— Alyona, I was thinking… Sergey’s voice rang out in the room, unexpectedly upbeat and loud.
Alyona didn’t turn around. She was kneeling in the middle of the living room, methodically rubbing polish into the door of an old oak sideboard with slow circular motions. The air was thick with the rich, pleasant scent of wax and wood. This was her ritual—once a month she personally restored the furniture she’d inherited from her grandmother along with the apartment. Every carved curl, every brass handle had been familiar to her since childhood. The work soothed her, grounded her, gave her back a sense of control in a world that seemed more and more determined to take it away.
Sergey came up behind her and stopped a couple of steps away, clearly pleased with himself. He rocked from heel to toe like a schoolboy about to recite a poem he’d memorized. He didn’t see her focused face, didn’t feel the near-meditative calm he was barging into so rudely. He was bursting with his own idea, and it demanded immediate release.
— Mom’s anniversary is coming up. Fifty-five. A serious date. And I came up with a totally brilliant way for you two to make up. For good.
Alyona froze, her hand with the soft cloth stopping halfway. Slowly she straightened and turned around, still on her knees. She looked up at him. A wide, self-satisfied smile played on his face. In his eyes splashed that same puppyish enthusiasm she’d once found charming—now it more and more often stirred a dull, heavy irritation. He looked like a big, good-natured dog who’d happily dragged a dead rat into the house, sincerely believing it was the best gift in the world.
— And what would that be? she asked in an even, emotionless tone that should have put him on guard—but didn’t.
— You’ll buy her a TV! he blurted, flinging his hands up like a conductor cueing an orchestra. — A big one, fifty inches or so, like she wanted. Can you imagine her face? You show up with this huge box—alone. Without me. And you say, “This is for you, Tamara Igorevna, from me personally.” She’ll be blown away! She’ll immediately understand you’re good, not stingy, that you respect her. All your stupid grudges will be gone in an instant. It’s… it’s like a white flag, only better! A plasma flag of reconciliation!
He laughed at his own joke, clearly proud of his wit. Alyona stared at him in silence. Something cold and sharp, like a shard of glass, slid slowly under her ribs. She didn’t feel anger. Not yet. Only a growing, deafening amazement at the abyss between her reality and his “brilliant moves.” To him it was a petty squabble between two women that could be smoothed over with an expensive gift. He didn’t understand the nature of their war at all—a war in which he had always been an outsider, but a sympathetic observer on the enemy’s side.
She rose slowly to her feet, setting the cloth down on the polished surface of the sideboard. Her movements were smooth, but there was already the hidden rigidity of a spring ready to snap straight. Now she was looking down at him, and the roles had reversed.
— Me? she repeated so quietly that Sergey had to lean closer. — I’m the one who has to buy it?
— Well, yeah! That’s the whole point! he didn’t catch the shift in her mood. — If I buy it, it’s just a gift from a son. But if you do—it’s a gesture! A step forward! So, what do you say? I think it’s genius.
He spread his arms, waiting for applause or at least an approving smile. But Alyona’s face stayed unreadable. She looked him straight in the eyes, and deep in her pupils something dark and very dangerous was being born. The shard of glass inside her twisted, scraping at her insides. She took a deep, almost silent breath, getting ready to speak. And Sergey finally realized something worse than a simple refusal was coming.
— Sergey, do you even hear yourself? Alyona’s voice held no warmth. It was like a thin steel wire stretched to the limit. — Do you understand what you’re proposing?
Sergey’s festive euphoria faltered. The smile slid off his face, replaced by confusion and then mild irritation. He wasn’t used to that tone. He’d expected arguments, maybe persuasion—but not this icy, contemptuous intonation.
— What did I say that’s so wrong? I предложил a solution. A normal, adult solution. Make a grand gesture so all this ends. Is it really that hard to step over your pride once for peace in the family?
“Peace in the family.” The phrase hit Alyona like a slap. It was his peace, his family. She had never been part of that structure—only a temporary, inconvenient add-on that constantly needed to be “fitted” and “smoothed out.”
— Pride? She stepped toward him. Only the coffee table separated them now. — You call it pride when your mother, visiting us, tastes my soup and says to you—loud enough that I can hear from the kitchen—“It’s okay, son, I’ll cook you real borscht this weekend, proper homemade”? That’s my pride?
Sergey frowned; his face took on a stubborn look. He glanced away.
