— That’s it! I’ve had enough!
The cheap plastic remote hit the laminate with a dull thud and bounced under the coffee table. The sound wasn’t dramatic—more pitiful, fitting the whole scene. Maxim sprawled on the couch, laced his fingers behind his head, and stared at the ceiling with the air of a martyr being led to righteous execution.
“You’ve nagged me to death! Work, home, work, home! I’m not living for this! I can’t do it anymore!”
Just then a key turned in the lock. The door opened slowly, with a creak, as if reluctantly letting the raw October evening into the apartment. Svetlana stopped on the threshold. She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe and closed her eyes for a second. It was as if fatigue were draining off her—not the pleasant tiredness after the gym, but a sticky, heavy weariness that had seeped into every cell of her body. Eight hours at the office, then another four at a coffee shop on the other side of the city, reeking of espresso and burnt milk, where she worked part-time as a barista so they could breathe a little easier.
Silently she took off her shoes and hung up her light jacket that still smelled of damp street air. She walked into the room. Maxim didn’t move. He was waiting for a reaction—tears, pleading, shouting—anything to confirm his importance and the weight of his suffering. But Svetlana just stood and looked at him. Her gaze held no emotion. She wasn’t looking at a beloved husband but at some object that had suddenly begun making odd, irritating noises. In front of her she saw a healthy thirty-year-old man who had spent the entire day on that couch and was now staging a tragedy of universal proportions.
“Hard labor…” she repeated the word he’d uttered a moment before she arrived. Her voice was quiet, even, without the slightest hint of hysteria. That calm made Maxim suddenly uneasy. He sat up on the couch, instinctively tucking his legs under him. The chill that ran down his spine felt very real.
“Oh, my poor, unhappy boy… Tired, are you?”
“Imagine that!”
“Had enough of everything? Yeah? Well, I’m not keeping you! Go live with your mother—she never made you do anything there, neither work nor help around the house! Go on, move out and live exactly as you please!”
She wasn’t mocking him. She stated the facts with the neutrality of a doctor delivering a diagnosis. Without turning her head, she went to the backpack thrown by the armchair and took out her phone. The screen lit her pale, drawn face. She didn’t search long. Her finger confidently tapped the contact “Galina Ivanovna,” then the speaker icon.
Long, languid rings buzzed from the speaker. Maxim stared at her, not understanding what was happening. This didn’t fit any of the quarrel scenarios he’d run through in his head. He opened his mouth to say something, to protest, but the line clicked and his mother’s brisk, slightly tinny voice filled the room.
“Hello! Svetochka? Has something happened?”
Svetlana smiled. It was a frightening smile because it didn’t touch her eyes at all.
“Good evening, Galina Ivanovna!” she said brightly, cheerfully. “No, no, everything’s wonderful! I have excellent news for you!”
Maxim sprang up from the couch. His face stretched in astonishment and rising horror.
“Sveta, what are you doing?” he hissed.
She raised her hand for silence and continued, without taking her eyes off him.
“Your son is homesick and coming back to you! Yes, yes, right now! Says he was happiest with you. No hard labor. Expect him! He’ll be there soon!”
She hit the end button. The click sounded like a gunshot in the ensuing silence. She set the phone on the dresser and turned to her stunned husband. Her face was calm, even serene, as if she had just shrugged off an unbearable load.
“Well then, little son? Mama’s waiting.”
Maxim froze in the middle of the room like a child whose toy had been snatched away and who had just been told Santa isn’t real—all at once. His brain struggled to process what had happened but couldn’t find the right file with instructions. First he let out a short, nervous chuckle. It was a defense, an attempt to trivialize the situation, to turn it into a silly, misplaced joke.
“Are you out of your mind? What is this circus?” He tried to make his voice ring with righteous indignation, but it didn’t really work. “Call her back right now and tell her you were joking!”
Svetlana ignored his words the way one ignores street noise. She didn’t even grant him a glance. Instead, she turned and walked silently into the bedroom. He heard the creak of the tall wardrobe door, then a rustle and a muffled thump. A few seconds later she returned holding an old, dusty sports bag made of faded nylon with the half-worn logo of some long-forgotten brand. The bag he’d once used when he moved in with her.
She tossed it onto the couch, the very spot where he had just been reclining, performing his universal grief. The sound of the zipper ripping open was sharp and final, like a bolt snapping back.
“What are you… what are you doing?” His voice quavered as the seriousness of her intent finally began to sink in.
Without answering, she went to the dresser and pulled out the top drawer. His drawer. With two fingers, carelessly, she pulled out a stack of T-shirts, several pairs of socks rolled into sloppy balls, and flung them into the open maw of the bag. Her movements were mechanical, free of anger or hurt. This was how you pack things to toss or donate. No emotion, just clearing space.
