— Are you serious right now? — Margarita slowly set the book down on the arm of the sofa. Her voice was so even and quiet that for a moment it seemed as if she were merely clarifying some trivial detail.
Andrey, who had already kicked off one shoe in the entryway, turned and looked at his wife with poorly concealed irritation. He moved quickly, as if afraid that if he hesitated, his plan would fall apart. His two sons, Kirill and Maxim, stood beside him clutching the straps of their small backpacks. With timid curiosity they took in the bright, spacious apartment, which smelled of coffee and something subtly foreign, unlike the scents of their mother’s or grandmother’s home.
— Rita, why are you starting this, huh? I told you, Sergei can only do today, we haven’t seen each other in ages. It’s literally for a couple of hours, you won’t even notice I’m gone, — he rattled off, trying to tug off his other shoe without bending down. — Boys, come in, take your shoes off.
He gave his older son a gentle push between the shoulder blades, but the boy didn’t move, glancing sideways at Margarita, who stood frozen in the living room doorway. The younger one, Maxim, took a small step forward but immediately retreated, hiding behind his brother. The air in the entryway imperceptibly thickened.
— Wait, — Margarita took a few steps toward them, her house slippers sliding noiselessly over the laminate. She stopped a couple of meters away, arms folded across her chest. — Let’s go back to the beginning. You and I, Andrey, discussed this very thoroughly. More than once. We agreed that your former life and your children would not become part of my life within the walls of this apartment. I was crystal clear.
Her calm affected him like a red rag to a bull. He had expected anything — reproaches, shouting, arguments — but this icy, matter-of-fact tone threw him off balance.
— For God’s sake, what “former life”? These are my sons! They’re not ghosts from the past, they’re living people, for the record! — He finally wrestled off the second shoe and straightened up, looking down at her. — What kind of selfishness is this? They’ll just sit here for a couple of hours. Watch cartoons. What’s so criminal about that? You’re acting like I brought a platoon of soldiers.
— You brought people whose appearance here we did not agree upon. Moreover, we agreed on the opposite, — she didn’t raise her voice, and that made her words weigh even more. — This is my apartment, Andrey. Not ours — mine. And you live here on my terms. The chief one being that I do not want to and will not take part in raising your children. Not as a stepmother and not as a temporary babysitter. You agreed. You said you understood, and that it wouldn’t be a problem for you either.
He snorted and turned away, pretending to adjust his jacket on the coat rack. It was his favorite trick — to show how bored and absurd this conversation was to him.
— Rita, stop this circus. What will the kids think? Are you humiliating them on purpose? — he hissed, turning his head toward her. — They’re my sons. You’re my wife. You should be used to the fact that these things are connected. That’s it, I’m off, I don’t have time for these stupid arguments.
Andrey took a decisive step toward the door, intending to end the conversation with that show of authority. But Margarita was quicker. She moved in an instant and planted herself directly in his path, pressing her palm against the door.
— You’re not going anywhere, — she said, enunciating each word, looking him straight in the eyes. — At least not without them. You broke our most important agreement. You decided you could just show up and present me with a fait accompli, trampling on my opinion and my wishes. Well, Andrey, you were wrong. Take your sons, get dressed, and solve your problem with your friend yourself. But they will not stay here for even a minute.
Andrey froze, his hand suspended halfway to the doorknob. He looked at Margarita’s palm braced against the door, then raised his eyes to her face. Bewilderment in his gaze quickly gave way to barely concealed fury. He clearly hadn’t expected such a resolute rebuff.
— What are you doing? — he hissed, lowering his voice and casting a quick glance at the boys, who shrank under his angry whisper. — Lower your hand. Don’t make a scene in front of the children. They see everything, they understand everything. Aren’t you ashamed?
— Me? Ashamed? — Margarita gave the slightest shake of her head without removing her hand. — You should be ashamed, Andrey. You brought them here knowing they wouldn’t be welcome. You’re the one who put them in the position of uninvited guests. And you’re the one making this scene now, trying to shift your responsibility onto me. So no, I’m not the least bit ashamed. I’m simply sticking to the rules we both set.
