Ksenia woke to the sound of water running. Outside, it was barely dawn—March pressed its dull gray light through the curtains. The space beside her in bed was empty; Denis was already up. She stretched, yawned, and got up at an unhurried pace. The shower roared in the bathroom—he was clearly getting ready for work.
In the kitchen, Ksenia made herself coffee and sat by the window. Six months. Half a year ago she and Denis had signed at the registry office—no lavish ceremony, just a small wedding and a modest celebration. Back then it felt like everything would be simple, light, easy. But life has a way of rewriting the script.
Denis came out of the bathroom in his work uniform. He was an engineer at a factory and earned a modest salary—thirty-five thousand a month. Ksenia worked at a large IT company as a project manager; her pay was three times higher: one hundred and five thousand after tax. When they’d started dating, the gap hadn’t seemed like a big deal. Now it had turned into a constant source of pressure.
“Morning,” Denis said, pouring himself tea and sitting across from his wife.
“Morning,” Ksenia smiled. “Sleep okay?”
“Fine. You going somewhere today?”
“Yes. I’ve got a salon appointment at two. I want to do my nails.”
Denis nodded, but his expression tightened, sharpening around the eyes. Ksenia noticed and kept quiet. He finished his tea, stood up.
“Alright, I’m off. See you tonight.”
“Okay.”
Denis left. Ksenia stayed alone with her coffee and her thoughts. For the past few weeks her husband had grown strangely closed off. He spoke less and less, slipping into silence. And when he did talk, he kept dropping little hints that she spent too much—never outright, always casually.
“Another salon visit? Must be pricey.”
“Bought another bag? You already have ten.”
Each line landed like a tiny needle.
Ksenia knew where it was coming from. Tatyana Andreyevna.
Her mother-in-law visited regularly—at least once a week. She showed up without warning, rang the bell, and walked in like someone who knew better than everyone else. Tatyana Andreyevna criticized everything: how Ksenia cooked, how she cleaned, how she dressed, how she spent money. Especially money.
“Ksyusha, have you ever thought you should cut back?” she’d say, eyeing her daughter-in-law’s new shoes. “Denis isn’t a millionaire. You’re a young family—you need to save.”
“Save for what, Tatyana Andreyevna?” Ksenia would ask.
“What do you mean, for what? For the future! For children! For a car for Denis!”
A car. That was the magic word. Tatyana Andreyevna was obsessed with the idea that her son needed one. She repeated it, underlined it, drilled it into every conversation.
“All men have cars, and my Denis rides buses like a schoolboy.”
“You drive your own little car around while your husband walks—aren’t you ashamed?”
Ksenia did have a car. Not brand-new, but solid—a Mazda 3 she’d bought before marriage with her own money. Denis drove it sometimes, but he preferred public transport. He said he got nervous behind the wheel. But his mother saw that as humiliation.
“A real man has to have his own car,” Tatyana Andreyevna insisted.
And Denis gradually started absorbing the idea. He began scrolling through car listings, browsing websites, comparing models. Ksenia noticed but didn’t comment. Let him dream, she told herself. When he saves up, he’ll buy one.
But saving for a car on thirty-five thousand a month was hard—especially when Denis spent a big chunk on himself: bars with friends, games, gadgets. There wasn’t much left to put aside. And that’s where his mother stepped in.
“Ksyusha, you earn well,” Tatyana Andreyevna would say in a confidential tone. “You could help Denis. You’re family.”
“Tatyana Andreyevna, I cover most of our household expenses,” Ksenia would answer. “Rent, utilities, groceries, basic necessities. That is my help.”
“But it’s not enough! Denis needs a car! It’s important for his self-respect!”
Ksenia couldn’t understand that logic. Why should a man’s self-worth depend on a vehicle? Why was it automatically the wife’s job to bankroll his dreams? But her mother-in-law kept pressing—hinting, criticizing, pushing. And Denis stayed quiet. He never defended Ksenia, never told his mother to stop. He just sat there, listened, and nodded.
At two in the afternoon Ksenia walked into the beauty salon “Estelle.” The nail tech, Lena, greeted her with a smile.
“Ksenia, hi! What are we doing today?”
“Something bright. Red, maybe.”
“Red? Bold. But it’ll suit you.”