“Sveta, stop! I said stop this immediately!” He stepped toward her, trying to catch her hand.
She stopped and slowly turned her head. Her eyes were cold and empty, like a winter sky. There was nothing in them—no love, no hatred, no pity. It was the gaze of a complete stranger, and it stopped him better than any wall. He yanked his hand back as if burned.
“You wanted me to stop ‘nagging’ you,” she said in the same even, colorless voice. “You wanted a break from hard labor. I’m giving you that chance. Go to your mother. Rest. You won’t have to do anything there. At all.”
She turned and went to the bathroom. A minute later she returned with his toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, and a razor. They flew into the bag after the T-shirts.
“This is our home! You can’t just—”
“This is my apartment, Maxim,” she interrupted calmly, without raising her voice. “The apartment my grandmother left me long before you ever showed up. And you just live here. And it seems your stay has come to an end.”
Each of her words was a small, perfectly honed stiletto hitting dead center. She didn’t shout, didn’t accuse; she simply cut the ropes binding them, one by one. She dismantled the very foundation of his world, where he was master of the situation, the suffering head of the family.
He looked at her—this unfamiliar, icy woman—and understood he had lost. He lost the moment he threw the remote on the floor. He wanted drama but got a logistics operation for his removal. He wanted pity but was simply being packed for delivery to a different address.
Svetlana zipped up the half-empty bag. It didn’t have the heft to look substantial, but it was enough to mark the end. She lifted it by the handles and set it by the front door. Neatly, next to his shoes. Everything was ready.
At that moment a sharp, insistent doorbell pierced the apartment. Bzzzzing! Bzzzzing! An impatient, demanding sound that left no doubt.
Mother had arrived.
The ring sliced through the dense silence like a knife. Maxim jerked as if shocked by electricity. He threw Svetlana a panicked look in which fear mingled with pleading.
“Don’t open it,” he hissed, stepping toward the door as if to block it with his body. “Say we’re not home. That we’re asleep.”
Svetlana looked at him like he was an idiot. Without a word, she calmly skirted him, walked to the door, and turned the lock.
On the threshold stood Galina Ivanovna, coiled like a spring. Her face, usually soft and good-natured, was tense, and a fighting fire burned in her eyes. She didn’t say hello. She knocked Svetlana aside with her shoulder, swept past her into the hallway, and went straight for her son.
“Maksimushka! My boy, what happened?” she wailed, grabbing his hands and scanning him from head to toe as if searching for signs of a beating. “What has she done to you? You’re pale as a sheet!”
With reinforcement at his back, Maxim transformed instantly. Panic vanished, replaced by righteous anger. He straightened and hugged his mother, seeking protection while simultaneously showing Svetlana where the power now lay.
“Mom, she’s throwing me out!” he blurted, jerking his chin toward his wife standing by the door. “Can you imagine? She’s just packing my things and tossing me out!”
Galina Ivanovna turned to Svetlana. Her glare, full of maternal fury, was like a drill.
“Is that true?” she hissed. “You’re throwing my son out? Of his own home?”
Svetlana quietly shut the front door and leaned against it, arms crossed over her chest. She watched the unfolding performance with the cool curiosity of an entomologist observing the fuss of two insects.
“I thought you’d be pleased, Galina Ivanovna,” she answered evenly. “He’s missed you so much. He’s tired here, of all this hard labor. I decided to do something nice for him—return him to his usual, comfortable environment.”
That line, spoken without a shadow of sarcasm, threw Galina Ivanovna off for a split second. But she quickly recovered.
“What nonsense are you spouting? What hard labor? I’ve always said you needed a simpler woman! One who’d think about the house, make it cozy, not run around chasing her jobs!” She swept the room with a contemptuous glance. “Just look at this! Dust everywhere! The man’s probably sitting here hungry! And she comes home at night and still has the nerve to be dissatisfied!”
Maxim chimed in at once.
“Exactly, Mom, exactly! I tell her the same thing! I want a little simple human warmth. To be waited for at home. And in return—only reproaches and demands!”
They stood side by side, mother and son, forming an unshakable monolith. Their voices merged into a single accusatory chorus. They spoke over one another, piling on and amplifying the complaints, addressing Svetlana, then each other, as if she weren’t even in the room.
“Of course you don’t appreciate him! He does everything for you and you…” began Galina Ivanovna.
“…I say one word, she fires back ten!” Maxim picked up. “I merely said I was tired! Do I not have the right to be tired?”
