Svetlana came home from work late — outside, October dusk was already thickening, and the wind chased wet leaves along the asphalt. Kicking off her shoes in the entryway, she walked into the kitchen and froze on the threshold. Her husband Dmitry was sitting at the table, and across from him sat his mother, Galina Ivanovna, a cup in her hands and a smug look on her face.
“Ah, Sveta, finally,” her mother-in-law said without even turning her head. “We’ve been waiting for half an hour already.”
“Hello,” Svetlana said, taking off her jacket and hanging it over the back of a chair. “Dima, you could’ve warned me your mom was coming.”
“I didn’t know myself,” her husband shrugged, not looking up from his phone.
Galina Ivanovna took a loud sip of tea and set the cup down with a light clink.
“Listen, Dimmy, I found something,” she leaned closer to her son. “There’s a stove at the shop on Sovetskaya — it’s on sale. Can you imagine? Only one hundred seventy-five thousand! Mine has completely died, the burners don’t work.”
Svetlana slowly lowered herself into a chair. The amount was spoken so casually, as if they were talking about a kilo of apples, not money they’d been saving for months.
“That’s expensive,” Svetlana began carefully. “Galina Ivanovna, maybe we should look for something cheaper?”
“Cheaper?” Her mother-in-law finally looked at her, her gaze cold. “You want me cooking on some Chinese piece of tin? My back hurts — I need proper appliances.”
Dmitry stayed silent, scrolling through his feed. Svetlana glanced at her husband, waiting for some reaction, but he didn’t even blink.
“Dima,” she called softly. “That’s our vacation money.”
“Mom, maybe we really should find something simpler?” Dmitry finally looked up, but his voice sounded unsure, as if he were asking out of politeness.
“Oh, Dimmy, come on,” Galina Ivanovna put a hand on her son’s shoulder. “I’m doing it for you. I’ll come bake you pies, cook soups. And on the old stove that’s impossible.”
Svetlana clenched her hands under the table. Her mother-in-law had never cooked in their apartment — she came to drink tea and complain about neighbors, prices, her health. But now she played the role of a caring mother so skillfully that Dmitry was already nodding along.
“Alright, Mom,” her husband stood up and headed for the entryway.
“Where are you going?” Svetlana rose after him.
“We need the money,” Dmitry tossed over his shoulder, not turning around.
She didn’t have time to object — Dmitry had already opened the dresser where her bag was. He pulled out her wallet, unzipped it, and took out a thick stack of bills cinched tight with a rubber band. His movements were calm, routine, as if he did it every day.
“Dima, wait,” Svetlana stepped closer, but her voice came out too quiet.
Her husband returned to the kitchen and handed the money to his mother. Galina Ivanovna took the bills, counted them with a finger, and nodded.
“Good boy. I’ll go and arrange it tomorrow.”
“Galina Ivanovna, that was our savings,” Svetlana said from the kitchen doorway, trying to keep her tone even. “We were planning a trip.”
“Sveta, what selfishness,” her mother-in-law stood up, slipping the money into her bag. “You’re young and healthy — you’ll go to the sea a hundred more times. I need a stove now.”
“But why should I pay for it?”
“You?” Galina Ivanovna smirked. “My son gave the money. Or do you think in a family everything is only yours?”
Svetlana looked at Dmitry, waiting for him to say at least one word in her defense. But he stood with his eyes down and said nothing.
“Dima, say something,” she asked.
“Mom, seriously, don’t be mad,” Dmitry lifted his head, but he was speaking to his mother, not his wife. “Sveta’s just tired — she had a hard day at work.”
Galina Ivanovna nodded, zipped her bag, and headed for the door.
“Alright, I’m going. Thank you, Dimmy — you’re the best.”
The door slammed. Svetlana stayed standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at her husband.
“Why didn’t you ask me?” she said quietly.
“Mom needed help,” Dmitry shrugged. “You wouldn’t refuse.”
“I would’ve liked to be asked at least.”
“Sveta, don’t make a mountain out of a molehill,” he waved his hand and left the kitchen.
Svetlana sank into a chair and looked at the empty countertop. The cup Galina Ivanovna had drunk from sat there with leftover tea. Svetlana picked it up and carried it to the sink, feeling a dull irritation grow inside her with nowhere to go.
The next two weeks passed quietly. Svetlana tried not to return to the subject of money — Dmitry brushed it off every time, saying it was “nothing” and “why ruin relations over nonsense.” She buried herself in work, came home late, and went to bed earlier than her husband so she wouldn’t have to talk.
One evening Galina Ivanovna showed up again — without calling, without warning. Svetlana opened the door and saw her mother-in-law with heavy bags in her hands.
“Oh, Sveta, help me,” Galina Ivanovna held out one bag. “I brought firewood — for Dimmy’s shashlik.”
“What shashlik?” Svetlana took the bag and set it in the entryway. “We don’t have a grill.”
“How can you not?” her mother-in-law shrugged off her jacket. “No matter, we’ll buy one. Dima loves getting out into nature.”
Dmitry came out of the room, saw his mother, and smiled.