The appointment took a long time—nearly two hours. Ksenia relaxed, flipping through a magazine while Lena chatted about her vacation in Turkey. The atmosphere was calm and pleasant. When it was done, Ksenia looked at her hands and smiled. The glossy red nails looked sharp and stylish.
“Love it. How much do I owe you?”
“Two thousand five hundred.”
Ksenia paid by card and drove home. Her mood was light; music played in the car. She pulled into the courtyard, parked, went up to her floor, unlocked the door—and froze.
Tatyana Andreyevna was standing in the living room. She was dragging an armchair from the window toward the sofa, clearly trying to “improve” the layout. Ksenia slowly closed the door behind her.
“Good afternoon, Tatyana Andreyevna.”
Her mother-in-law turned, smiling.
“Oh, Ksyusha! Hi! I just thought the chair would look better over here. More convenient, don’t you think?”
“How did you get in?” Ksenia’s voice was quiet, but tight.
“What do you mean how? Denis gave me keys. Said I could come in when I need to. I’m not a stranger.”
Ksenia pressed her lips together. So Denis had handed his mother keys without even mentioning it. Wonderful. She took off her jacket and hung it up.
“Tatyana Andreyevna, we never agreed to that.”
“Agreed to what? The keys? Oh, Ksyusha, I’m Denis’s mother. Of course I can.”
Ksenia didn’t argue. She went to the kitchen and poured herself water. Her mother-in-law followed.
“Oh! New manicure!” Tatyana Andreyevna grabbed Ksenia’s hand and examined her nails. “Red. Bright. Expensive, I bet?”
“Two and a half thousand.”
“Wow!” her mother-in-law widened her eyes. “Two and a half! Ksyusha, you do realize that’s wasteful?”
“No, I don’t.”
“What do you mean, you don’t? Denis earns pennies and you spend that kind of money on nails!”
“I’m spending my own money, Tatyana Andreyevna. Money I earned myself.”
“But you’re a family! The money should be shared!”
Ksenia set the glass down and turned to her.
“Let me explain. I earn 105,000. From that, I pay rent—30,000. Utilities—5,000. Groceries—20,000. That’s 55,000 for shared expenses. I have 50,000 left. That’s my personal money. I can spend it however I want.”
“And Denis?”
“Denis earns 35,000. He saves what he can. That’s his business.”
Tatyana Andreyevna folded her arms across her chest. Her face hardened.
“Ksyusha, you’re selfish. My son dreams of a car, and you’re blowing money on manicures.”
“It’s my right.”
“Your right?!” her mother-in-law raised her voice. “Enough spending on yourself—our son needs to save for a car!”
Ksenia went still. The sentence hung in the air, heavy and crude. She exhaled slowly.
“Say that again, please. What did you just say?”
“I said stop spending on yourself!” Tatyana Andreyevna stepped closer. “Denis deserves a car! He’s a man, he needs it! And you only think about yourself!”
“I only think about myself?” Ksenia’s voice shot up. “I pay for this apartment! I buy the food! I support this household ninety percent of the time!”
“But you’re not helping Denis!”
“I’m not obligated!”
“You are! You’re his wife!”
“I’m his wife, not his sponsor!”
Ksenia felt everything inside her boiling over. Months of swallowed frustration finally broke loose. Tatyana Andreyevna stood there, flushed with indignation.
“You’re ungrateful!” her mother-in-law shouted. “Denis married you and you won’t even buy him a car!”
“Denis should buy his own car! He’s a grown man!”
“With what money?! His salary is pathetic!”
“Then let him find a better job!”
“How dare you!”
“I dare to tell the truth!” Ksenia stepped closer. “You interfere in our life. You pry into our finances. You demand I hand over my money for your son’s car. That is unacceptable!”
“I’m his mother!”
“That doesn’t give you the right!”
Tatyana Andreyevna wagged a finger at her.
“You’ll regret this! I’ll tell Denis everything—how you insult me, how you refuse to help him!”
“Tell him,” Ksenia snapped, turning toward the bedroom. “I don’t care.”
Her mother-in-law followed.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m packing.”
“What?!”
Ksenia pulled a suitcase from the closet and tossed it onto the bed. She started folding clothes—dresses, jeans, underwear. Her hands shook, but her movements were precise. Tatyana Andreyevna stood in the doorway, stunned.
“What are you doing?!”
“I’m leaving.”
“Where?”
