Darya was sitting on the couch in her small one-room apartment reading a book when Igor came home from work. He looked pensive, even a little tense. After hanging up his jacket, he went into the kitchen, poured himself some water, and stood by the window for a long time, staring out at the evening city.
“Darya, we need to talk,” he finally said, sitting down beside his wife.
“About what?” She set the book aside and turned to him.
“About my mom. She’s getting worse. The doctors say she needs constant supervision—someone has to be there with her. She lives alone in her three-room place, and it’s getting hard for her to take care of herself.”
Darya frowned. Valentina Petrovna really had been complaining about her health lately, but until now she’d managed on her own.
“So what are you suggesting?”
“Let’s move in with her,” Igor took his wife’s hand. “Darya, think about it. She’s got a three-room apartment—plenty of space, it’ll be more comfortable for us. And we can rent out your studio—you’ll have steady income every month. We could easily get thirty thousand a month, maybe even more.”
“Live with my mother-in-law?” Darya grimaced. “Igor, you do understand that’s not the best idea.”
“Why? Mom’s normal, not some troublemaker. She just needs support, that’s all. A little supervision, nothing more. And we’ll help her, we’ll live in better conditions ourselves, and we’ll have extra money.”
Darya fell silent, thinking it over. Financially, it did seem reasonable. Their one-room apartment was cramped, especially when guests came over. And Valentina Petrovna really did have a spacious three-room place in a good neighborhood.
“Are you sure your mom agrees?” she asked cautiously.
“Of course! She asked for it herself. Darya, come on—please? Let’s at least try. If anything, we can always go back.”
After long persuasion and promises that “the care will be minimal,” Darya gave in. Igor described the benefits so convincingly that refusing started to feel foolish. A week later they packed their things and moved into Valentina Petrovna’s apartment.
Her mother-in-law welcomed them warmly, fussing around, showing them where everything was and which room would be theirs. It all looked harmless enough. Darya even relaxed, thinking she’d worried for nothing.
But reality hit her on the third day.
“Daryushka, dear, help me get to the bathroom,” Valentina Petrovna called out in the morning.
Darya set her coffee aside and helped her mother-in-law reach the bathroom. Then Valentina Petrovna asked her to help her wash. Darya hesitated—she hadn’t expected to have to bathe an adult—but it felt awkward to refuse.
After that, the real nightmare began. Valentina Petrovna wasn’t simply “in need of a little supervision”—she demanded constant attention and care. Darya had to do more than cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner for three; she also had to feed her mother-in-law, help her get dressed, change her bedding, and bathe her every evening.
Igor, meanwhile, behaved as if nothing special was happening. He came home from work, ate dinner, plopped down in front of the TV, and relaxed. When Darya asked him to help, he’d say he was tired, that tomorrow would be a big day, that his mom needed a woman’s care.
“Igor, at least help your mother change her sheets!” Darya pleaded one evening.
“Darya, that’s women’s work,” her husband shrugged. “I don’t get involved in those details. You can handle it.”
Darya worked as a manager at a construction company from nine to six. The workday drained her, and in the evenings she wasn’t met with well-earned rest but with another shift—at home. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, taking care of Valentina Petrovna. By ten at night Darya was dead on her feet, but even then she couldn’t lie down to sleep peacefully.
“Daryushka!” came from her mother-in-law’s room. “Bring me some water!”
“Daryushka, I’m hot—open the window!”
“Daryushka, I’m cold—close the window!”
Every evening turned into endless running back and forth between rooms. Darya felt her strength slipping away, her nerves stretched to the breaking point. She tried talking to Igor, explaining she couldn’t cope and needed help. But he only brushed her off:
“You’re exaggerating. Mom isn’t that demanding. It just seems like a lot to you.”
“It seems like it?” Darya was on the verge of tears from exhaustion. “Igor, today I spent an hour bathing your mother, then cooked, then cleaned, then kept running back to her again! I don’t even have time to sit down!”
“Then manage your time better,” he shrugged and went back to watching football.
Darya stood in the middle of the room and didn’t recognize the man she’d married three years earlier. That Igor had been attentive, caring, ready to help. This one… this one was using her as a free housekeeper and nurse for his mother.
One night, when Darya had almost fallen asleep, a loud voice rang through the apartment:
“Darya! Darya, come here immediately!”
