Zhanna smoothed her hair and looked at Max’s parents’ house. The two-story brick mansion had always seemed too big for two elderly people.
“Well, ready?” Max pulled the bags from the trunk.
“Of course,” she smiled. Fifteen years of marriage had taught her how to hide awkwardness.
The door was opened by Irina Vasilievna. Made up, in a new housecoat.
“Oh, you’re here. Maksimka, son!” She hugged her son and pecked his cheek. She shot Zhanna a brief glance. “Hello, Zhanna.”
“Hello,” Zhanna held out a box of chocolates.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have. Your father’s diabetes is getting worse.”
Max said nothing. As always.
In the living room sat Pyotr Semyonovich, watching the news. He nodded to them and turned back to the TV.
“Dinner in an hour,” the mother-in-law announced. “Maksim, help me in the kitchen. Zhanna, you rest.”
Rest. As if she were an invalid.
Zhanna went to the guest room. She put her things in the closet and sat on the bed. Through the wall she could hear Max and his mother talking. About work, the neighbors, health.
Why did they come here every month? For appearances’ sake? Or did Max truly miss his parents?
“Zhannochka, come eat!” Irina Vasilievna called.
On the table—chicken, potatoes, salad. Same as always.
“Max said you spent your vacation in Turkey again,” the mother-in-law began. “When we were your age, we went to the dacha. We helped the country.”
“Times are different now,” Zhanna replied.
“Oh, they’re different, all right. Back then family mattered more than entertainment.”
Zhanna felt her fists clench. Max chewed his chicken and kept quiet.
“And when are you having children?” Pyotr Semyonovich looked up from his plate. “The years are ticking by.”
“Dad, we’ve talked about this,” Max muttered.
“Talked and talked. And what came of it?”
Zhanna stood up from the table.
“Excuse me, I have a headache. I’ll turn in early.”
In the room she shut the door and sat on the bed. Her hands were trembling. Every time the same thing. Hints, reproaches, disapproving looks.
Max came in half an hour later.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. Just tired.”
“They don’t mean any harm. They worry about us.”
Worry. Zhanna lay down and turned to the wall.
“Good night.”
Max undressed, lay down next to her, and a few minutes later began to snore.
Zhanna lay there thinking. About how tomorrow there’d be snide comments over breakfast again. About how Max would once more pretend not to notice anything.
Fifteen years. Was this how it would be forever?
Zhanna woke at three in the morning. Her mouth was dry, her head buzzing. Next to her, Max was snoring, sprawled across the whole bed.
She got up, threw on a robe, and went to the kitchen for water. A night-light glowed in the hall; the floorboards creaked underfoot.
She stopped by the kitchen. Voices were coming from inside—her father-in-law and mother-in-law.
“…putting up with that barren cow,” hissed Irina Vasilievna. “Fifteen years! No kids, no use.”
“Quiet, someone will hear,” grunted Pyotr Semyonovich.
“Let her hear! Maybe she’ll finally feel shame. Maksimka could have any woman. Handsome, well-off.”
Zhanna pressed herself to the wall. Her heart pounded so loudly it seemed the whole house could hear.
“So what do you suggest?”
“Talk to him tomorrow. A serious talk. A man needs to understand—time isn’t made of rubber. At forty-three you can still start a normal family.”
“And their apartment? The car?”
“The apartment is in Maksim’s name; we gave the money for the down payment. The car is his too. She’ll only get what she earned herself.”
Irina Vasilievna let out a nasty laugh.
“And that’s peanuts. A damned librarian.”
“You think he’ll agree?”
“Of course he will. I’m his mother; I know how to talk to him. The main thing is to frame it right. Like, you’re unhappy, son, suffering with that… what’s her name…”
“Zhanna.”
“Right, that one. Time to get rid of the dead weight!”
Zhanna stood there, unable to believe it. Dead weight. Fifteen years, and she was dead weight.
“And if he refuses?”
“He won’t. Maksim has always listened to me. He will now too.”
Bags rustled in the kitchen; dishes clattered.
“All right, time for bed. Big day tomorrow.”
Zhanna hurried to the bathroom, locked the door. She sat on the toilet lid and covered her face with her hands.
Dead weight. A barren cow.
For fifteen years she had tried. Cooked for holidays, gave gifts, endured hints and reproaches. And they were planning to dispose of her like old furniture.
And Max would obey. Of course he would. When had he ever disobeyed his mother?
