“By the way, I didn’t tell you—my parents are coming next week. For about a week.”
The words dropped into the kitchen like heavy, dirty stones into a clear stream. Irina froze, her hand holding the carton of milk suspended halfway to the refrigerator. The crinkle of the paper bag against the countertop, the sound of her steady breathing—everything cut off. A tense, thick emptiness settled over the kitchen, one not even the hum of the fridge could break. Slowly, as if afraid to make a sudden move, she set the carton down on the cool glossy surface and straightened up.
“Excuse me—what?” Her voice was quiet, almost colorless. It wasn’t a question so much as a demand that he repeat himself, to give her a chance to be sure she hadn’t misheard.
Igor stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. A lazy, slightly condescending smirk played on his face—the look of a man announcing something already decided and not up for discussion. He didn’t move, only tilted his head a little, as if surprised by her lack of understanding.
“My parents, I’m saying, are coming. On Monday. What’s unclear? They called half an hour ago—already bought the tickets.”
He said it like he was talking about the weather forecast, not an event that, six months earlier, had nearly destroyed their marriage. Irina turned toward him slowly. She stared straight at him, her gaze heavy and appraising, as if she were seeing him for the first time. She wasn’t looking at her husband anymore, but at a smug stranger who had invaded her home and her life.
“Igor. We had an agreement,” she said, enunciating every word. No pleading. No hysteria. Only a cold, leaden statement. “You promised me. You gave your word that after that time… they would never set foot in this house again.”
He shrugged, and the smirk widened—bolder, more brazen. That gesture—dismissive, devaluing—hit harder than if he’d shouted.
“Yeah, I promised. So what? Things changed. They’re my parents. What am I supposed to tell them—don’t come, my wife is against it? Think about how that’ll look.”
“I don’t care how it’ll look,” she said evenly, but steel crept into her tone. “I care that you broke your word. You lied to me. After what your mother pulled last time… after she went through my things while I wasn’t home, and then announced that I’m a bad housekeeper and don’t take care of your health… You forgot how we didn’t speak for a week afterward? You forgot how you yourself said she went too far?”
He peeled himself off the doorframe and stepped into the kitchen, pushing into her space. The humor vanished from his face, replaced by irritation. He didn’t like being reminded of his weaknesses.
“Here you go again. Ira, stop it. Mom got carried away—who hasn’t? She apologized.”
“She didn’t apologize,” Irina snapped. “She said, ‘If I offended you somehow, then forgive me.’ That’s not an apology, Igor. That’s a way of making me guilty for daring to be offended. And you stood there nodding like a toy bird.”
“Enough!” he barked, his voice slamming into the walls. “I’m not discussing this. It’s decided. They’re coming. Period. I’ve made my choice.”
His words—“I’ve made my choice”—didn’t sound like a threat. They sounded like a diagnosis. Final, not subject to appeal. Irina looked at him, and something inside her—something warm and alive that had still been trying to find an excuse, a compromise—suddenly cooled and hardened. She felt it almost physically, as if liquid nitrogen had been poured into her chest. Every emotion—hurt, anger, disappointment—evaporated, leaving only a ringing, absolute clarity. She no longer saw a loved one who’d made a mistake. She saw an outsider who had just, with relish, announced that her feelings, her peace, and her home were worth nothing at all.
Igor, mistaking her silence for submission, decided to cement his victory. He walked over to the table, took an apple from the bowl, and bit into it with a loud crunch. The sound—juicy and provocative—was an act of self-assertion. He chewed slowly, looking down at her, open triumph rippling in his eyes.
“Well, good—at least we understand each other,” he said with his mouth full. “And if you don’t like something, if you’re not ready to show respect to my family… then you can move out for a week to a friend’s place. Wait it out there until they leave. I think everyone will be calmer that way.”
He said it. He actually said those words out loud, standing in the middle of her kitchen, in an apartment bought with her money long before they met. He suggested that she—the owner—get out of her own home to make room for people who had already once turned her life into hell. And in that moment, everything ended for Irina. Not the marriage. Not love. The person she had known as Igor ended. He ceased to exist, crumbled to dust, leaving behind only an impudent, self-satisfied shell.