“My poor boy! Of course you do! You work so hard, and there’s zero gratitude! She’s all wrapped up in her career and has neglected the family! Is this the life you dreamed of?”
Svetlana listened. She absorbed every word, and something inside her shifted. The cold ice that had encased her began to crack under this double onslaught. But what seeped out wasn’t the water of tears—it was molten lava. Her face remained motionless, but deep in her eyes a dangerous spark began to glow. She kept silent, and her silence made them talk even more, louder and louder, stoking themselves up.
The climax came with a line from Galina Ivanovna. Placing a hand on her son’s shoulder, she looked at him with pity and said:
“It’s all right, son. You’ll come with me. With Mama you’ll always be fine. I’ll feed you, take care of you. You’ll get a rest from all this…”
That was the last straw. Svetlana pushed off the door and took a step forward. Her calm evaporated.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying: go!!! Go live with your mommy—she never made you do anything there, neither work nor help around the house! Go and live to your heart’s content!”
Her shout hung in the air, thick and heavy as smoke. Maxim and Galina Ivanovna froze as if they had run into an invisible wall. They stared at Svetlana, mouths open, unable to believe this metamorphosis. Quiet, tired, accommodating Sveta was gone. In her place stood a fury, lightning flashing from her eyes.
“Cat got your tongues?” She took another step, and both of them instinctively recoiled. “What’s the matter, nothing left to say? Run out of arguments about ‘coziness’ and a ‘woman’s calling’? Then let me add some!”
She wasn’t speaking now; she was stamping out words, hammering them in like nails.
“You’re tired of hard labor? You—who sleeps till eleven and then calls ‘work’ a couple of calls from home while parked on this very couch? I get up at six! By seven I’m already at the office, where I grind for eight hours. Then I cross the whole city to a stinking coffee shop where until eleven at night I wash cups and smile at jerks so that we can pay for the internet you use to watch your shows!”
She jabbed a finger toward Maxim, and he hunched his head into his shoulders.
“You want to be met at home with a hot dinner?” Her voice broke into bitter laughter. “And who’s going to cook it? Me? When? Between two jobs? Or you, perhaps? You—who can’t even put your plate in the sink! You complain that I ‘nag’ you? How else am I supposed to talk to you? How do I get it through your head that we have a loan to pay—the one we took out for YOUR car? That groceries don’t buy themselves? That I can’t remember the last time I bought myself anything beyond the bare essentials because ‘little Maxim needs new jeans’!”
Every word was a slap in the face. Not only to Maxim, but to his mother, whose defenses crumbled to dust before her eyes. Her “poor boy” was turning into a lazy, infantile parasite right in front of her.
Svetlana drew a breath and, calmer now but with the same steely firmness, addressed her mother-in-law.
“And you, Galina Ivanovna—instead of teaching your son to be a man, you peddle this nonsense about a ‘simple woman.’ Well, know this: a simple woman would have kicked him out long ago. And I, fool that I am, pitied him all this time. I thought it was temporary, that he’d find himself, become a support. He never looked. He was comfortable as it was—hanging off the neck of a ‘not-simple’ woman.”
Dead silence fell. You could hear the clock ticking on the wall, counting down the final seconds of their life together.
Galina Ivanovna came to first. Her face emptied of any expression. She pressed her lips into a thin, nasty line. She understood this battle was lost. The main task now was to retreat with minimal damage to her pride.
“Let’s go, Maxim,” she said in an icy tone, not looking at Svetlana. “We’re not welcome here.”
Maxim looked at his mother, then at Svetlana, then at the bag by the door. A last, desperate hope flickered in his eyes that this could still be reversed somehow—apologize, fall at her feet. But he saw her face—calm, hollow, and completely foreign. He understood it was over. The bridge wasn’t just burned—there wasn’t even ash left.
Silently, without meeting her eyes, he walked to the door and picked up his pathetic, half-empty bag. It felt unbearably heavy.
“You’ll regret this,” Galina Ivanovna threw over her shoulder as she opened the door. It was her last, powerless shot.
Svetlana said nothing. She simply watched her husband’s silhouette—slumped and bewildered—disappear in the doorway. The lock clicked.
She was alone. In the ensuing silence, the rush of her own blood in her ears seemed deafening. She walked slowly into the room and sank onto the couch—the very place where, just an hour ago, it had all begun. She didn’t cry. There were no tears. Only a ringing, bottomless emptiness and an overwhelming, all-consuming weariness.
The hard labor was over. But instead of joy and relief, she felt only cold. She sat motionless, staring at one spot, and for the first time in many months breathed deeply. The air in her own apartment was cold and empty—but it was hers. And that was the beginning of something new…