the news from the couch.
“Son must be hungry,” the mother-in-law remarked as Victoria entered with bags. “You didn’t cook lunch—you were at work.”
Victoria unpacked the groceries: meat, potatoes, vegetables for salad—a standard family dinner set.
“Maybe make cutlets?” Valentina Petrovna suggested. “Artem loves them. And change the salad—it’s getting boring.”
“What salad do you prefer?” Victoria asked.
“I don’t know, something tastier. You’re the housekeeper—you decide.”
She started cooking. Chopped meat and onions, mixed the filling, put the pan on the stove. Valentina Petrovna occasionally peeked in, giving instructions.
“Turn down the heat—it’ll burn. Add more salt, they’ll be bland.”
“Salt it yourself if you don’t like it,” Victoria snapped shortly.
“You have to cook right from the start, not fix it later.”
They ate in the living room as usual, in front of the TV. Artem took his plate and sat on the couch without taking his eyes off the screen.
“Not bad,” approved Valentina Petrovna. “Just the meat is a bit tough. Better stew it next time.”
Victoria silently finished her portion. After dinner, she cleared the table and washed the dishes. Her husband and mother-in-law stayed to watch a series.
“Vik, put the tea on,” Artem shouted. “And bring some cookies.”
She brewed tea, put it on a tray, and set it beside them.
“Thank you,” said Valentina Petrovna. “Where’s the jam? It goes well with tea.”
“There isn’t any.”
“What? Why didn’t you buy it? Or honey?”
“I didn’t get around to it.”
“The housekeeper should think ahead. How will you feed the family if you don’t provide the basics?”
Victoria sat down in an armchair and took a book. It was hard to read—the TV blared nonstop. There were no quiet places in the house: the living room belonged to her mother-in-law, the kitchen was only two meters, and the bedroom was shared.
“By the way, pay the internet bill tomorrow,” Artem remembered. “And the utilities too. The bills have come.”
Victoria always handled the bills—electricity, water, gas, phone. Logically so, since Artem “worked,” in his words. He was just “searching.”
He never applied for unemployment benefits: he forgot documents, then the line was too long, then he stopped talking about it altogether. Six months passed—no money from the state.
“I have an interview tomorrow,” he announced in the evening.
“Where?” Victoria perked up a little.
“At a trading company. For a sales manager position.”
“That’s good. What are they offering?”
“I haven’t checked yet. First I’ll pass the interview, then I’ll find out the conditions.”
Her mother-in-law supported her son:
“That’s right. First let them assess you, then choose. You’re an important person. Let the employer compete for you.”
The next day Artem got up earlier than usual and put on a suit. Victoria ironed his shirt and prepared breakfast. He left around ten, in a cheerful mood.
He returned at three, his face drawn with disappointment.
“How did it go?”
“Complete nonsense. The salary is a joke, the schedule is killer, the demands are excessive.”
“How much do they pay?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s not for me.”
He took off his suit, put on a home T-shirt, flopped on the couch, and picked up the joystick again. Work would wait as usual.
That evening, a conversation took place that Victoria remembered for a long time. After dinner, she cleared the dishes and sat down at her laptop to check mail.
“Maybe you should find some temporary side job?” she asked her husband. “At least something for now while you look for the main one.”
Artem looked away from the screen.
“Why a temporary one? It’ll just distract from the real search.”
“But we need money. I can’t manage alone.”
“Don’t exaggerate. We live fine.”
“I’m tired. I work, clean, cook, pay for everything. And you lie around and play.”
“I’m not lying around. I’m looking for a job.”
“One interview a week—is that looking?”
Valentina Petrovna turned away from the series and glanced at her daughter-in-law:
“Victoria, you’re too much. My son is not lazy. There’s a crisis now. Not everyone can find work.”
“And seven months—is that a crisis?”
“Do you think it’s easy? You got married—you have to endure. Family isn’t just flowers.”
Victoria fell silent. The conversation was stuck—they saw reality differently. For them, everything was fine. For her, it was gradual exhaustion.
Several days passed. One morning, Victoria woke up feeling she couldn’t go on anymore. She looked up at the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster. Got up and got ready for work.
The library was quiet and cozy; no one asked for tea or criticized the sour cream. She suddenly realized those four hours were the only time she felt like herself, not a servant.
She didn’t want to go home. She stopped at a cafe, ordered coffee, and sat by the window. Watched passersby, remembered getting married three years ago. Then Artem worked, cared, dreamed. Her mother-in-law lived separately and came only for holidays.
