Yelena Pavlovna swept into the kitchen as if she were about to save the motherland. A cupboard door slammed; the dishes clinked.
— Have you completely lost all shame? Shampoo for eight hundred rubles?! What is this, gold soap? Do you understand how much money that is? If you want luxury—buy it with your own salary!
Miroslava didn’t even turn around. Her hands were in soapy foam, the plates gleamed, and a cold wave of irritation ran down her back.
— It’s my shampoo, Yelena Pavlovna. I bought it with my own money. Mine, not yours.
— Uh-huh, yours… — her mother-in-law drawled with enough venom to disinfect a wound. — And whose apartment is this? Whose furniture? Who pays for the gas? My little Seryozha! And you—what a queen, right. Won’t even pick up a rag.
— For the record, I’m holding a rag right now, — Miroslava said through her teeth. — Notice?
— Don’t be rude to me! I worked thirty years in a school; I won’t tolerate this!
— And I’m thirty—and only now starting to realize how much needless stuff I put up with. Thanks for the lesson.
Yelena Pavlovna snorted, flooding the kitchen with the scent of jasmine and her own offense, and left.
Miroslava stayed by the sink. Water ran, her fingers cooled, and inside a tight, prickly knot curled up. Six years. Six years of this—small but daily humiliations. A mother-in-law who, if she could, would have kept a notebook of how many minutes the daughter-in-law sat and which direction she looked.
Back at the beginning, Sergey had been different. Gentle, almost timid, as if he came from some other family. He said he was living with his mother temporarily, until he got things sorted. A year. Two. And somehow there was always money—but for a car, for a jacket, for renovating “Mom’s” kitchen, for a trip to Sochi “with Mom.” For an apartment—never.
She took a bottle of mineral water from the fridge, opened it, and sat at the table. She didn’t drink, she didn’t smoke, but sometimes after evenings like this she wanted everything at once.
Sergey came late, like a thief. A bag from Pyaterochka, a can of beer, the kind of look that expected to find a ready-made rotisserie chicken with a side dish in the fridge.
— Did you have dinner? — he asked without turning.
— Yes. Your mother and I quarreled for the appetizer, the main course, and compote. Very filling.
He winced, sat down, opened the beer. Stayed silent.
— Mir, don’t start again.
— I’m not starting; I’m finishing. I’m tired. This isn’t a life, it’s some kind of faculty meeting on “re-educating the daughter-in-law.”
— You know what my mom’s like. You can’t change her. You just have to put up with it…
— Put up with it? Until we’re forty? Until our child hears Grandma calling his mother a “freeloader”? Or until I go jump out a window?
He fell silent. Again. His favorite strategy—to be there physically and disappear morally.
— If you want, I’ll talk to her…
Miroslava let out a quiet laugh that made him flinch.
— You? She’ll put you in your place with one phrase. Your “Mommy, that’s enough” sounds like “Mommy, pour me some soup.” She doesn’t see a person in me. And she doesn’t see a man in you.
— You’re going too far.
— No, Seryozha—you’re bending too far. Big difference.
The fridge clicked like an arbitrator.
— Tomorrow I’m taking the day off. I’m going to the notary. A letter came: Grandpa died and left me an apartment in Sergiyev Posad. If it’s true, I’m moving. Alone. If you want, come later. But without your mother. Never again.
— You’re kidding?
— No. But if you like, we can arrange a family evening at the notary’s—tea, inheritance. Only this time I’m the hostess. And the shampoo will cost whatever I decide.
Sergey looked at her as if seeing a living being for the first time. Not his mother’s helper, not a go-between in family affairs—a woman who could leave.
— You’re out of your mind, Mir! Go there, alone? What about me?
— You can come. On one condition: your mother doesn’t. Not for a day. Not “to stay while we renovate.” Just us. Or just me.
— You’re making me choose between my wife and my mother?
— No. You put yourself there—by swallowing, in silence for six years, her calling me a “freeloader.”
He turned to the window. The neighbor was taking out the trash. Everything looked ordinary, except that something in his life was breaking off.
— Let’s not be rash. Maybe there’s no apartment at all… We’ll go, take a look. And then we’ll come back.
— No. I’m going to start over there.
— Start over? Alone? Without a job? You think anyone’s waiting for you?
— Seryozha, you’ve always been gentle. But now you’re just a coward. And I’m not afraid anymore. I don’t want to grow old in a three-room flat with your mother reminding me every day that I’m extra.
He opened his mouth to say something—and right on cue, there was a knock at the door.
— Open up! It’s me! — The voice outside was so familiar there was no use arguing with it.
Miroslava glanced at her husband.
— You’re the one who said: don’t touch Mom. So go on—deal with it.