Zhanna went back to the room. Max was still snoring. She lay down, pulled the blanket over herself, and waited for morning.
At seven she got up, got dressed, and packed her things. Max woke from the rustling.
“Zhan, why so early?”
“I’m going home.”
“How home? We were going to stay till evening.”
“I want to go home. Now.”
Max sat up on the bed, rubbed his eyes.
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I just want to go home.”
“And my parents? They’ll be upset.”
Your parents. Zhanna picked up her bag.
“Tell them I said hello. Say I had a headache.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No. Stay. Spend time with your parents.”
She left the room. In the hall she put on her jacket and took out her phone. She called a taxi.
“Zhannochka, where are you going?” Irina Vasilievna poked her head out of the kitchen. “Breakfast is ready.”
“I’m going home. Thank you for the hospitality.”
“But why so early?”
Zhanna looked at her closely. Painted lips, surprised eyes, a caring tone.
“I have things to do at home.”
The taxi arrived ten minutes later. Zhanna got into the back seat and closed her eyes.
The dead weight is disposing of you on its own.
At home, Zhanna brewed strong tea and sat at the kitchen table. The apartment felt unusually quiet. Usually they returned in the evening, tired, had dinner, and went straight to bed.
But now it was Saturday, eleven in the morning, and she was alone.
The phone rang. Max.
“Zhan, did you get home okay?”
“I did.”
“What’s going on? Mom says you were acting weird.”
Weird. Zhanna smirked.
“Everything’s fine. How are your parents?”
“They’re fine… Listen, I’ll come over tonight. We’ll talk.”
“All right.”
She hung up and looked around. Their apartment. They’d chosen the wallpaper together, bought the furniture together. Only the down payment had come from Max’s parents. So by their logic, the apartment wasn’t hers.
Zhanna stood up, went to the closet, and took out a folder with documents. Marriage certificate, apartment papers. Everything registered to both of them.
Another lie from the old hag.
On Monday she took a day off and went to a lawyer. A young woman of about thirty, in jeans and a sweater.
“Want to file for divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Any children?”
“No.”
“Do you anticipate property disputes?”
Zhanna thought.
“Possibly.”
“Then it will have to go through court. We’ll submit a petition; you’ll be summoned for a hearing. If your husband doesn’t agree, there will be several hearings.”
“And if he agrees?”
“It’ll go faster. A month and a half to two months and that’s it.”
Zhanna filled out the forms and paid the state fee. A strange feeling—as if she had dropped a heavy backpack.
That evening Max came at eight. Tired, annoyed.
“What a day… Mom’s been nagging me nonstop. Says you yelled at her.”
“I didn’t yell.”
“Then what? Why did you take off like that?”
Zhanna set a bowl of borscht in front of him.
“Max, do you love me?”
He choked.
“What’s with the questions?”
“I’m just curious. Do you love me?”
“Of course I do. Fifteen years together.”
“That’s not an answer. You can live fifteen years out of habit.”
Max set down the spoon.
“Zhan, what is going on? For two days you’ve been… different.”
“Answer the question.”
“Well… I love you. So what?”
“What will you say if your parents suggest we get divorced?”
Max’s face changed. He lowered his eyes.
“That’s nonsense. Why would they?”
“And if they do?”
“They won’t.”
“Max, I’m asking—what will YOU say?”
A long pause. Max crumpled the napkin in his hands.
“Zhan, why talk like this? We’re fine.”
“‘Fine’ isn’t an answer.”
“I don’t know!” He pushed back from the table. “I’m tired of these questions. Two days ago everything was fine, and now… What happened?”
Zhanna stood as well.
“Nothing happened. I just realized something.”
“Realized what?”
“That I’ve been a fool for fifteen years.”
She went to the bedroom, took the folder with the documents from the closet, came back to the kitchen, and set the divorce petition on the table.
Max read it and went pale.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“On the contrary. For the first time in a long while I’m thinking clearly.”
“Because of what? Because of my mother? She didn’t mean anything by it!”
“I know. She didn’t mean anything by it. She just thinks I’m dead weight.”
Max froze.
“How did you—”
“I overheard your family strategy meeting. At night. In the kitchen.”
“Zhan, it’s not what you think…”
“What is it then?”
He was silent. He turned the petition in his hands and said nothing.
“Say something,” Zhanna sat down opposite him.
Max put the petition on the table.