Changes began gradually. Her husband grew colder, started going out with friends more often. Then frequent visits from his mother, then permanent presence. Criticism of food, clothes, and order. Selling the apartment and moving in was the point of no return. Now Valentina Petrovna ruled the living room, and Victoria the kitchen.
Artem’s firing was the final chord. He stopped searching, leaving everything to her. And the mother-in-law fully approved of this arrangement.
Victoria finished her coffee and went outside. It was getting dark; it was time to go home. But her feet wouldn’t move. She didn’t want to return to the place with dirty dishes, criticism, and the constant feeling that she was unnecessary.
At home, as expected, the usual scene greeted her: Artem with the joystick, mother-in-law knitting.
“Where have you been so long?” asked Valentina Petrovna. “We were waiting. Artem’s hungry.”
“I was late at work.”
“You’re often late. The library closes at five.”
Without a word, Victoria went to the kitchen and started cooking. Chopped vegetables, put water on for pasta.
“Pasta again?” Valentina Petrovna looked in. “Third time this week. Son needs a full diet.”
“What will you eat?”
“I don’t know, come up with something,” her mother-in-law crossed her arms. “The housekeeper should plan the menu, not serve the same thing all the time.”
Victoria silently kept chopping vegetables. The knife tapped evenly on the cutting board, turning tomatoes and cucumbers into neat cubes. These motions calmed her—they were mechanical, almost meditative.
At dinner, Valentina Petrovna was especially talkative.
“I spoke with Tamara Ivanovna, the neighbor, today. She says their daughter-in-law is a real treasure! Cooks perfectly, cleans every day, and gives all the money to the family. Doesn’t buy herself anything extra.”
Artem nodded without looking up from his plate.
“She’s doing the right thing. Family is more important than personal whims.”
“Exactly,” her mother added. “And some wives only think about themselves: new dresses, cosmetics… while husband and children settle for leftovers.”
Victoria looked up.
“What do I spend on? Clothes or cosmetics?”
“Well, I don’t know… Just saying how it should be.”
“And what should a husband do? Work or lie on the couch?”
Her mother-in-law tensed, knitting her brows.
“My son is looking for a suitable place. He won’t grab the first job like some do.”
“Seven months he’s been looking?”
“There’s a lot to find. A good position isn’t found quickly.”
“Then maybe take a temporary one while you look for the main one.”
“Why? We have your income.”
“That’s my income. And family is a joint responsibility.”
“What are you saying?” Valentina Petrovna raised her voice. “Family is a whole; whoever can, provides.”
“Then let Artem go to work.”
“He works—he looks. When he finds, everything will change.”
“And meanwhile, I’m doing everything alone?”
“You work, we live. What else is needed?”
Victoria put down her fork and looked carefully at her mother-in-law:
“So my role is to support you?”
“You’re married to my son. That means you have corresponding duties.”
Artem finally looked up from his phone:
“Mom is right. It’s hard for men to find a decent job now. And women find it easier.”
“Part-time at the library?”
“So what? There’s a salary. We manage.”
“I don’t.”
“For what don’t you have enough?” he was surprised. “We live.”
“Yes, we live. But I pay for everything.”
She stood up from the table, started clearing dishes. Her hands trembled from accumulated tension.
“Victoria, what’s wrong with you?” Valentina Petrovna spoke again. “You’ve become so irritable. Maybe you should see a doctor?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You cause scandals without reason.”
“I’m not causing scandals. I’m just tired of doing everything alone.”
“How alone? We’re a family!”
“Yes, a family. But only I work. I pay the bills, cook, clean, keep order. And you just use it.”
Her mother-in-law stepped closer and looked her in the eyes.
“You married my son. That means you should support him. He’s worried about work—and you upset him even more.”
“And who supports me?”
“We do. Home, family, relatives.”
“I pay the roof over my head.”
“Don’t be mercenary. That’s not what matters in a family.”
“If it doesn’t matter, why am I the only one earning?”
“Because you have a job and Artem doesn’t yet.”
“Maybe look harder?”
Valentina Petrovna turned to her son:
“Son, do you hear what your wife is saying?”
He finally got up from the couch and came to the women.
“Vik, what’s wrong with you? You used to be understanding.”
“You used to work.”
“I worked and will again. I’m just choosing now.”
“Seven months choosing?”
“You think I should jump at the first job just to get paid?”
“Yes, just to get paid. To feed the family.”
“You want me to become a janitor or a loader?”
“Even a loader, but to take responsibility.”
“I am. I’m looking for a good place to provide for everyone.”
“When will you find it?”
“Soon.”
“You’ve been saying that for seven months.”
Her mother-in-law intervened again:
“Stop pressuring your son. You see, he’s worried. And you upset him even more.”
“I ask him to take responsibility.”
