“Just look at how she moves—would you? Light as a feather. It’s actually pleasant to watch. And what do we have here? A crash and a bang like a freight train shunting through the kitchen.”
Sergey stood at the window, pulling the lace curtain aside and openly admiring the yard next door. On the perfectly trimmed lawn, the new neighbor—a woman of about twenty-five—was warming up in bright leggings and a cropped top. She stretched, arching her lower back in a showy pose, as if she knew she had an audience.
Elena froze with a heavy cast-iron skillet in her hand. Something inside her clenched—sharp, painful, right under the ribs—but she swallowed the sting out of habit. She pretended she was busy scrubbing burnt grease. The skillet was old, her mother’s, dependable—just like Elena.
“Sergey, maybe step away from the window,” she said evenly, forcing her voice not to tremble. “It’s awkward. She’s working out, and you’re staring like a teenager.”
“Oh, please—‘staring,’” he snorted without turning. “I’m appreciating beauty. Sveta’s like a little sculpture. And she doesn’t get lazy—she takes care of herself. Not like certain people who think once they’re over forty they can relax and turn into a cozy house hen. That robe of yours… You could at least wipe the mirror—maybe you’d finally see what you’ve turned into.”
Elena lowered the skillet into the sink, slowly. Water slapped the bottom with a loud splash, sending suds flying—but nothing could drown out the words that hung in the air like a heavy, suffocating cloud. A robe? For the record, she’d bought that robe a week ago, picking a shade he used to like—deep blue. And “house hen”… that “house hen” had been up at six this morning to make him meat-filled crepes he loved, then ironed his shirts for the whole week, and had already drafted a budget estimate for a client—because being a chief accountant working remotely didn’t magically disappear.
She dried her hands on a towel and stepped to the table.
“The crepes will get cold,” she said flatly. “Sit down and eat.”
Sergey finally tore himself away from the neighbor’s gymnastics and strolled to the table like he owned the place. He was a good-looking man, that much was true: gray at his temples suited him, and he hid a slight belly under loose polos, convinced he was “a man in his prime.”
“Meat again?” he grimaced, poking a golden crepe with his fork. “Lena, how long are you going to keep this up? Cholesterol, heaviness… Sveta says she drinks smoothies in the morning. Celery, a bit of apple. Energy. Lightness. And you feed me like you’re fattening me for slaughter. You eat it, and you drag me down into this pit of food debauchery with you.”
“Sveta says?” Elena lifted an eyebrow. “So you two have already discussed her menu?”
“And what’s wrong with that? We ran into each other at the fence, talked. She’s actually very well-read. And modern. She doesn’t nag, doesn’t whine about electricity bills. She smiles. She has life in her, Lena. Do you understand? Life! And you smell like borscht and spreadsheets.”
He shoved his plate away for emphasis.
“I’m not eating. Pour me coffee. And no sugar—I need to keep in shape, otherwise it’s embarrassing to be around people like that.”
Elena poured the coffee in silence. Her hand didn’t shake, but inside her a cold, ringing emptiness spread. This wasn’t the first comparison. For the past six months Sergey had acted like he’d slipped his leash. One day he didn’t like how she dressed, the next how she laughed, then the music she listened to. But today he crossed a line. Comparing her to a specific woman—one who lived right behind the fence—wasn’t just hurtful. It was humiliating.
She remembered how, twenty years ago, they’d bought this plot. Back then the weeds had been waist-high and there was a crooked trailer on the land. They built the house themselves, brick by brick. Elena worked two jobs to pay for materials while Sergey “found himself,” hopping from one business idea to the next. The house was registered in Elena’s name—her parents’ wedding gift, the land transferred to her by deed, and later the completed house was put into operation under her name as well. Sergey hadn’t objected then. “What’s the difference?” he’d said. “We’re one.” Now that “one” was splitting at the seams.
