I dropped the last tomato into the bowl and heard Marya Ivanovna start talking again — in that tone people use when they’re explaining something “obvious” to someone they consider slow.
“Seryozha, you really should’ve looked for a better wife. You’re my golden boy.”
Sergei sat opposite me, buried in his newspaper. He shrugged. Didn’t even lift his eyes.
I stood over the table, holding a bowl slick with juice. A hornet buzzed under the awning, and the tabletop still felt tacky from yesterday’s jam. At my feet Petya was busy on the ground, building a road out of his construction set, snuffling with concentration. Then he got up, took his little car, and silently walked toward the gate.
So he’d heard it.
Marya Ivanovna lowered her eyelids, as if she were tired of me simply for existing.
“Olya, and you’re still the same kind of ‘homemaker’… good for nothing.”
I set the bowl down a bit sharper than I intended.
“Would you like some tea?” I asked, level-voiced.
Beyond the fence the neighbor went quiet — Zinka, I think. She was definitely listening.
You know, I’ve already heard eight times that I’m worthless. Maybe that’s enough?
But I didn’t say anything out loud. I wiped my hands on my apron and went to the kitchen.
Cold water pounded into the sink, muffling the voices outside. I chopped onions, trying not to listen. But Marya Ivanovna spoke loudly — as if on purpose, so I’d hear every word.
“Running a household isn’t the same as washing dishes, you know…”
Sergei came into the kitchen and rubbed his neck.
“Mom’s just grumbling. Don’t pay attention. What can you do? You know what she’s like…”
I looked at him. He stood in the doorway, picking at the edge of his shirt, refusing to meet my gaze.
“Seryozha… did you even hear what she said?”
He hesitated.
“Well, I heard. Mom’s like that. Don’t take it so personally.”
He turned and left.
I turned the water on again — harder than necessary. My fingers went numb from the cold.
From outside came Zinka’s voice:
“Olya, you got another heat wave over there? Hang in there!”
Everyone sees it. Everyone hears it. Nobody does a thing.
I shut off the tap, dried my hands, and thought: what if I just walked away? Would anyone even notice?
Marya Ivanovna shouted from behind the door:
“Olya, pour the tea! You’re the hostess, aren’t you?”
I exhaled slowly.
Petya sat on the swing, drawing circles in the dirt with the wheel of his toy car. I sat beside him and stroked his shoulder.
“Mom,” he looked up at me, “why does Grandma talk so loud? Is ‘shurum-burum’ bad?”
I hugged him.
“No. Adults just get tired sometimes.”
He nodded and went back to his little car.
Zinka came over and held out a glass of water.
“Drink, Olya. It’s hot.”
I took it and swallowed. The water was warm — straight from the tap.
“You know, Olya,” Zinka sat down on the edge of the bench, “when my husband was alive, I put up with his mother too. I kept telling myself I had to — family, right? And then I spent years chewing myself up for it. You’re a good woman. Don’t forget yourself.”
She patted my hand and walked off.
I sat there, staring at the dusty swing. The sand under my feet was warm. Somewhere beyond the fence Marya Ivanovna shouted again — something about dinner.
You don’t have to endure it.
The thought sounded so clear, like someone had said it out loud.
I stood up and went back to the house.
That evening I was slicing tomatoes for a salad. Sergei sat in the corner, scrolling on his phone. Marya Ivanovna was talking in the hallway — loudly, demonstratively.
“Yes, I told them everything straight. A daughter like that would carry me in her arms, but this one — she’s an empty spot.”
I froze. The knife slipped from my fingers and hit the table. Tomato flesh stuck to my palm.
An empty spot.
I slowly picked up the knife and set it down again.
Enough.
Sergei looked up.
“Olya, what’s with you?”
I looked at him. Then at the door where his mother was standing.
“Nothing,” I said quietly. “Just wait.”
They were sitting on the terrace. Marya Ivanovna was sorting her knitting, Sergei was staring at his phone.
I went out and stood by the table.
“Marya Ivanovna,” I began calmly, “over the last three years you’ve called me a bad housewife eight times. Why do you keep coming here if everything is always wrong for you?”
She lifted her head and snapped her fingers.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m allowing myself to ask,” I said. “You know, this is my home. My dacha. And I’m tired of swallowing it.”
Sergei put his phone down.
“Olya, Mom didn’t mean it…”
I turned to him.
“Seryozha, you’re an adult. I want support — not a shadow.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at his mother. Looked at me.
“Do you understand? I can’t do this anymore. Either you respect my rules, or you leave.”
A pause. Marya Ivanovna stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
I took a throw blanket from the chair and went into the bedroom. I didn’t slam the door — I simply closed it softly.
I lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. My hands were shaking.
I did it. I actually did it.
In the morning I woke up to footsteps. Sergei was packing.
I went into the kitchen. He stood by the table with his jacket in his hands.
“So you’re serious?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He nodded, looking past me.
“Mom said she’ll go to my sister’s. I’ll drive her.”
“Okay.”
“And I…” he hesitated. “I’ll go too, for now. I need to think.”
I didn’t answer.
Marya Ivanovna came out with a suitcase. Looked down at me from her usual height. Said nothing. Slammed the car door.
Sergei got behind the wheel, started the engine, turned around on the gravel road, and drove away.
I stayed standing on the porch, listening as the sound of the car faded.
Silence.
Unfamiliar. Scary. And somehow… right.
Petya came back from the playground an hour later. He walked up, climbed silently into my lap, and rested his head on my shoulder.
“Mom… can I play here?”
I hugged him.
“Here, you can be whoever you want.”
He nodded and ran off again.
I sat on the path, looking at the house. It seemed big. Empty. Free.
Tears ran down my cheeks. But they didn’t burn. They just fell.
I chose myself.
By evening I put the kettle on. Took out a bowl of wild strawberries — the berries were already starting to spoil. Washed my hands under cold water.
Outside the window Zinka flashed by.
“So… quiet at yours now?”
I smiled.
“Yes. Now it’s my rules here. Not perfect — but mine.”
She nodded and walked away.
I looked at my reflection in the window glass. A tired face. Wet eyes. But something else too — something new.
Maybe it’s time to stop waiting for perfect relationships. Everyone has their own garden. Their own weeds.
I poured myself tea and sat by the window.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t blame myself.