Without a word, she turned away. Not a single unnecessary movement. She didn’t keep putting away the groceries—those symbols of a broken coziness. She simply left the kitchen and, without looking at him, walked down the hallway to the front door. Her steps were even and firm. No rush, no fuss. Igor, surprised by the maneuver, followed her, still chewing the apple.
“Where are you off to? Decided to pack your stuff after all? Good. No need to make a drama out of this.”
Irina reached the door, took the lock, and turned it. A loud, distinct click sounded. Then she pulled the door toward herself, and it opened silently, letting cool air and the muted light of the stairwell into the hallway. She turned to him. Her face held no trace of anger or hurt—only the cold, detached calm of a surgeon ready for an amputation.
“Igor, you promised me your parents wouldn’t come to our place again after the last scandal! So why are they coming to us again?!”
Her voice was level, without the slightest tremor. It wasn’t a question—it was the reading of an indictment before sentencing. She looked him straight in the eyes, and for the first time he saw something there that made him uneasy.
“What are you doing, putting on a show?” he tried to smirk, but it came out strained. “Close the door, it’s drafty.”
“You’re right,” she nodded with the same icy composure. “Someone really should move out. Right now. Go. Go to your parents. And you can stay with them not for a week—but forever. Get out of my house.”
For a moment Igor froze. His brain, used to a certain script—her wounded silence, then tears, then his condescending reconciliation—refused to process this new reality. The words “get out of my house” sounded so clear and matter-of-fact that they felt like an absurd system error. He blinked, and genuine, almost childlike bewilderment flickered across his face. Then it twisted into a crooked, angry grin.
“Are you serious?” he gave a nervous laugh, stepping forward, intending to shut that cursed door and end the draft and the spectacle. “Ira, are you out of your mind? You’re kicking me out? Over something this stupid? You’re ready to destroy our family just so you don’t have to let my old folks into our home for a couple days?”
He deliberately used the words “our family” and “our home,” trying to drag her back into the familiar coordinate system where everything was shared—and therefore his. But Irina didn’t move, blocking his path to the door.
“No, Igor. Not ‘our home.’ Mine,” she corrected, and the calm precision of it was like a scalpel cut. “My apartment. You forgot? This is my apartment. And you live here. You’re a guest who’s been visiting far too long and, for some reason, decided he’s the owner.”
His face flushed purple. Being accused of freeloading was the most humiliating thing he could hear. All his rehearsed confidence, his role as head of the family that he played so diligently, cracked and crumbled.
“I live here?!” he roared, raising his voice to a shout. “I work here, I bring money into this house! Or did you forget I’m not lying on the couch? I support you and your apartment!”
Irina tilted her head slightly, and something like a researcher’s curiosity appeared in her eyes, as if she were studying a primitive organism.
“Support me? That’s interesting. Let’s count, Igor. My salary goes to the mortgage on this apartment—which I took out before you. To the utilities. To the food in that refrigerator. To the household chemicals you refuse to use when cleaning. And what does your salary go to, Igor? Remind me. Ah, yes. Gas for your car. The new rims you bought last month. Your Friday bar trips with your friends. And that ridiculously expensive drone that’s been gathering dust on top of the шкаф for half a year. You don’t bring money into this house. You spend it on yourself, while letting me pay for your comfortable existence here.”
Every word was a dry fact, stripped of emotion. It wasn’t reproach—it was bookkeeping. And that unemotional precision drove him mad far more than if she’d screamed and smashed dishes.
“You… you were keeping score? You sat there and calculated who spent what? God, you’re petty, calculating…” He couldn’t find the words, choking on rage.
“I wasn’t keeping score. I just stopped lying to myself,” she said even more quietly, and that only made it heavier. “For a long time I pretended we were partners. That we were a family. I shut my eyes to the fact that you behave not like an adult man, but like a spoiled teenager who thinks everyone owes him. A wife should provide the household, and he’ll make her ‘happy’ with his presence. But today you crossed a line. You didn’t just break your promise. You thought you could point me to the door in my own home. You decided you had the right.”
He looked at her, and hatred and confusion mixed in his eyes. He didn’t recognize this woman. Where was the Ira who smoothed over corners, who forgave, who was afraid to upset him? In front of him stood a stranger—cold and absolutely impenetrable.