“I’m going fishing with the guys today,” Sergey announced, finishing his coffee. “I’ll be back late. Don’t cook dinner—we’ll do шашлыки there. Real men’s food, not your steamed little cutlets.”
“Alright,” Elena nodded. “Go.”
He left without even a thank-you. The front door banged, their SUV’s engine growled, and the house fell quiet. Elena walked to the window. The SUV rolled out through the gate, and she saw Sergey slow down by the neighbor’s fence. The window slid down; he shouted something cheerful to the girl in leggings. She laughed and waved at him.
Elena watched, and something in her mind went perfectly clear. As if the fog she’d been living in for months—trying to please him, lose weight, change her hair color—suddenly lifted. She understood it wasn’t about her. Not about the crepes. Not even about the robe. It was about the fact that Sergey had stopped respecting her. He lived in a house she maintained, ate food she cooked, spent the money they earned together (and she earned more), and still considered it his right to wipe his feet on her.
“Energy, huh…” she whispered. “Lightness… Fine. You’ll get your lightness.”
She turned sharply and went to the bedroom.
The plan formed instantly—as if it had been waiting for its moment somewhere in the back of her mind for years. Elena pulled out two big rolling suitcases and a pack of thick construction trash bags—black, heavy-duty, the kind that held 120 liters.
And she got to work.
First went his shirts—the very ones she’d ironed for two hours yesterday. She didn’t fold them into neat stacks. She simply swept hangers off the rail and tossed everything into suitcases: suits, jeans, sweaters.
Then the drawers. Socks, underwear, belts—into bags. Elena moved methodically, without tears, without drama. With every item that disappeared from the room, her breathing got easier. It felt like she was clearing out not just fabric and clutter, but his acidic comments, his contemptuous looks, the weight of being constantly diminished.
Shoes. Winter jackets. His tie collection—he was proud of it even though he wore three ties at most. Two hours later everything was packed. The bedroom looked split cleanly in half: his side of the closet gaped empty, and that emptiness felt like the most beautiful picture Elena had ever seen.
But she wasn’t done.
She went down to his office. She didn’t touch the laptop—personal, and needed for work. But his endless “Employee of the Month” certificates from 2010, the fishing gear stored in the corner, the boxes of spare parts he insisted would “definitely come in handy”—all of it went out.
Not outside, though. That would’ve been too easy, and too scandalous for the neighbors.
She carried it to the garage.
Their garage was solid—brick, attached to the house, but with a separate entrance. It was dry but cool; Elena kept the heat off because “cars don’t need warmth.” In one corner sat an old sagging couch Sergey had forbidden her to throw away, claiming it was “a relic” and “a memory from our first apartment.” Well—now that relic would come in handy.
Elena lined the suitcases along the wall. Stacked the bags neatly. Leaned the fishing rods against the workbench. She even brought an old floor lamp from the house and set it beside the couch. It looked… livable. Spartan. Masculine. Perfect for a man who supposedly valued freedom and lightness.
When the last box was carried in, her muscles ached—but inside, she felt like birds were singing. She went back into the house, vacuumed the cleared spaces, dusted, then took a shower as if washing away not just sweat and dust, but the past. She put on the very dress Sergey had called “too provocative for your age,” poured herself a glass of chilled white wine, and sat on the terrace with a book.
Sergey came home after dark.
The gate creaked open, the SUV rolled into the yard. Elena heard him humming as he shut off the engine. He was in a good mood—fishing, or rather hanging out with friends, had gone well.
His key turned in the front door lock.
But the door didn’t open.
He tugged the handle. Locked. He pressed the doorbell.
Elena walked to the door slowly, but didn’t open it.
“Lena, what’s going on? Fall asleep?” Sergey sounded surprised. “Open up. I must’ve grabbed the wrong keys, or the lock’s jammed.”
“The keys are fine, Sergey,” she called through the door. “I just changed the lock cylinder an hour ago. The locksmith came—very efficient.”
Silence. Heavy, bewildered silence.