“Mom really did talk about… kids. That there isn’t much time.”
“And did she also talk about dead weight?”
“Zhan, she’s old. She says stupid things sometimes.”
“And what did you say?”
Max rubbed his forehead.
“I… didn’t say anything.”
“Exactly. As always.”
Zhanna stood and poured herself tea. Her hands weren’t shaking. Strange—she had expected hysterics, tears. Instead there was calm.
“For fifteen years I waited for you to finally put them in their place,” she said. “For you to tell your mother I’m your wife, not a temporary lodger.”
“They’re used to being in charge…”
“And you’re used to obeying. And you made me obey.”
Max sprang up.
“I didn’t make anyone obey! I just don’t like conflict.”
“Conflict?” Zhanna laughed. “It’s called defending your wife. But you preferred that I just endure.”
“So what do we do now? You can’t change the past.”
“Nothing needs doing. It’s already done.”
Max grabbed the petition.
“I won’t sign this!”
“You don’t have to. The court will grant the divorce.”
“Zhan, come to your senses! Where will you go? What will you do?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll do it without the three of you.”
He paced the kitchen, waving his arms.
“This is insane! To destroy a family over a silly old woman’s words!”
“Family?” Zhanna set down her cup. “What family, Max? Where do you see a family?”
“Well, we… we live together…”
“We live. Like roommates in a communal flat. You work, I work. We see each other in the evenings and watch TV. On weekends we go to your parents’, where I pretend to be grateful that they tolerate me.”
Max sat down.
“And what’s wrong with that? It’s a normal life.”
“Normal for you. I’m tired of being nobody.”
The phone rang. Irina Vasilievna.
“Don’t pick up,” Max begged.
Zhanna answered.
“Hello.”
“Zhannochka, dear! Is Maksimka home? I wanted to see how things are.”
“Things are fine. I’m divorcing your son.”
Silence. Then:
“What? What are you saying?”
“What you wanted to hear. I’m getting rid of myself for you.”
“Zhanna, I don’t understand…”
“You will. Say hi to Pyotr Semyonovich.”
She hung up. Max stared at her in horror.
“Why did you tell her?”
“Why hide it? Let her be happy.”
Half an hour later, Irina Vasilievna rushed in. She burst into the apartment without knocking.
“What is going on? Maksim, explain this instant!”
“Mom, not now…”
“Zhanna!” She turned to her daughter-in-law. “What are you up to? Have you lost your mind?”
Zhanna sat calmly at the table.
“On the contrary. I’ve come to my senses.”
“Over what? Did Maksim mistreat you?”
“Maksim ignored me. And you were planning to get rid of me.”
Irina Vasilievna flushed.
“Who told you that?”
“You did. Last night. In the kitchen.”
“You were eavesdropping?”
“I wanted a drink of water. And I heard you calling me dead weight.”
The old woman glanced between them.
“Zhannochka, you misunderstood. I worry about Maksim—he’s unhappy…”
“Mom, that’s enough,” Max suddenly said.
She blinked.
“What do you mean, enough?”
“Enough lying. Yes, you wanted us to divorce. And yes, I listened and kept quiet. Like always.”
“Maksim!”
“And now Zhanna has decided for herself. And she did the right thing.”
Zhanna looked at her husband in surprise. For the first time in fifteen years he had told his mother the truth.
“But it’s too late,” she added.
Max nodded.
“I understand.”
Irina Vasilievna darted between them.
“You’re both crazy! Zhanna, I apologize if I said something wrong!”
“Thank you. But the decision is made.”
A month later the court finalized the divorce. The apartment was split in half; Zhanna sold her share to Max. The money was enough for a studio in another neighborhood.
The new apartment was small but bright. Zhanna put flowers on the windowsill and hung her pictures.
For the first time in many years she did what she wanted. She watched the films she liked. Ate when she wanted. No one criticized her choices.
Maxim called during the first weeks. He asked her to come back, promised to talk to his parents. Zhanna answered politely and briefly. Then the calls stopped.
Her friends were surprised: how could she leave a well-off husband? Zhanna’s explanation was simple—turns out money doesn’t replace respect.
At forty-one she started a new life. Without the mute father-in-law, without the snide mother-in-law, without the wishy-washy husband.
Hard? Yes. Lonely? Sometimes.
But for the first time in many years, Zhanna wasn’t dead weight—she was simply herself. And that was worth any difficulty.