— Well, she just… she has her tastes. She doesn’t mean anything by it. And this TV idea… it’s her—
— Doesn’t mean anything by it? Alyona smirked, but the sound came out dry, joyless. — And when, in front of my colleagues we ran into at the mall, she asked when I’d “finally” stop doing “that nonsense” and find a proper, womanly job—was that also “nothing”? Just care? And how about the fact that even after five years of marriage she still introduces me to her friends as “Seriozha’s girl”? Not Alyona. Not his wife. A girl. Like I’m a temporary toy you’ll toss out soon.
She spoke quietly, but each word dropped into the stillness of the room like a stone into a deep well. This wasn’t hysteria. It was calculated, cold fury that had been accumulating for years. She saw Sergey’s cheek twitch, saw him clench and unclench his fists. He didn’t want to hear this. He wanted everything to be simple, like in his genius plan.
— Your mommy thinks I’m the worst of all her daughters-in-law, but she expects me to buy the most expensive gift for her anniversary? I wouldn’t even spend money on a card for her—so there will be no gift!
“Mommy.” Not Tamara Igorevna. Not your mother. Exactly that—derogatory, rough, stripping away every polite mask. A punch to the gut.
— Stop it! Sergey exploded. — That’s my mother, Alyona! You have to respect her whether you like it or not! She’s older—she raised me!
— Have to? Alyona lifted her head; her eyes darkened. — Respect? Does anyone in your family have to respect me? Or is my duty only to swallow humiliation in silence, smile, and buy expensive TVs so I can earn the right to be called not a “girl,” but at least by my name? Respect, Sergey, is a two-way street. And in our case there’s a big “Do Not Enter” sign from my side. And I didn’t put it there.
She walked around the table and stopped right in front of him, meeting his gaze without fear, without pleading—only with cold, scorching contempt.
— Not once. Not a single time in all these years did you stop her. You just stood there and smiled awkwardly. Because her comfort has always mattered more to you than my dignity. Well, I’m done paying for that comfort. Not with money, not with my nerves.
Sergey’s face flushed crimson. He’d expected anything—tears, screaming, bargaining—but not this cold, anatomical dissection of their family life. Her calm drove him mad far more than any tantrum could. He felt the ground slipping under his feet. His simple, beautiful plan—his “plasma flag of reconciliation”—hadn’t just been rejected. It had been stomped on and mocked.
— You’re the one making everything complicated! he barked, crossing the line where dialogue turns into a petty shouting match. — You always make everything complicated! Always looking for something to nitpick, always playing the offended one! Anyone else in your place would have found common ground by now, but you’re making a mountain out of a molehill! It’s just words, Alyona! Just words from an old person!
— Words can kill, Seryozha, she said quietly, and that quiet was louder than his shout. — Or at least kill any desire to be around the person who says them. And the one who allows them to be said.
— What was I supposed to do?! He threw up his hands in despair. — Start a scandal? Insult my own mother because she didn’t like your soup? Is that what you wanted? For me to take your side against her? That’s not how it works!
He stepped close, his breathing heavy, ragged. He wasn’t trying to seem smart or reasonable anymore. Now it was his fear speaking—fear of losing control, fear of being caught between two fires, fear that his cozy little world he’d built so carefully was about to collapse.
— Alyon, listen, his tone suddenly flipped from angry to pleading. — Let’s not do this. Please. Do it for me. Not for her—for me. I just want peace at home. So I’m not being torn between you two. Just once. One gift. Is it really such a high price for calm? For our calm?
He looked at her with hope, like a drowning man watching a splinter float by. And in that moment, something inside Alyona broke irreversibly. Or, on the contrary, clicked into place. She studied his face, his darting eyes, and suddenly saw him not as her husband, not as someone close, but as a complete stranger. He didn’t understand—and never would. All her words, all her pain bounced off him like peas off a wall. He wasn’t asking her to understand; he was asking her to shut up and pay for silence.
All the rage boiling in her drained away at once, as if someone had opened a valve. The steam left, and inside there was only a cold, ringing emptiness. She felt an incredible, almost physical exhaustion. There was no point in arguing anymore.
— Fine, she said.
Her voice was flat and muffled, as if she were speaking from underwater. Sergey froze for a second, not believing his ears.
— What do you mean “fine”?
— You’re right. It’s not a high price, she said, slowly stepping around him toward the sideboard where her phone lay. Her movements became mechanical, precise. — Fifty inches, you said?
Sergey stood still, watching her. His face flashed through a whole range of emotions—from disbelief to relief, and then to barely concealed triumph. He’d won. He’d managed it. He’d pushed through. He was right. The tension gripping his shoulders let go. A goofy, happy smile spread across his face. He didn’t notice how her own face had changed—how life drained out of it, leaving only a mask of focused determination.
