— Mom, I’m trying to explain, — Anton’s voice was pleading, but with clear notes of irritation he could barely conceal. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, the phone pressed to his ear, his back tense like a drawn string. — It’s Veronika’s sister’s birthday. A milestone one. They planned everything in advance, booked a restaurant. We can’t just cancel it all.
Veronika silently wiped the already spotless kitchen table, her movements slow and measured. She didn’t look at her husband, but her whole being was tuned to his voice. She knew that tone well — the tone of a guilty schoolboy trying to justify himself before a strict principal. The principal’s name was Tamara Igorevna.
— Yes, I understand the potatoes need digging! — Anton paced across the kitchen as if trying to escape the invisible pressure radiating from the receiver. — I’m not refusing. I’ll come. Alone. I’ll help, we’ll do everything. Why can’t she come? Because it’s her sister, Mom!
He fell silent, listening. Veronika froze, rag in hand. She saw the muscles in his jaw tighten, his face slowly draining of color. The conversation wasn’t going the way he’d hoped. He’d expected nagging, reproaches — but this was something else. He instinctively moved the phone slightly away, and his mother’s piercing metallic voice became audible even at that distance.
— I don’t care what plans your wife has for the weekend, sonny! Both of you will be at the dacha Saturday at six sharp! If she doesn’t come, I’ll come get her myself and drag her there by the hair!
The words landed like a verdict. A short, hollow pause, then the flat tone of a disconnected call. Tamara Igorevna had hung up.
Anton slowly lowered his hand. His face had gone gray, like a dirty pillowcase. He didn’t slam the phone down in anger, didn’t curse. He placed it carefully, almost tenderly, on the counter, as if it were not a piece of plastic but a venomous insect that might bite. He froze, staring at a single spot on the wall, unwilling to look at his wife. He knew she’d heard everything.
The rag slipped soundlessly from Veronika’s hand to the floor. She didn’t notice. She stood motionless, her mother-in-law’s last words echoing in her head. It wasn’t the threat itself that shocked her. It was the casualness, the utter confidence in her own right to say it. As if she weren’t talking about a grown, independent woman, but a stubborn goat to be forced into a pen.
She slowly raised her eyes to her husband. He still wouldn’t look at her. He was studying the wallpaper pattern with desperate focus, as if trying to decipher the universe’s greatest mystery in it. And in that moment, Veronika felt something inside her click and stop. The tension vanished, the budding resentment dissolved. In their place came cold. Sharp, crystalline cold of realization.
She was not looking at her husband Anton, protector, head of their little family. She was looking at little Tosha, a frightened boy just scolded by his all-powerful mother. He wasn’t outraged. He was afraid. Afraid of her anger, her threats, her authority. And that fear outweighed any sense of duty or respect toward his wife. He stood in their kitchen, pitiful, lost, and his entire figure was a silent plea not to her, but to the void: “Please, don’t let there be a scene.”
Anton finally tore his gaze from the wall and looked at his wife. He tried to muster a reassuring smile, but his facial muscles betrayed him, leaving only a crooked, pitiful grimace. He took a step toward her, hand half-extended to touch her shoulder, but stopped mid-gesture when he met her eyes.
Veronika’s gaze was calm. Terrifyingly calm. It held no offense, no anger, not even surprise. It was the gaze of a pathologist examining a lifeless body — cold, precise, utterly detached. She looked right through him, and he felt transparent, as though every fear, every cowardice, every weakness was laid bare under the glaring light of an operating lamp.
— Veronika… — he began, his own voice sounding foreign to him. — You know what she’s like. Just words. She’d never actually do that. She just has a temper. She yells and then cools down.
He kept talking, feeling himself sinking deeper with each word. Babbling nonsense, trying to plaster over the ugly truth that had spilled out of the phone. He expected her to explode, to shout, accuse, so he could respond, escalate it into a normal marital quarrel, something they could scream through and patch up later. But she was silent. Her silence was heavier than any scream.
— What did she say, Anton? — Veronika asked. Her voice was even, almost without intonation. Not a demand, but a requirement. Forcing him to put the humiliation into words, to admit it aloud.
— She… she just really wants us to come, — he dodged again, cold sweat trickling down his back. — You know, it’s hard for her alone. The potatoes, all that… Let’s just go? One day. What’s the harm? We’ll do our duty and that’s it. Why cause a scene? Do you want her nagging us for a month after?
And at that word “scene”, something shifted in her face. Subtly, the corners of her lips twitched into a smile stripped of all mirth. She stepped back, distancing herself as if he’d suddenly become infected with something repulsive.
— A scene? — she repeated, softly but with deadly clarity. — There will be no scene, Anton. Here’s what there will be.
She straightened, steel entering her posture. The cold observer vanished, replaced by another woman — decisive, unfamiliar.
— On Saturday, as I planned, I’m going to my sister’s birthday. And you, — she paused, hammering each word like a nail, — are going to your dacha. Alone. You can dig potatoes, paint fences, or listen to what a worthless wife you have. That’s your choice. And tell your mother that if she comes even a meter near my house with the intent of carrying out her threat, I’ll forget she’s an old woman. And that’s not a threat. That’s just information.
She spoke, and Anton stared at her, unrecognizing. Where was his gentle, understanding Veronika? Before him stood a stranger with eyes of frozen steel.
— As for you, Anton, — she finished, her final look crushing him — we are done.
She didn’t wait for a reply. She simply turned, walked past him, and disappeared into the bedroom. The door didn’t slam. It closed softly, with the quiet click of the lock that sounded louder to Anton than a funeral bell. He was left standing alone in the kitchen, in deafening silence, realizing with stark clarity that in his attempt to avoid one scene, he had orchestrated the collapse of his entire life.