“Mom, what are you doing here?”
“I brought firewood. And there’s one more thing,” Galina Ivanovna walked into the kitchen without waiting to be invited.
Svetlana closed the door and followed. Her mother-in-law was already sitting at the table, pulling papers out of her bag.
“Look, Dimmy — my neighbor, Valentina Sergeyevna, is selling a refrigerator. Almost new, only three years old. She’s moving in with her daughter and doesn’t need it.”
“Mom, we have a fridge,” Dmitry sat down across from her.
“We do, but it’s small,” Galina Ivanovna unfolded a sheet with a photo. “And this one’s big, two-compartment. It’ll be more convenient for you.”
Svetlana leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms.
“Galina Ivanovna, we don’t need a new refrigerator.”
“Sveta, you don’t understand,” her mother-in-law didn’t even glance her way. “Right now you have everything small and inconvenient. And when you have kids, where will you put everything?”
“We don’t have kids,” Svetlana snapped.
“Well, you will,” Galina Ivanovna smiled and turned to her son. “Dimmy, you want proper appliances at home, don’t you?”
Dmitry was silent, studying the photo. Svetlana felt tension squeeze at her temples. The conversation was painfully familiar — her mother-in-law suggested something, her husband kept quiet, then agreed.
“How much?” Dmitry finally asked.
“Eighty thousand,” Galina Ivanovna folded her hands on the table. “Valentina Sergeyevna will even give a discount if we take it right away.”
“We’re not buying a refrigerator,” Svetlana said firmly.
“And why not?” her mother-in-law finally turned to her, irritation flashing in her eyes. “Do you want my son living in poverty?”
“In poverty?” Svetlana straightened up. “Galina Ivanovna, we have everything. An apartment, furniture, appliances.”
“Old appliances,” her mother-in-law cut in. “Dimmy deserves better.”
Svetlana looked at her husband, but he was studying the photo again, as if trying to dissolve into the paper.
“Dima, tell your mother we don’t need a fridge.”
“Sveta, well, why not — maybe we really should buy it?” Dmitry finally looked up. “Ours is kind of old.”
“It’s four years old!”
“So what?” Galina Ivanovna stood. “The sooner you replace it, the better. Otherwise it’ll break, and you’ll overpay for repairs.”
Svetlana clenched her fists. Her mother-in-law’s logic was absurd, but Dmitry was already nodding.
“Alright, Mom — tell Valentina Sergeyevna we’ll take it.”
“Good boy,” Galina Ivanovna patted his shoulder. “You’ll bring the money tomorrow?”
“Dima, we didn’t discuss this,” Svetlana stepped toward the table.
“Sveta, enough,” Dmitry rose. “It’s nothing. Why start a scandal?”
“Nothing? Eighty thousand is nothing?”
“We’ll earn more,” Dmitry looked away.
Galina Ivanovna gathered the papers, zipped her bag, and headed out.
“Alright, I’m going. Dimmy, I’ll be waiting tomorrow.”
Svetlana watched her go, then turned to her husband.
“Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“Talk about what?” Dmitry shrugged. “We need the fridge.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Sveta, you just don’t want Mom involved in our life,” he walked past his wife and disappeared into the room.
Svetlana stayed in the kitchen, staring at the empty table. A feeling of helplessness washed over her slowly, like thick fog with nothing to hold on to.
She went into the bedroom, sat on the bed, and stared at the wall. Dmitry lay facing the window, pretending to sleep. Svetlana knew he wasn’t sleeping — he was avoiding the conversation. It was easier that way: stay silent, wait it out, and in the morning act like nothing had happened.
Minutes dragged on. Rain rustled outside; somewhere below, the entrance door slammed. Svetlana got up, took her phone, and texted her friend Katya: “Can I come over for the night?”
The reply came almost immediately: “Of course. I’m waiting.”
She pulled a small bag from the closet and put in a change of clothes, a makeup bag, and a charger. Her movements were precise, unhurried. Dmitry stayed motionless, but Svetlana saw his shoulders tense.
“Where are you going?” he finally asked without turning around.
“To Katya’s.”
“Why?”
“I need to think,” Svetlana zipped the bag and headed for the door.
“Sveta, are you seriously leaving because of a refrigerator?”
She turned. Dmitry propped himself up on an elbow and looked at her in confusion, as if she were throwing a childish tantrum.
“It’s not about the refrigerator,” she said quietly. “It’s about the fact that you don’t even see the problem.”
“What problem?” he sat up. “Mom helped — found a good deal. What’s bad about that?”
“You took money without asking me. The second time.”
“Sveta, it’s not strangers’ money,” Dmitry ran a hand through his hair. “We live together.”
“We live in my apartment,” Svetlana reminded him. “And the money for the stove was mine.”
“Oh, here we go,” Dmitry fell back onto the pillow. “Your apartment, your money. Maybe the air in the apartment is yours too?”
Svetlana didn’t answer. She turned and left. She closed the door quietly, without a slam. The stairwell smelled of dampness and old paint. She went down the steps, stepped outside, and breathed in the cold night air.