“You just hate my parents! You always hated them!” he shouted, the last thing that came to mind—the most worn-out, pathetic accusation of all.
For the first time in the whole conversation, Irina allowed herself a smirk. But there wasn’t a drop of humor in it.
“Your parents have nothing to do with it, Igor. They’re just litmus paper. They simply showed who you really are. A person whose word means nothing. A person willing to humiliate his wife so he won’t look like a bad son in Mommy’s eyes. So go. Go be a good son. Your role as a good husband ends here. Get out.”
The word “get out” hung in the hallway air. It wasn’t an emotional outburst—it was a dry, lifeless fact.
Igor stared at her, and one thought battered frantically inside his head: this isn’t real. It’s some stupid, drawn-out prank. Any second she’ll blink, her face will twist with held-back tears, and everything will return to normal. He’ll pretend to forgive her generously; she’ll pretend to be grateful. But nothing happened. Her face remained an unreadable mask. She didn’t cry. She didn’t rage. She waited.
And then it hit him. Not rage, but something much worse—panic terror at losing control. He was losing everything: this convenient apartment, this predictable woman, this well-arranged life he’d taken for granted. And in that animal fear he found his last weapon. The dirtiest, most poisonous one—the kind people use when they don’t just want to win, but to destroy, to scorch the earth under their opponent.
He slowly, deliberately looked her up and down. His gaze was sticky, appraising, like a merchant inspecting defective goods. Then he smiled—quietly and nastily.
“Got it,” he drawled, venom weaving through his voice. “Now I understand everything. You’re just jealous. I have a family. A mother, a father. Normal, living people who love me. And who do you have? No one. Just these walls. That’s why you lose it when they come—you’re reminded of how… empty you are.”
He paused, letting the poison sink in. Irina didn’t flinch. Her face looked carved from stone. That silence spurred him on, gave him confidence. He took another step in his verbal attack, aiming for the most unprotected place.
“I used to wonder why you’re so against kids. Always excuses—career, not the right time… But that’s not it. You’re just not capable of loving anyone but yourself. You’re infertile, Ira. Not medically—no. Spiritually. There’s no warmth in you, no life. Just chill and calculation. That’s why you’ll never be a mother, and that’s why my family line is like a bone in your throat. It’s real. And you’re a fake.”
He finished, breathing hard, laying his last trump card on the table. He expected anything—screaming, a slap, a torrent of insults. He was ready for it, hungry for it, because any reaction would mean he’d hit the mark, that she was still alive, that he could hook her.
But nothing changed on her face. Absolutely nothing. No pain. No offense. No anger. Her eyes looked as if they were passing right through him—like he was speaking some foreign language about someone else entirely. The person he’d believed she was had just died completely in her gaze. In his place remained emptiness. She was silent for several seconds that felt like an eternity.
Then she spoke. Her voice was frighteningly calm, like an operator reading evacuation instructions.
“Take your jacket from the hook. Your phone and wallet are on the dresser. The keys to your car are there too, in the blue little dish.”
She spoke slowly, giving him time to absorb every word. It wasn’t an offer. It was an order.
Igor went rigid. He hadn’t expected that. Total, absolute disregard for his monstrous words disarmed him. He was crushed not by her anger, but by her indifference.
“The keys to this apartment,” she added in the same level tone, “leave on the dresser. You won’t need them anymore.”
Silently, like a sleepwalker, he turned around. His hands automatically found the leather jacket, pulled it off the hook. He took his phone. He scooped his car keys from the dish—and his fingers bumped into the cold metal of the apartment keyring. He froze for a moment, then pulled them out and set them on the varnished surface of the dresser. The sound was soft, but in the deafening atmosphere it cracked like a gunshot.
He put on his jacket and, without looking back, stepped over the threshold. Irina didn’t watch his back. She turned away and stared into the depth of the hallway, into the depth of her apartment. He stood on the landing for a second, waiting for something—a slammed door, a parting curse. But nothing followed. He had simply been erased.
She took the handle and slowly pulled the door shut. The heavy panel settled into place without a sound. She turned the key in the lock. One turn. A second. The clicks were dry and final.
She stood in the hallway of her apartment. Alone. And the silence no longer felt oppressive. It was clean…