— Do you even understand what you’ve done?! Roman’s voice cracked into a shout as the door slammed behind his mother.
Alina stood by the window, holding a cup of tea that had gone cold. The tea trembled—just like her hands.
— I protected myself, she answered quietly.
— You threw my mother out! Roman flung his jacket onto a chair. You tossed her out like a dog!
— She demanded my apartment! Alina lifted her eyes. I put up with your mother for three months, Roma. I kept quiet when she called me a freeloader. When she called me “a stranger.” When she meddled in every little thing—from dinner to the bedsheets. But today she crossed the line.
Roman froze, then flared up again.
— Crossed the line? And you’re sure you didn’t cross it?
— Not me! Alina slammed the cup down on the table. I shouldn’t have to justify defending my own home!
Silence settled over the kitchen. Outside, a tram hissed by, its wheels clattering dully. Somewhere upstairs, a door banged.
— Roma, Alina said softly, she would’ve destroyed us. And you wouldn’t even have noticed how we started living by her rules.
Roman sank into a chair. His face looked gray and worn out. He’d spent the whole day at work, and now his family was finishing him off.
— I’m tired of all of this, he said hoarsely. The fights, the screaming, the accusations. Being stuck between you two all the time.
— And I’m tired of being the one to blame, Alina replied. Every time your mom is unhappy, it’s my fault. When you stay silent—it’s my fault too.
She stepped closer and stopped in front of him. There was no anger in her voice—only pain.
— You know, Roma, she said, I’m not a bad person. I just want to live in peace.
He didn’t answer.
A week passed. The apartment went quiet again, but it didn’t feel peaceful.
Alina woke up in the mornings to emptiness—not to the sound of the morning radio, not to the smell of coffee Roman used to make—but to a strange, sticky silence.
Roman started coming home later and later. Dinners sat cooling on the table, and the TV droned in the corner. Alina stopped counting the days—everything blurred together: evening, night, morning.
— Late again? she asked one time when he came back at midnight.
— Meeting, he said shortly, not looking up.
— A meeting until twelve?
— Alina, don’t start.
She sighed.
— I’m not starting. I just… you leave in the morning and come back at night. I hardly see you.
— Maybe that’s for the best, he threw over his shoulder as he took off his shoes. We’re both exhausted.
Alina bit her lip. Something clenched tight in her chest.
— “For the best”—are you serious right now?
— Yes, I’m serious. He glanced at her. I can’t breathe in this apartment. Her screams in every corner, your reproaches, and my attempts to make peace.
— And you think it’s easy for me?! Alina snapped. I held on all this time only for us!
— For us? Roman gave a short, bitter laugh. No, Ali. For yourself.
She wanted to reply, but she went silent. His words cut like a knife.
That weekend Alina decided to go visit a friend—just to get out, even for one day.
In the evening, when she returned, the apartment smelled of men’s cologne and something new—not her shampoo, not her cream.
In the bathroom, there was someone else’s toothbrush. Pink.
She froze in the doorway. Her heart hammered like a trapped bird.
Roman came out of the bedroom in a home T-shirt, saw her—and stopped.
— It’s… not what you think, he began, but the words hung in the air, useless.
— And what do I think, Roma? Alina asked. That you have someone else?
He looked away.
— We were just talking.
— In bed?
— Don’t exaggerate, he said раздражённо. It’s a colleague. She has problems. I helped.
— Helped? Alina laughed. Interesting way to help—buying her a toothbrush.
— She brought it herself, he muttered.
— So she feels at home here.
He said nothing.
That night Alina stayed in the kitchen. She sat staring out the window, trying to understand exactly where everything had gone wrong.
Once they’d laughed until they cried, argued over who would go out for bread first, made plans for vacation.
Now they were strangers in the same apartment.
She remembered how Roman, long before the wedding, had said:
— I don’t want to repeat my parents’ fate. I want us to be honest.
The irony was that it was his parents who destroyed everything. Or rather, one of them—Galina Petrovna.
Alina imagined her sitting in her rented one-room flat, calling her son and complaining:
— She threw me out, and you’re defending her.
And Roman, torn between duty and love, listening again as his mother sobbed into the phone.
The phone on the table buzzed. A message from Roman:
“We need to talk. Tomorrow.”
Morning.
He sat at the table, gloomy and unshaven. In front of him—a mug of coffee gone cold.
— I think we should live separately for a while, he said immediately.
— So… divorce?
— No. Just… take a break.
— Right. A break until your colleague finds a new toothbrush?
— Ali, enough! he exploded. I can’t live in constant tension anymore!
— And I can?!
— I didn’t say it’s your fault. But maybe we both backed ourselves into a corner.
Alina laughed—bitterly, almost hysterically.
— A corner? No, Roma. This isn’t a corner. This is the end.
She stood up, walked to the window, and stared for a long time at the gray sky.
— When your mom moved in with us, I thought I’d endure it. For you. But you didn’t endure it yourself.
He didn’t answer.
— Fine, she said quietly. Go. Only not “on a break.” For real.
—
— You know, Romochka, I’m not evil, Galina Petrovna sighed, looking at her son over a cup of cheap instant coffee. Life is just hard for me. No one understands how difficult it is for a woman my age to be left alone.
Roman was silent. He sat opposite her, staring past her. The rented studio was tiny: a bed, an old table, a wardrobe with peeling doors. It smelled of chlorine and damp rags.
— I never asked you for anything except attention, she went on, pretending not to notice how he avoided her eyes. And you… you just abandoned me. For that wife of yours…
— Mom, stop, he said wearily. I didn’t abandon you. I’m just tired of the scandals. And don’t start about Alina.