The night passed in suffocating silence, worse than any shouting. Anton didn’t sleep. He approached the bedroom door several times, listened, but only silence came from within. He hoped by morning Veronika would cool off, realize the absurdity of her ultimatum, and they could return to the old script: he apologizes, she sighs, and they go together to placate his mother. But morning brought no relief.
He dressed in oppressive silence. Old jeans, a work jacket. Veronika emerged from the bedroom as he was lacing his shoes. She was fresh, well-rested, in a simple robe. Her face bore no trace of last night’s drama. She walked to the kitchen, switched on the coffee machine, without even glancing at him. Her indifference frightened him more than any quarrel.
— Veronika, maybe you could still… — he began, his voice breaking.
She turned. Her gaze was as cold and clear as the morning air outside. She said nothing, only looked at him, and in that look he read his final sentence. He was no longer her husband. Just a man who, for some reason, was still in her apartment. Realizing further pleas would only humiliate him more, he quietly took his backpack, turned, and left.
Left alone, Veronika didn’t drink the coffee. She stood for a moment, then went decisively to the bedroom. Her movements were precise, deliberate. She opened the wardrobe and chose not an ordinary dress, but her favorite one — the summer-sky blue that matched her eyes. She showered, styled her hair, did her makeup. This wasn’t just getting ready for a party. This was ritual. A farewell to the woman she had been yesterday, and a declaration of who she was today. Calm had become her armor.
The sharp, insistent doorbell rang as she fastened a slim silver bracelet on her wrist. She didn’t flinch. She had expected it. With the same composed grace, she walked to the door and looked through the peephole. On the landing stood Tamara Igorevna.
Veronika took a deep breath and opened the door.
Her mother-in-law stood there not as a guest, but as a force of nature, arriving right on schedule. Dressed in a practical jacket and dark trousers, ready for country chores, she glared at her well-dressed, perfumed daughter-in-law with undisguised contempt.
— I knew it, — she hissed, without greeting. Her gaze drilled into Veronika. — Decided to play circus here? Get ready. The car’s downstairs. Anton’s waiting.
— Good morning, Tamara Igorevna, — Veronika said evenly, blocking the entrance with her body. — I’m not going anywhere. I’ve already told Anton my plans.
— I don’t care what you told that weakling! — her mother-in-law’s voice rang with steel. — I told you you’re coming. So you’re coming. Don’t make me repeat myself.
She stepped forward, intent on pushing Veronika aside. But Veronika didn’t move. She braced her palm against the doorframe, a calm but absolute barrier.
— You will not enter my home, — she said softly, but with iron in her tone to match her mother-in-law’s. — And I will not go with you.
Tamara Igorevna froze, stunned by such defiance. She was used to a daughter-in-law who lowered her eyes, kept quiet, obeyed. Now she faced an enemy.
— You… — she spat, her face contorting with rage. She lunged closer, her hand clamping onto Veronika’s silk-covered arm. — Don’t force me, you wretch! I’ll drag you out by your hair, just like I promised!
But Veronika didn’t flinch. She lowered her gaze to the hand gripping her, then calmly lifted her eyes again. No fear, only granite resolve. With her free hand, she clasped her mother-in-law’s wrist and, with unexpected strength, began to pry her fingers loose.
Her thin, manicured fingers pressed with cold precision, like prying open a steel trap. For a moment, Tamara Igorevna was stunned — not fearful, but deeply shocked. This quiet, submissive girl she’d always scorned dared to resist her physically. In her world, that was impossible. She drew in a breath for another poisonous tirade, but just then hurried, uneven footsteps sounded from the landing.
The elevator doors slid open, and Anton stumbled out, panting, sweat-soaked. He was no hero rushing to save the day, but a courier delivered on demand. His eyes darted from his wife’s icy face to his mother’s furious one, to their locked hands. He saw everything. And in that decisive second, when he needed to be a man, he remained a boy.
— Mom, Veronika, please, let’s not… — he stammered, taking a hesitant step forward.
His pitiful mumble was the trigger. Both women released each other and turned to him. Two storms converging on a single target.
Veronika spoke first. Her voice was calm, but it rang with scornful steel.
— You came to watch? Then watch. Here’s your mother. And here’s your ex-wife. You made your choice yesterday, when you mumbled “yes, Mommy” into the phone. I didn’t need you then, Anton, and I certainly don’t need you now. Leave. With her. Take her away from my doorstep and from my life.
He looked at her like she was a ghost. He wanted to speak, to explain, but the words clotted in his throat. He wouldn’t have been allowed anyway. His mother’s gaze, filled with pure, undiluted contempt, was now fixed on him. Her foe in Veronika had turned to stone, so all her fury now fell on the one who was soft as clay.
— Coward, — she spat at Anton, her voice low and hissing with hatred. — This is what I wasted my life on? For you to stand here, chewing your tongue, while your woman shows me the door? I came here for you, to put her in her place, and what do you do?
She seized his elbow with the same iron grip she’d used on Veronika.
— Out. I said out. Stop disgracing me.
She yanked him toward the elevator. Anton followed limply, like a puppet. His body moved, but his eyes stayed locked on Veronika, pleading for something — regret, sorrow, a hint of forgiveness. But her face was smooth and impenetrable as stone. She only watched as he was dragged away.
When the elevator doors closed, severing him from her forever, Veronika didn’t move. She stood a moment longer, inhaling the mixed scents of her expensive perfume and the acrid sweat left behind by the confrontation. Then she calmly, without trembling hands, shut the door. The click of the lock resounded in the empty apartment like a cannon shot. She leaned against the door, closed her eyes.
There had been no scene. There had been an execution. And she had just survived it. Her husband, it seemed, had not.