“Doesn’t matter. Farther away from you.”
“Ksyusha, stop! Don’t do something stupid!”
“Stupid is living here and tolerating your meddling.”
Ksenia zipped the suitcase, grabbed her handbag, shoved in her documents, phone, wallet. Tatyana Andreyevna stepped into the room.
“Wait! Let’s talk calmly!”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Ksyusha, don’t make a scene! I just wanted to help!”
“Help?” Ksenia turned around. “You call it help when you demand my money? When you criticize me every time you see me?”
“I didn’t criticize…”
“You did. Constantly. Everything I do is wrong to you. I’m a bad wife, a bad homemaker, a selfish person!”
“Ksyusha, that’s not what I meant…”
“Enough.”
Ksenia lifted the suitcase and walked out of the bedroom. Tatyana Andreyevna trailed behind her, confused and frightened.
“You’re really leaving?”
“Yes.”
“And Denis?”
“Let him live with you.”
Ksenia put on her jacket, grabbed her keys, opened the door. Tatyana Andreyevna seized her sleeve.
“Wait! Don’t leave like this! Let’s wait for Denis, talk it through!”
“Let go.”
“Ksyusha, please!”
Ksenia yanked her arm free and stepped into the hallway. The door slammed. Her mother-in-law was left alone in the apartment, among rearranged furniture and unfinished “improvements.”
Ksenia got into her car and started the engine. Where to go? She didn’t know. She just drove through the city, winding aimlessly. Her mind felt blank, with only one thought spinning: enough. I can’t do this anymore.
An hour later she stopped outside a real estate office. She got out and walked in. A manager greeted her with a smile.
“Good evening. How can I help?”
“I need an apartment. One-bedroom. Downtown. Long-term.”
“Of course. Let’s look at some options.”
Two hours later Ksenia signed a lease. A tiny studio on the fifth floor—twenty-five square meters. Clean, freshly renovated, barely furnished. Thirty thousand a month. Ksenia paid the first month and the deposit and received the keys.
The apartment greeted her with silence. She set her suitcase by the wall and walked around. The window faced a busy street; cars and people flickered below. Ksenia sat on the couch and simply stared out the window. Inside, she felt something strange—a mix of relief and sadness.
Around ten in the evening her phone rang. Denis. Ksenia stared at the screen for a long time, then declined the call. He called three more times. She didn’t answer. A message arrived: “Where are you? Mom said you left. What happened?”
Ksenia didn’t reply. She lay down on the couch and pulled a throw blanket from the closet over herself. She fell asleep almost instantly—heavy, dreamless sleep.
In the morning her mother called.
“Ksyusha, where are you? Denis called me asking. He says you left.”
“I did, Mom.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story. I rented a place. I’m going to live alone for now.”
“My girl… maybe come stay with us? We’ll talk.”
“No, Mom. I’m okay. Really.”
Elena Mikhailovna sighed.
“Alright. But if you need anything—call. Anytime.”
“Thank you.”
The days moved slowly. Ksenia went to work, came back to her new apartment, cooked dinner, watched series. Denis called every day. She didn’t answer. Then she began switching her phone off completely. She didn’t want conversations. She didn’t want explanations.
A week later Denis finally got through. His voice sounded tired, guilty.
“Ksyusha, please. Let’s meet. Talk.”
“About what?”
“About everything. I know Mom went too far. Forgive her.”
“You’re apologizing for her?”
“Well… yes. She didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Denis, she demanded I give up my money for your car. Do you think that’s normal?”
“No, of course not. But she just worries about me.”
“And you don’t worry about me?”
Silence. Long, heavy silence.
“Ksyusha… I love you. Let’s go back to how it was.”
“How it was?” Ksenia gave a short, bitter laugh. “With your mother вмешиваясь into everything? With you staying quiet while she criticized me? That was how it was, Denis.”
“I’ll change.”
“You won’t.”
“I will. I promise!”
“Fine,” Ksenia exhaled. “One condition.”
“What?”
“Your mother apologizes. Publicly. Admits she was wrong.”
Denis went silent again. Then he said quietly:
“That’s… difficult.”
“Why?”
“Well… Mom’s proud. She doesn’t know how to apologize.”
“Then there’s nothing to talk about.”
“Ksyusha, wait! I’ll talk to her, I’ll explain—”
“Explain. If she apologizes, call me. If not—don’t call at all.”