His face flushed dark red. The attempt to press on her conscience had failed with a crack, and he moved on to the next tactic — belittling their agreement.
— What rules, Rita? It was just a conversation! I never imagined you’d take it so literally, like some kind of unfeeling machine! I thought you were normal, a living woman capable of being understanding. I have an emergency — a meeting with a friend that can’t be moved. I asked my wife for help! What’s abnormal about that? Any other woman in your place would be glad to help!
The boys stood perfectly still. The older one, Kirill, lowered his head and stared at his sneakers, as if the pattern on them were the most fascinating thing in the world. The younger, on the contrary, didn’t take his big frightened eyes off Margarita, in which a mute question was written.
— Exactly. You asked for help and got a refusal. And now you’re trying to force that help on me, — her voice remained as calm and even as before, which infuriated him even more. — And let’s be honest. This isn’t an emergency. An emergency is when your ex-wife ends up in the hospital and there is truly no one to leave the children with. A meeting with a friend is your leisure. And you decided to arrange it at my expense without even asking. You simply decided that by default I’m obliged to sit with your children.
She paused, letting the words sink in.
— When we decided to live together, I stated my position from the outset. I don’t hate children, Andrey. But I don’t want someone else’s children in my home. I don’t want responsibility for them, I don’t want to tailor my household and plans around them. I want to come home and rest, not work a second shift as a caretaker. You said you understood. You assured me your mother has a big house and is always glad to have her grandsons. You yourself proposed that option as ideal for everyone. Or have you forgotten?
— So that’s what this is, — he sneered. — You only needed me. Convenient, without a past, without “baggage.” To come home from work, bring money, and cause no problems. And the fact that I have a life, that I have sons — all that was supposed to stay out there somewhere, beyond the threshold of your perfect apartment? What a…
He didn’t finish, but the word on the tip of his tongue was obvious. He looked at her with such open dislike, as if seeing her for the first time. As if all the months they’d lived together were just an illusion shattered by the cold reality of this entryway.
— …what an egoist you are, — he concluded, spitting out the word as if it burned his tongue. His face twisted into a grimace of contempt. He no longer tried to seem reasonable or wounded — now he was openly attacking. — You don’t care about me. You don’t care about what matters to me. These boys are my blood, my family. And you want me to act as if they don’t exist. Lock them up at their mother’s and visit by a schedule, so God forbid your precious peace isn’t disturbed!
He took a step toward her, invading her personal space, and spoke more quietly, but even more viciously, so the children wouldn’t catch all the words.
— I thought you loved me. And love means accepting a person as a whole. With all his past, with all his problems. And what are you doing? You cut off the parts you don’t like. You don’t want me, Rita. You want a convenient function in your sterile apartment. To come and go and not interfere with your perfect life.
Margarita listened without interrupting. Her face remained impassive, but in her eyes something new appeared — the cold curiosity of a researcher studying the habits of an unfamiliar creature. When he finished his tirade, she didn’t answer right away; she looked at the children. The older one, Kirill, subtly pulled his younger brother closer and whispered something in his ear. There was so much quiet, grown-up despair in their little figures that Margarita’s heart clenched for a moment. But the pity wasn’t for them. It was for the situation their own father had created.
— Are you finished? — she asked calmly, turning her gaze back to Andrey. — Now you listen. When I said I didn’t want to see your children here, it wasn’t a whim. It was self-protection. I knew that sooner or later exactly what’s happening now would happen. That you’d first try for “a couple of hours,” then “for a day,” then “for the weekend.” I knew you would press on pity, accuse me of selfishness, and manipulate the notion of “family.” And I didn’t want to take part in it. You swore it wouldn’t happen. You lied.
His nostrils flared with anger. He wanted to blurt something back, but she stopped him with a gesture.
— What made you think you can bring your children to my home and I’ll just watch them here? They have a mother for that — and you! And, by the way, they shouldn’t be here at all, in my apartment, in case you forgot!
The key phrase, spoken in that same even tone, hit him harder than a slap. He recoiled as if she had literally pushed him. Confusion flickered in his eyes. He couldn’t find an answer, because there wasn’t one. It was the truth, bare and unvarnished.