At Katya’s it was warm and smelled like coffee. Katya opened the door in pajama pants, hair tousled, and hugged Svetlana without a word.
“Come in. Tea? Coffee?”
“Tea,” Svetlana slipped off her jacket and went into the kitchen.
Katya put the kettle on, took out mugs, and sat across from her.
“Talk.”
Svetlana told her everything: the stove, the refrigerator, how Dmitry didn’t even think he needed to ask permission. She spoke evenly, without tears, but her voice trembled on certain words.
“Sveta, do you understand this won’t change?” Katya wrapped her hands around her mug. “Galina Ivanovna knows now she can come and ask for anything. And Dima will give it, because he’s used to it.”
“I know,” Svetlana nodded. “I just don’t want to believe it’s that bad.”
“Do you want to live like this?”
Svetlana was silent, staring at the pattern on the tablecloth. The question hung in the air — heavy and inevitable.
“No,” she finally said softly. “I don’t.”
Katya reached out and squeezed her hand.
“Then you know what to do.”
In the morning Svetlana woke up on Katya’s couch, and the first thing she saw was her phone screen with five missed calls from Dmitry. She didn’t listen to them — she just set the phone down and got up.
Katya was already in the kitchen with a laptop.
“Good morning. Sleep okay?”
“Yeah,” Svetlana poured herself water from a pitcher. “Thanks for letting me stay.”
“Of course. Listen, I was thinking,” Katya closed the laptop. “Maybe you should stay with me for now — until you figure out what to do next.”
“No,” Svetlana shook her head. “It’s my apartment. I’m going back.”
“And what will you say to Dima?”
“Nothing. I’ll pack my things and tell him it’s over.”
Katya nodded and didn’t argue. She knew her friend well enough to understand: if Svetlana had made a decision, she wouldn’t change her mind.
Svetlana returned home closer to noon. The apartment was empty — Dmitry had apparently gone to work. She went into the bedroom, pulled a large travel bag from the closet, and started packing: clothes, shoes, makeup, documents. She moved quickly and neatly, as if carrying out a plan she’d thought through in advance.
Receipts were lying on the kitchen counter. Svetlana picked one up — the stove really had been bought, one hundred seventy-five thousand paid to the shop on Sovetskaya. Next to it lay a second receipt — the refrigerator, eighty thousand, issued in Dmitry’s name.
She put the papers back on the table and went into the room. She took a notebook from a drawer, tore out a sheet, and wrote briefly: “If your mother matters more, let her cook.”
She didn’t sign it. She left the note on the kitchen table next to the receipts. She left her apartment keys there too.
Svetlana looked around the room one last time. Three years of their life had passed here, but now the place felt чужое — as if she’d never lived here at all. She picked up her bag, went out, and closed the door.
Dmitry started calling that evening. She declined the first call. The second too. The third time he texted: “Sveta, where are you? What’s with the note? Let’s talk.”
She didn’t reply. She set her phone face down and kept busy — unpacking at Katya’s, looking for a rental apartment, calling acquaintances. Katya offered her to stay, but Svetlana refused — she didn’t want to be a burden.
Two days later Dmitry wrote again: “Sveta, this is stupid. Destroying the relationship over nonsense. Let’s meet and discuss everything.”
Svetlana read the message and smirked. Nonsense. For Dmitry everything was nonsense — money, decisions, his wife’s feelings. She blocked his number and exhaled.
A week later Svetlana случайно ran into Valentina Sergeyevna — the very neighbor of Galina Ivanovna who had been selling the refrigerator. The woman was standing by the entrance with heavy bags, and Svetlana helped carry them to the door.
“Thank you, dear,” Valentina Sergeyevna set the bags down. “You’re Svetlana, Galina Ivanovna’s daughter-in-law, right?”
“Ex,” Svetlana answered curtly.
“Oh, I see,” the woman nodded. “I heard you and your husband split up. A shame, of course.”
“It happens,” Svetlana shrugged.
“Yeah. And by the way, the refrigerator is still sitting there unplugged,” Valentina Sergeyevna sighed. “Galina Ivanovna says a technician is expensive, and Dmitry just can’t get around to it. And they say the stove hasn’t been hooked up either.”
Svetlana nodded slowly. The picture came together clearly: the money was spent, the appliances were bought — but no one was going to use them. Simply because there was no one to cook and no reason to.
“Thanks for telling me,” Svetlana turned and headed out.
“You’re welcome, dear,” Valentina Sergeyevna called after her.
Svetlana stepped outside, and the autumn wind hit her face. She zipped up her jacket and smiled. A stove for one hundred seventy-five thousand, a refrigerator for eighty — all of it was now gathering dust somewhere in a corner, useless and unnecessary. Galina Ivanovna got what she wanted, but never started cooking for her son. And Dmitry was left alone — with appliances no one plugged in, and a mother who came only to ask.
Svetlana walked down the street and, for the first time in a long while, felt lightness. She had made the right decision. A life without constant уступки and чужие hands in her wallet was worth far more than any stove.