Ksenia ended the call and sat on the couch, hugging her knees to her chest. She knew Tatyana Andreyevna would never apologize. Never. Her mother-in-law believed she was right about everything. And Denis wouldn’t be able to make his mother admit she was wrong. He was weak. He’d always been weak.
Denis didn’t call again. A week passed, then two, then a month. Ksenia lived her life. She worked, met friends, signed up for dance lessons. She’d always wanted to learn salsa but never had the time. Now she did.
At dance class she met Marina, a cheerful woman in her mid-thirties.
“You move so well!” Marina told her after a lesson. “You’ve got talent!”
“Thanks,” Ksenia smiled. “I love it.”
“Want to grab coffee?”
“Sure.”
They sat in a café and talked about life. Ksenia told her about the divorce, the mother-in-law, the husband. Marina listened, nodding.
“You know, I had something similar. Only it was my father-in-law. He demanded I quit my job and stay home with the kids.”
“And what did you do?”
“I got divorced. Best decision of my life.”
Ksenia nodded. Marina was right. Sometimes divorce isn’t an ending—it’s a beginning. The start of a new life.
Two months after she left, Ksenia received an envelope in the mail. Inside were divorce papers. Denis had filed through the court. She read them and signed. There were no property claims—since the apartment had been rented, the car was hers from before the marriage, and they hadn’t accumulated much together.
Ksenia brought the documents to court and submitted them. A month later a notice arrived: the marriage had been dissolved. She held the paper and couldn’t decide what she felt. Sadness? Relief? Both at once.
That evening she called her mother.
“Mom… I’m divorced. Officially.”
“How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m okay. Honestly.”
“Come over this weekend. We’ll grill shashlik.”
“I will.”
Ksenia hung up and smiled. For the first time in a long while, she smiled genuinely—no strain, no mask. Life was going on. Without Denis, without Tatyana Andreyevna, without constant pressure and criticism.
At work everything was going well. Ksenia got promoted, and her salary rose to 130,000. Her boss praised her, said she was the best manager on the team. Ksenia worked with pleasure, poured herself into her projects.
Friends invited her to parties, concerts, trips. She said yes. She went to St. Petersburg for a long weekend, walked along Nevsky Prospekt, watched the bridges rise at night. Then she flew to Kazan, visited the Kremlin, tried echpochmak. Traveling felt easy now—no weight of family obligations.
One day at the supermarket Ksenia ran into Tatyana Andreyevna. The woman was standing by the grains, choosing buckwheat. Ksenia stopped, unsure what to do. Her former mother-in-law turned, recognized her, and her face turned to stone.
“Hello, Ksenia.”
“Hello, Tatyana Andreyevna.”
Silence. Awkward, heavy. Then the older woman said:
“Denis bought a car. Finally.”
“Congratulations.”
“He took out a loan. He’ll be paying it off for fifteen years.”
Ksenia nodded, said nothing. Tatyana Andreyevna turned and pushed her cart away. Ksenia stood there watching her go. Fifteen years of debt—for a car. For a symbol of success. Exactly what his mother wanted.
At home Ksenia boiled pasta and thought about Denis. How was he now? Was he happy with the car? Or had he realized it was a mistake? But it wasn’t her problem anymore. Not her life.
On a bright spring morning Ksenia walked through a park. The sun was warm, trees were green, birds sang. She moved along the path, enjoying the light. Children ran past; couples sat on benches; dogs chased each other across the grass.
She stopped by a pond and watched the ducks. They floated, dove, chattered to each other. Ksenia smiled—just because. No reason. Inside, everything was quiet. For the first time in months—absolute calm.
Her phone vibrated. A message from Marina: “Ksyusha, want to go to the movies tonight? A new film is out.” Ksenia typed back: “Sure. What time?” Marina sent the time and the cinema address.
Ksenia slipped the phone into her pocket and kept walking. Life was ahead of her—new, free, full of possibilities. Without toxic relationships, without pressure, without the need to justify every penny she spent.
She lifted her face to the sun and closed her eyes. Warmth wrapped around her; the wind played with her hair. Somewhere far away were Denis with his car and his fifteen-year loan. Somewhere was Tatyana Andreyevna with her demands and criticism. But here, in this park under the spring sun, there was only Ksenia. And that was enough.