Reluctantly, he got up, reached for the lock, clicked it open.
— Why lock the door like you’re hiding from enemies? Or are you hiding from me now? — Yelena Pavlovna entered the apartment like the director walking onto the stage for a dress rehearsal. — Sergey, I bought your favorite. Liver ragout, remember? And it looks like you two are celebrating—kettle’s whistling. Miroslava, what’s with you?
— I’m packing, — she said shortly. — I’m moving to Sergiyev Posad. For good.
The bag in the mother-in-law’s hands wilted like a fish in the sun.
— What?! Whatever for?
— I’ve got an apartment there now. From my grandfather. And I’m starting over. Without… — she faltered, swallowed, — without pressure.
— And Sergey? Did you think about him? He’ll be working while you lie on the stove over there? Or seduce the neighbors while your husband slaves away in Moscow?!
Miroslava closed her eyes. Her hands were shaking, but her voice held steady:
— I thought about myself. For the first time in six years.
— Why, you… — Yelena Pavlovna stepped closer, and then the unbelievable happened—Sergey stepped between them.
— Enough, Mom.
Both women froze.
— What did you say?
— Enough. Don’t push. Don’t yell. Don’t insult her. She’s leaving—and maybe that’s the right thing. I don’t know. But I’m tired of standing between you two.
— So you’re taking her side?! She’s destroying the family! — his mother’s voice climbed into a shriek.
— Mom, we haven’t had a family in a long time. We’ve just been on autopilot for ages.
He turned to Miroslava.
— If you want, I’ll go with you. If not—I’ll understand.
She nodded:
— I don’t want that. Not until you grow up.
In the morning, Miroslava stood on the platform. A backpack, a folder with documents, a bundle of her grandfather’s letters. Her heart was tearing, but her hands held firm.
Sergey didn’t come. He didn’t call. Yelena Pavlovna probably put the porridge on, like always at eight, and snorted with displeasure when her son refused to eat.
The train pulled in, and Miroslava climbed aboard. She took a step into a new life.
Now she stood on the balcony of her new apartment—an old building, tiles flaking, but a view of monastery domes. In Sergiyev Posad, spring smelled of bird cherry and fresh earth.
She had been living there two weeks. She slept badly but woke early—and for the first time in many years she felt: she was home. In her own place.
The apartment turned out better than she’d expected: a two-room with a balcony, solid, though furnished in 1980s style. She rolled up the rugs, tossed the nightstands, took down Brezhnev’s portrait from its nail. The electric kettle in the kitchen buzzed like an airplane, but the tea boiled—and tasted like freedom.
The first week she just slept and drank coffee. The second—she called employers. A school in the next district was looking for a Russian teacher. Yesterday she took on a tutoring student.
Sergey didn’t call. At all. And worst of all—it didn’t bother her.
In the third week, the phone buzzed.
— Hello?
— It’s me, — the voice was tired, soft. — Sergey.
She kept silent.
— I was thinking… Maybe you left in the heat of the moment? We’ve been together so many years…
— In the heat of the moment? — she smiled. — And when your mother threw a slipper at me because I wanted kids—what was that? Careful and measured?
He sighed.
— You knew what she was like… She just took my father’s death very hard.
— And I took the lack of support very hard. And you know, Seryozha, I realized: all that time I lived in someone else’s home. And now—in my own. Shabby, without you, but mine. And I’m at peace.
A pause.
— I still thought I’d come. See the apartment. See you. Maybe there’s still something to save.
— Come. But alone. Without your mother. And you won’t see the apartment—it’s not for guests. It’s for me.
— You’ve become mean.
— No, Seryozha. I just stopped being convenient.
That very evening he came anyway. With a box of chocolates and the face of a schoolboy caught smoking.
— May I come in?
— No. But we can talk. On the bench. Five minutes.
They sat. He twisted the box like a talisman.
— I miss you. Everything’s not right there without you…
— Seryozha, you don’t miss me. You miss how I saved you from your mother and from life. I didn’t leave because I hated you. I left because I loved myself.
He lowered his head.
— I could try to change everything.
— Too late. I’ve already changed everything myself.
He stood, walked away, then came back:
— And if I really do it? If I tell Mom—enough? Will you give me a chance?
She looked at him for a long time. Then smiled.
— I will. But only if you understand this: you won’t be living with a wife who helps your mother—you’ll be living with a woman who has an apartment, a job, freedom, and pride. Can you handle that?
He nodded—uncertainly.
She closed the door. There was a lightness in her chest. No one would break her again.
A month later she filed for divorce. Sergey didn’t show up. He only sent the papers and a note: “You were right. I’m sorry.”
She put the documents in a folder next to her diploma. As a reminder: she managed it, she dared, she saved herself.