— What, I can’t tell the truth? she snapped. That wife of yours ruined everything! You used to be different—kind, caring. And now… cold.
— Maybe I just grew up, he answered quietly. Or realized it’s impossible to live under constant pressure.
— Pressure?! Galina Petrovna jumped up. I gave my life for you! Worked, stayed up nights so you could get an education, so you’d have everything! And now I’m “pressure”?!
— Mom, he stood too, trying to keep his voice calm. Don’t start again. I just came to see how you are.
She turned to the window. Her reflection in the glass showed a tired face—smeared lipstick, empty eyes.
— How am I? I’m nothing. No son, no home. Sitting in this rented hole like a lodger.
Roman exhaled heavily.
— I’ll transfer you money for a month in advance. But, Mom, please—don’t call Alina.
— I wasn’t going to, she said, offended. Let her live with her pride.
Alina was living alone now.
Six months passed. She changed jobs—left the office where every corner reminded her of Roman and got hired at a small real estate agency. She worked a lot—ten hours a day—just so she wouldn’t think.
Every morning started the same: coffee, mirror, a short “hold on” before leaving the apartment.
Friends invited her out—to parties, to cafés—but Alina almost always refused. It felt like she had no strength left for other people’s conversations.
Sometimes, walking past a familiar building, she caught herself searching for their old windows. The ones where white curtains used to hang and her violets used to sit.
She replanted the violets, but one of them withered. For some reason, it was the one that had stood closest to the sofa where Galina Petrovna slept.
One evening, when Alina returned home, she found an envelope in the mailbox.
No return address. The handwriting—painfully familiar.
“Hello, Alina. Don’t be angry with me. I’m seriously ill. Romka doesn’t talk to me. I’m alone. Help me. Please.”
Signed: Galina Petrovna.
Alina stood in the stairwell for a long time with the letter in her hands. Then she went up to her apartment, tossed the envelope on the table, and sat down.
Something thudded inside her—not pity, not anger, but a kind of exhaustion mixed with obligation.
— Of course, she said out loud to herself. How could we do without this.
She scrolled through her contacts. Roman’s number was still there.
Her fingers trembled as she pressed call.
— Hello? His voice was hoarse, like he hadn’t slept.
— Hi, Alina said quietly. I got a letter from your mother.
A pause.
— And? What does it say?
— She says she’s sick. Looks serious.
— Yes, I know, he answered dully. They found diabetes. Her sugar was near forty. She was in the hospital for two weeks.
— Why didn’t you tell me?
— We didn’t talk, Ali. Remember? You said: “leave for good.”
She closed her eyes.
— That doesn’t mean I want you to die.
Roman sighed.
— She’s home now. Alone. I wanted to hire a caregiver, but she threw the woman out. Says she “steals food.”
— Typical, Alina said—and caught herself, because warmth slipped into her voice. Listen… if you want, I’ll go see her. See what’s going on.
— You? Roman sounded surprised. After everything?
— Yes, Alina answered softly. Not for her. For myself. To put a period on it.
Two days later she stood at the door of that same one-room flat. It didn’t open immediately—there was coughing inside, then heavy footsteps.
— Ah… it’s you, Galina Petrovna said, leaning on the doorframe. She looked exhausted: sunken face, inflamed eyes.
— May I come in? Alina asked.
Her mother-in-law didn’t answer, but stepped aside.
Inside it smelled of medicine and stale laundry. On the table—a pile of pills, beside it an unfinished soup and a cup with dried coffee stains.
— Sitting here, sick, Galina Petrovna said quietly, as if excusing herself. No one comes. Not even my son.
— Are you surprised? Alina replied evenly. You destroyed everything yourself.
— I just wanted him close, the older woman whispered. I wanted him not to forget his mother.
— And you forgot that he was a husband, Alina said. And that he had a family.
Galina Petrovna sat down, hugging her knees.
— You know… I thought I could get it all back. That he’d forgive me. And now I understand—it’s too late.
Alina silently took out medicines, water, a clean towel.
Then she reheated the soup and washed the dishes. All in silence.
When she was about to leave, Galina Petrovna said softly:
— I know it’s my fault. I’m not asking forgiveness. Just… thank you for coming.
Alina nodded and left.
A week later Roman called.
— Mom is gone, he said. In her sleep.
Alina didn’t say a word. She only gripped the phone until it slipped in her hand.
The funeral was modest. A few neighbors, the district doctor, Roman, and Alina.
After the ceremony they walked silently along the cemetery path.
— She remembered you, he said. Before she died. Said she was wrong.
— Too late, Alina answered.
— Too late, he repeated.
They stopped by the gate. Wind stirred the poplar branches, and leaves fell at their feet.
— You know, Roman said quietly, I’ve been thinking about us. About whether maybe we could still bring it back.
Alina looked at him—no anger in her eyes, only fatigue.
— Bring it back? she repeated. Roma, we lost too much. Your mother, our home, our faith in each other. You don’t rebuild from that.
He was silent.
— Live, she said. Just live. Without me.
She walked away without looking back.
In spring Alina rearranged the flowers on the windowsill again.
This time the violets stood strong, with large lilac blooms.
She looked at them and thought that maybe life really can begin again—not with smiles and kisses, but with silence, where you can finally breathe.
The phone on the table buzzed. A new message:
“Alina, thank you for going to Mom back then. Without you I wouldn’t have made it in time. Take care of yourself. — R.”
She stared at the screen for a long time, then deleted the message.
She turned to the window, added fresh soil to the pot, and whispered:
— That’s it. Now—really it’s over.
The End.