“He does. He’s just looking for a decent place.”
“Responsibility is not looking. It’s working. Not living at my expense.”
“And what are you doing?” Valentina Petrovna asked. “Also supporting the family?”
“Yes, I do. And my husband lies on the couch.”
“He’s not lying—he’s resting and looking for a job. Men need rest.”
Victoria looked at her husband, then at her mother-in-law. She understood—the conversation was pointless. They lived in their own world, where everything was fine if there was food on the table and bills were paid.
“Alright,” she said shortly. “We talked.”
She went to the bedroom and closed the door. Sat on the bed, looked out the window. Outside, lanterns were lit, cars passed by. People were returning home to their families. Maybe even happy to see them.
She wanted to disappear anywhere.
The next day, something happened that became the last straw.
Victoria came home from work, stopped at the store, bought groceries. At home, she cooked dinner and set the table. Everything as usual.
“The salad is tasteless,” Valentina Petrovna immediately declared, taking the first bite. “Not enough salt, or maybe not enough pepper.”
“Salt it yourselves,” Victoria replied.
“No, the housekeeper should cook properly from the start, not fix later.”
“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“And the meat’s tough. Probably undercooked.”
“I stewed it for half an hour.”
“Not enough. At least an hour is needed to make it tender.”
Artem silently chewed, nodding at his mother. Occasionally glanced at his phone.
“And anyway,” Valentina Petrovna added, “you didn’t make the bed properly today. The sheet is all wrinkled.”
“Sorry, I didn’t notice.”
“You need to be more attentive. The housekeeper must watch over everything.”
“I’ll try.”
“And there was dust on the nightstand. I asked you to wipe it yesterday.”
“I wiped it.”
“No, not wiped properly.”
Victoria finished eating, gathered the plates, took them to the kitchen. Out of habit, she began washing the dishes, though she already felt drained.
“By the way,” her mother-in-law unexpectedly added when Victoria returned, “what would you do without my son? You’d be lost alone.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s a husband—a family. Without that, what? Loneliness.”
“What’s wrong with being alone?”
“Everything. A woman without a family is like a tree without roots. Who will she strive for, who will she live for?”
“You can live for yourself.”
Valentina Petrovna laughed:
“For yourself? That’s selfishness. A woman should live for her family, bear children.”
“And what if the family doesn’t appreciate the efforts?”
“We do. Artem loves you; I consider you like my own.”
“Then why do you constantly criticize?”
“We don’t criticize; we help you become better. Without criticism, you won’t grow.”
Artem looked up:
“Mom’s right. Criticism is care.”
“Got it.”
Victoria went to the bedroom and sat at the laptop. She wanted to distract herself, but her thoughts would not let her rest.
Half an hour later, there was a crash in the kitchen. Victoria ran out—there were shards of a plate on the floor. Valentina Petrovna stood nearby, holding a towel.
“It slipped,” she said. “Was washing dishes, and suddenly—clap—and that’s it.”
“It’s okay, I’ll clean it up,” Victoria replied.
“But the plate was a good one from the set.”
“I’ll buy a new one.”
“Next time, better wash the dishes yourself, so they don’t slip.”
“Okay.”
“Also, get a different detergent. This one clearly doesn’t remove grease.”
“I will.”
“Son, explain to your wife how to wash dishes properly,” the mother-in-law turned to Artem, who had just come in.
“Vik, be careful,” the husband said. “Dishes aren’t rubber.”
“Your mother broke it, and I should be careful?”
“So what? She could have warned that the dishes are slippery.”
“How could she warn if I didn’t know someone would be washing?”
“You should have guessed. The housekeeper must think of everything.”
Victoria collected the shards, threw them in the trash, and washed her hands.
“Alright, don’t be upset. I’ll buy a new plate.”
“That’s not the main thing,” Valentina Petrovna looked sternly at her daughter-in-law. “The main thing is that this doesn’t happen again.”
“I’ll try.”
She returned to the bedroom and lay down on the bed. The incident seemed small, but something inside clicked. The broken plate became a symbol of everything happening. A stranger broke it—and she was to blame again. Because she didn’t wipe, didn’t warn, didn’t think.
Everything around was built like this: Artem doesn’t work—wife is to blame. Mother-in-law is displeased—housekeeper is to blame. Money ran out—salary is to blame.
And suddenly a simple, clear thought came:
What if I just leave?
Pack my things, give up the apartment, take my documents—and go away. Lonely, but free. Cook what I want. Mop floors when I want. Work not for someone, but for myself.
Victoria sat on the bed. Why hadn’t this thought come earlier? After all, no one held her by force. No one threatened her. She simply allowed them