— This… this is my home too! — he finally squeezed out, but the line sounded pitiful and unconvincing, like the last argument of a man who knows he’s lost.
— No, — Margarita cut him off. — You live here because I allowed it. And I’m starting to deeply regret that decision. It’s not about the children, is it? Or your sudden meeting with a friend. It’s about you. About your desire for everyone around you to service your interests. The ex-wife is supposed to let the kids go at your first request. The new wife is supposed to entertain them while you relax. Everyone owes you. And you, as a responsible father and loving husband, what do you do? You try to dump the problem on whoever happens to be nearest.
Margarita’s last words hung in the stifling air of the entryway. They weren’t loud or insulting, but their cold, indisputable logic disarmed him. Andrey looked at her, and in his eyes there was no longer anger or hurt — only emptiness and poorly concealed helplessness. He had lost. Not the argument, but the very essence of their relationship, which he had never managed — or wanted — to understand.
— You really are a bitch, — he muttered at last. The word came out without malice, almost wearily, like a statement of fact. It wasn’t an attempt to insult her so much as the only explanation available to him for her behavior, which didn’t fit his worldview.
— Possibly, — Margarita replied calmly, and that reaction — her complete acceptance of his worst label — finished him off. She didn’t argue, didn’t justify herself, didn’t fling back a counter-accusation. She simply agreed with his verdict, robbing it of any force.
Then she did what he least expected. She walked around him in silence, went to the front door, and opened it wide, letting the cool air from the stairwell into the entryway. Then she stepped aside, leaned against the wall, and folded her arms, turning into an impassive observer. Her posture, her silence — it all spoke louder than any shouting. It was a final gesture that left no room for maneuver.
Andrey stared at the open door for a few seconds, then at her. He waited for her to say something else, to give him a foothold, a way to keep fighting. But she was silent.
— And what does that mean? — he asked, though he understood perfectly well.
— It means the conversation is over, — her voice was as even as at the very beginning. — And now you, as a responsible father, take your children and lead them to a place where they’re welcome. They say your mother misses her grandsons very much. Unlike me, she won’t need an explanation as to why she should spend the weekend with them.
His face twitched. The mention of his mother was the final, most humiliating blow. She wasn’t just throwing him out; she was offering the one correct, logical solution he should have adopted from the start. She showed she was thinking two steps ahead, while he acted solely on impulse.
He turned slowly to his sons. Kirill and Maxim, who had been standing all this time like two little tin soldiers, looked at him with the same expression of fear and expectation. In their eyes he saw the reflection of his own disgrace.
— Get your things on, — he said hoarsely, without looking at them.
A painful getting-ready scene began. With jerky, angry movements Andrey pulled his shoes on. He didn’t help the children, and they, sensing his state, silently and intently set about putting on their shoes and zipping their jackets. The younger one, Maxim, snagged his zipper. He tugged once, twice, and the thin fabric ripped with a small tear. The boy froze, afraid to raise his eyes to his father. Noticing, Andrey roughly pushed his hand aside and with one sharp motion zipped the jacket up to his chin.
All the while, Margarita stood by the wall, watching in silence. She didn’t look away, and her presence made every second of this humiliating retreat even more unbearable. She showed neither gloating nor sympathy. She was simply a judge who had delivered a sentence and was now overseeing its execution.
When they were dressed, Andrey grabbed the backpacks, thrust them into the boys’ hands and, without looking at his wife, stepped toward the exit. He took the children by the hand and led them out onto the landing. Already standing beyond the threshold, he turned back, as if wanting to say one last, most poisonous thing. But meeting her cold, steady gaze, he only pressed his lips together. Everything had already been said.
— Close the door behind you. From the outside, — she said into the silence.
He flinched as if struck, turned without a word, and pulled the door shut. The lock clicked.
Margarita stood in the entryway for another minute, listening to the receding footsteps. Then she slowly walked into the living room. Her unfinished book lay on the sofa. She picked it up, sat in her spot, opened to the right page, and immersed herself in reading. Silence settled over the apartment once more. But it wasn’t a heavy, ringing silence. It was her own, familiar, long-awaited silence. Order had been restored…