She jumped out of bed, barely understanding what was happening. Her heart pounded—maybe something serious had happened, maybe her mother-in-law was feeling worse?
Darya rushed into Valentina Petrovna’s room.
“What happened? Are you unwell?”
“Change my bedding,” her mother-in-law said irritably. “I spilled tea— the sheet is wet. I can’t sleep like this.”
Darya froze. One-thirty in the morning. She’d slept only an hour after finishing the dishes and hanging laundry. And she was being woken up to change the bed because of spilled tea?
“Valentina Petrovna, maybe we can change it in the morning? I can put a towel down…”
“What towel? Do you want me to lie on something wet all night? Hurry up and change it!”
Darya clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms. Without a word, she went to the closet, pulled out clean bedding, and started remaking the bed. Valentina Petrovna stood nearby, watching critically.
“Pull the sheet tighter. There’s a wrinkle here. And you put the pillowcase on inside out—redo it.”
Darya stayed silent. If she opened her mouth now, she’d say things she’d regret later. So she just did what was demanded, keeping all her rage inside.
When she finished, she left the room without saying goodbye and headed back to the bedroom. Igor was sprawled on the bed asleep and didn’t even stir when she came in.
Darya walked over and lightly shook him by the shoulder.
“Igor. Wake up.”
“What?” He sleepily opened one eye.
“Do you think I’m going to wash your mother’s bedding and stay quiet?” Darya said softly, but very clearly.
Igor frowned and tried to close his eyes again.
“Darya, what kind of fight is this in the middle of the night? We’ll talk in the morning.”
“No—not in the morning. Now. Your mother just got me up at one-thirty to change her bedding. She spilled tea on it. Your mother, Igor. Not mine.”
He finally sat up, rubbing his face with his hands.
“So what do you want from me? Mom’s a woman, you’re a woman. Those are women’s things—I shouldn’t be getting involved. You understand it’s uncomfortable for me to bathe my mom, change her linens. It’s normal that you’re the one doing it.”
Darya felt something inside her flip over. She looked at her husband and couldn’t understand how someone could be so cynical and cold.
“Uncomfortable?” she repeated. “So it’s comfortable for me? Did I sign up to be your mother’s caregiver?”
“Darya, don’t start. She’s my mom, she needs help…”
“Then help her yourself!” Darya raised her voice. “She’s your mother, Igor! Not mine! I’m not obligated to take care of her! You’re her son—so you do it!”
“It’s women’s work, I’m telling you…”
“No,” Darya cut him off. “It’s your work. You brought me here and lied that it would be ‘a little supervision,’ and in reality you turned me into free labor.”
“You’re exaggerating!”
“I’m not exaggerating anything!”
Darya turned, went to the closet, and pulled out a large suitcase. Igor stared at her, not believing his eyes.
“What are you doing?”
She didn’t answer. Methodically, silently, Darya started packing her clothes. T-shirts, jeans, dresses—everything went into the suitcase. Igor jumped up and rushed over.
“Darya, are you out of your mind? In the middle of the night? Where are you going?”
“To my parents,” she tossed out briefly, still packing.
“Darya, stop! Let’s talk calmly!”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
Igor tried to snatch a sweater from her hands.
“Stop it right now! You’re my wife—we’re supposed to stick together! Mom is sick, she needs help, and what—you’re going to abandon us in a hard moment?”
Darya paused and looked him straight in the eyes.
“Your mom needs help? Great. Help her yourself. Bathe her, feed her, change her bed. I’m not doing it anymore.”
“But I’m a man! It’s uncomfortable!”
“And it’s comfortable for me?” Darya gave a bitter little smile. “You know, Igor, I have self-respect. And I’m not going to spend my life servicing you and your mother.”
“Darya, think about what you’re doing! You’re destroying our family!”
“No,” she said, zipping the suitcase shut. “You destroyed it. When you lied to me about moving here. When you dumped all your responsibilities for your mother on me. When you decided I’d just silently endure and serve.”
Igor grabbed her hands.
“Darya, don’t do this! Forgive me, I was wrong! I’ll help, I swear! Just don’t leave!”
Darya pulled her hands free and lifted the suitcase.
“You know what’s the worst part? Even now you don’t understand what your mistake is. You’re sorry not because you used me—but because now you’ll have to take care of your mom yourself.”