“What do you mean you changed it? Are you kidding? Lena, stop messing around. I’m tired. I’m hungry. Open the door.”
“I’m not kidding. And I’m not opening it.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Steel crept into his voice—the tone that used to make her shrink. “This is my house! Open it now or I’ll break the door down!”
“First of all, it’s not your house,” Elena replied calmly, clipping each word. “You know the law, sweetheart. The house was gifted to me by my father. The land too. It’s my personal property, not marital assets. You’re only registered here. Second—if you start breaking the door, I’ll call the police. They’ll arrive quickly; our local officer doesn’t play. You’re drunk, you’re causing a scene, you’re trying to force your way into someone else’s home. You want trouble at work?”
On the other side of the door, she heard him breathing heavily—processing. Legally she was right, and he knew it. He’d just gotten used to thinking everything was “ours”—which, in his head, meant “his.”
“Lena… what bit you?” His voice shifted into wounded irritation. “So I said something stupid this morning—fine, I’m sorry. Are you really going to destroy the family over something petty? Let’s talk like adults.”
“We already talked, Sergey. This morning. You wanted lightness. You wanted no ‘house hen in a robe’ around you. I’m granting your wish. You’re free from my heavy presence now.”
“And where am I supposed to sleep—on a doormat?”
“Why on a doormat? You’re a man, the master of the house. You have a garage. Your beloved couch is there—remember? The ‘relic.’ I moved all your things there—every single one. Even your fishing rods. It’s dry, the roof doesn’t leak. Live there, enjoy your ‘aesthetics.’ And the garage windows, by the way, look straight toward Sveta’s fence. You can watch her stretching every morning—no one will bother you.”
“You… you threw me into the garage?! Like a dog?!”
“Not like a dog. Like an independent man who’s outgrown his old wife. The garage key is in the mailbox. Good night, Sergey.”
Elena walked away from the door, switched off the hallway light, and went upstairs. Her heart pounded, but she wasn’t afraid. It felt like she’d just dropped a sack of stones from her shoulders.
Outside came shouting, swearing, fists thudding against the door. Sergey raged for fifteen minutes—threatened, begged, tried guilt, dragged up “all the years.” Elena put on headphones, turned up music, and opened her book. She knew he wouldn’t break the door. He was too cowardly for real legal trouble, and too stingy to pay for repairs on an expensive oak door.
Soon the noise faded. She heard the clank of the garage doors, something falling, a muffled curse—and then silence.
Sunday morning came sunny and bright. Elena woke to sunlight flooding the bed—especially the half that used to be occupied by her sleeping husband. Now it was wide open. She stretched with a sweetness she hadn’t felt in years. No one demanded breakfast, no one complained the coffee was too hot or too cold.
She brewed coffee, made avocado toast (Sergey hated it, calling it “hipster grass”), and stepped out onto the porch.
Sergey emerged from the garage. He looked rumpled. He’d slept in his clothes—either he couldn’t find bedding in the bags or couldn’t be bothered. Stubble, red eyes. He spotted Elena—fresh, in a pretty home outfit, coffee in hand.
“Well? Happy?” he rasped, coming closer but not daring to climb the steps. “Show’s over? Can I go shower and eat now?”
Elena took a sip, squinting into the sun.
“No, Sergey. This isn’t a show. It’s a move. You live in the garage now. You’re not coming back into the house.”
“You’re serious?” He blinked. “Lena, come on. I went too far, I admit it. That Sveta… she’s actually an idiot.”
“What does Sveta have to do with it?” Elena sighed, looking at him like a scolded schoolboy. “Sveta just happened to be passing by. The problem is you stopped seeing me. I became a function for you. Convenient, obedient household machinery. And when the ‘machine’ started, in your opinion, to lose its shine, you decided to browse newer models. Well, I’m not a machine. I’m a living person. And I respect myself.”
“So how long is this going to last?”