She picked up the phone. Her fingers moved quickly and confidently across the screen. She opened the website of a major electronics store and chose the model. Sergey came closer and peered over her shoulder, nodding approvingly.
— Yes, yes, that one’s great! I read the reviews. Mom will be thrilled. Good job, Alyon. Really, good job. I knew you’d understand.
Alyona didn’t answer. She tapped “buy” and lifted the phone to her ear, putting it on speaker. After a few rings, a cheerful operator’s voice came through.
— Hello, delivery department, good afternoon!
— Hello, Alyona said in a crystal-clear, emotionless voice. — I’m placing an order for a television, Samsung QE50, delivered to… — she recited her mother-in-law’s address from memory.
Sergey beamed. He looked at her like a victor, ready to hug her. He was already picturing the reconciliation: his mother’s tears of joy, the grateful look thrown at his wise, accommodating wife. He, Sergey—the genius of family diplomacy. He’d handled everything.
— Order accepted, the operator confirmed. — I’m transferring you to payment.
Alyona kept her empty, dark eyes on her husband. There wasn’t a trace of a smile on her lips.
— Charge the payment to my husband’s card, Alyona continued, staring straight at Sergey.
Her voice, amplified by the phone’s speaker, sounded brutally clear in the room. Sergey’s smile froze—and then slowly slid down, as if it had been painted in watercolor and washed by rain. He stared at her, not understanding. Was this a joke? A stupid, clumsy joke to poke at him? He even tried a weak smile, but his facial muscles wouldn’t obey.
— Sorry, I didn’t catch that, the operator asked politely. — Will the payment be made by another person?
Sergey jerked his head, opened his mouth to jump in—to say it was a misunderstanding—but Alyona cut him off.
— My husband. He’s standing right next to me and fully agrees, she said without blinking, and there was an abyss of cold in her gaze. — Take every last cent he has.
— Alyona, what are you… Sergey rasped, but his voice drowned under her next words.
— Yes. Every last penny, she clipped into the phone. — There should be enough on the card. If it’s not enough for that model, choose any other one that costs exactly the full amount on his account. Understood?
There was a one-second pause on the other end. Even the faceless operator sensed something was off.
— Uh… so you want us to charge the entire available balance from your husband’s card toward the purchase of the TV?
— Exactly, Alyona confirmed. Then she ended the call. She didn’t throw the phone—she carefully set it down on the polished surface of the sideboard, next to the polishing cloth. She’d finished what she came to do.
Sergey stared at her, and the meaning of what had happened began to sink in slowly and painfully—like the ache from a heavy blow. This wasn’t a cruel prank. It was a public execution. The triumphant victor had just been stripped bare before the whole world—represented by an anonymous delivery operator. His “genius plan” had turned against him with monstrous, twisted logic.
— You… what did you do? he whispered. There was no anger in his voice—only confusion and a rising horror.
Alyona turned to him slowly. There was no malice, no triumph on her face. Only boundless, all-consuming fatigue—like she’d just moved every piece of furniture in the apartment by herself.
— I did what you asked, she said calmly. — There’s your gift to your mother. From you. A generous, grand gesture. That’s what you wanted, right? For her to understand what a good son you are. Now she will. You gave her everything you had.
She paused, letting the words sink into him, burn straight through.
— And now you can go celebrate with her. And live there too.
The last sentence sounded like a judge’s verdict. Final. Not subject to appeal. Sergey swayed. He looked around at the familiar walls, the sideboard she’d polished so carefully, the couch where they watched movies in the evenings. This whole world he’d considered his suddenly became чужой—alien, hostile. Glass.
— But… how… he couldn’t find words. — My things…
— I’ll bring your things to you, her voice remained perfectly flat. — Sometime.
“Sometime.” That word was worse than any scream. It meant uncertainty. It meant she’d erased him not only from her apartment, but from her schedule, from her thoughts. He wasn’t even a problem to solve anymore. He was nothing.
— You can’t, he forced out one last pathetic attempt at resistance. — You can’t just kick me out like this.
Alyona looked at him the way you look at something completely insignificant—dust on a shoe.
— This is my apartment, Sergey. My grandmother’s. And you don’t live here anymore. Get out.
She turned away from him and picked up the cloth again, returning to her interrupted ritual. Polishing the sideboard. As if he were no longer in the room. As if he had never been there at all. And he stood in the middle of the living room—crushed and destroyed—realizing his “plasma flag of reconciliation” had just burned his entire life to the ground…