She left the bedroom, threw on her jacket in the hallway, and opened the front door. Igor stood in the doorway of the room, lost and frightened.
“Darya! Darya, come back!”
The door closed.
Darya called a taxi, and twenty minutes later she was standing at the door of her parents’ apartment. Her father, Viktor Mikhailovich, opened the door in his pajamas, sleepy and worried.
“Darya? What happened?”
“Dad, can I stay with you for a while?”
“Of course, sweetheart, come in,” he said, taking her suitcase and letting her inside.
Her mother, Svetlana Nikolaevna, came out of the bedroom.
“Dasha, did something happen?”
“It’s all fine, Mom. I just… I need to be here.”
Her parents exchanged a glance but didn’t question her. They quietly made up a bed for her on the living-room couch, brought a blanket and a pillow. Darya lay down and closed her eyes, feeling the tension of the past weeks finally loosen its grip.
In the morning Igor started calling. Darya rejected the calls, not wanting to talk. Then the messages came—long, full of apologies and promises.
“Darya, forgive me, I was wrong. Please come back. I’ll fix everything. I’ll take care of Mom myself—you don’t have to help at all. Just come back.”
Darya didn’t believe a single word. She knew Igor too well: if she returned, everything would repeat. Promises would remain promises, and she’d end up a servant again.
The first thing Darya did was contact the tenants renting her studio apartment. A young student couple—they’d taken it for six months. Darya explained the situation and asked them to move out early, promising to refund the unused portion of the last month.
“We understand, don’t worry,” the girl said. “We were actually planning to move out in a week anyway—our semester’s over.”
A week later Darya got her keys back. She came to her apartment and stood in the middle of the room for a long time, looking at the familiar walls. How good it felt to be home—in her own space, where no one would demand in the middle of the night that she change sheets.
Darya did a bit of cleaning, aired out the place, bought fresh groceries. Igor kept calling, but she stopped picking up. Let him deal with his own problems.
Two weeks later Darya filed for divorce. At the registry office they were given a month to reconsider. Igor showed up for the appointment gloomy and angry.
“So—have you thought it through?”
“Yes,” Darya answered calmly.
“And you really want to divorce over such nonsense?”
“Over nonsense?” she smirked. “Igor, you turned me into a free caregiver for your mother. That’s not nonsense.”
“You couldn’t handle difficulties!” he snapped. “You abandoned us when things got hard! Selfish!”
Darya looked at her soon-to-be ex-husband without any emotion.
“You know, I really couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle you using me. I couldn’t handle you dumping all your duties on me. I couldn’t handle living like a servant in someone else’s apartment.”
“Mom needed help!”
“Your mom. Your responsibility,” Darya stood up. “I don’t regret my decision, Igor. On the contrary, I’m grateful to myself that I stopped in time.”
The waiting month passed quickly. Igor didn’t try to reconcile anymore—apparently he realized it was useless. They went to the registry office together and signed the divorce papers. There was nothing to divide—Darya’s apartment was hers, Valentina Petrovna’s apartment was hers, and they had no shared purchases or children.
Walking out of the registry office building, Darya took a deep breath of fresh air. She was free. Free from manipulation, from other people’s obligations, from endless work for two.
Igor stood nearby for a moment, staring grimly at the asphalt, then turned and went to his car without saying goodbye.
Darya went back to her one-room apartment, brewed some tea, and sat by the window. Life was starting over. No one would call her in the middle of the night anymore, demanding she change sheets, bathe someone, feed someone. She belonged to herself again.
A month after the divorce, Darya met up with a friend who brought news about Igor. It turned out he’d hired a caregiver for Valentina Petrovna—a paid professional. He was paying her forty thousand rubles a month.
“Can you imagine?” her friend laughed. “He finally realized he can’t manage on his own. He wanted to save money by using you, and now he’s paying a stranger.”
Darya smiled. So it did get through to him: caring for a sick person is hard work—work that should either be done by a relative or paid for properly.
And she returned to her own life. Work, meeting friends, hobbies, travel. No obligations to anyone, no guilt for not wanting to sacrifice herself for someone else’s problems.
Darya didn’t regret the divorce for a single second. She saved herself—her life, her dignity. And it was the best investment she had ever made