“Until you find an apartment. I’m giving you one week. Your things are already packed, so the move will be easy. You have money—your salary can handle it.”
“An apartment? Divorce? Over one sentence?”
“Not one, Sergey. Thousands of sentences, looks, and contempt that piled up for years. Yesterday was just the last drop. The cup overflowed.”
Just then a bright voice rang out from behind the fence:
“Oh, Sergey! Good morning! Why do you look so beat up—were you celebrating something?”
Sveta appeared at the fence again—sporty, fresh, glowing. Sergey flinched, instinctively trying to smooth his messy hair and pull his belly in, but in a wrinkled shirt with a pillow crease on his cheek he looked pathetic.
“Morning,” he muttered.
“We’re going to the lake with friends,” Sveta chirped. “Want to come? You’ve got such a big car—we don’t have enough seats!”
Sergey glanced at his SUV, then at Elena, who watched with quiet interest.
“Can’t,” he snapped. “Stuff to do.”
“Aww, shame,” Sveta shrugged and trotted off, not even noticing the drama next door. To her, Sergey was just “the neighbor with the big car”—nothing more.
Sergey turned back to Elena. Confusion filled his eyes. For the first time in years, he was in a situation where his comfortable world had collapsed—and the woman who had maintained that comfort looked at him not with adoration or fear, but with calm, cool certainty.
“Lena, let’s not be rash,” he tried. “Twenty years, after all.”
“Exactly,” Elena said. “Twenty years I built this house and this marriage. And you decided it was all a given. One week, Sergey. There’s a toilet and water in the garage—technical sink. A shower… you can drive to a gym, since you love fitness so much.”
She turned and went inside, closing the door firmly behind her.
The next few days passed in a strange new rhythm. Elena lived her life—worked, walked, cooked only what she liked. Sergey lived in the garage. She watched him leave for work in the morning—clean-shaven (probably shaving in the rearview mirror), wearing the same suit again and again. In the evenings he came back, parked, sat in the car for a while staring at the lit windows of the house, then trudged to his “shelter.”
A couple of times he tried to force a breakthrough. Once he came with flowers—a sad bunch of wilted roses he’d clearly grabbed in a hurry. Elena didn’t take them.
“Sergey, you still don’t get it,” she told him through the closed door. “I’m not playing hard to get. I’m not waiting for you to crawl back on your knees. I just want to live alone. It’s… lighter. You wanted lightness, remember? Here it is. I can breathe again. No cooking in buckets, no endless laundry, no whining in my ear. Peace and quiet.”
“But I love you!” he shouted at the door.
“No, Sergey. You love your comfort—the comfort I created. You love how I solve your problems. You haven’t loved me in a long time. If you had, you wouldn’t compare me to other women.”
On the fifth day, the weather turned cold. Overnight frost hit. The garage, even brick, chilled quickly. In the morning Elena saw Sergey hopping around the car, trying to warm up. Did she feel sorry for him? Not really. She felt sorry for the time she’d spent believing in a family that was mostly illusion.
That evening he didn’t come back to sleep. Elena assumed he’d found a place, or gone to his mother. But the next day—Saturday—he returned with a delivery truck.
Elena stepped onto the porch. Sergey, sullen and silent, worked with two movers, hauling his things out of the garage. He didn’t look at her. His bruised ego wouldn’t let him admit defeat, but he didn’t have the strength to fight anymore. Garage life cooled his arrogance fast, and the reality of having to find housing, cook, and wash for himself hit hard.
“I’ll leave the garage key in the lock,” he tossed over his shoulder when the last box was loaded. “And the house keys… here.”
He put the keyring on the porch railing.
“I’m filing for property division,” he suddenly added, trying to grab the last word. “We’ll split the car. And the accounts.”
“Take the car,” Elena agreed lightly. “I don’t need it—I’ll buy something smaller. And the accounts… go ahead and try. You know the main savings are on my investment account, funded with my grandmother’s inheritance. A lawyer will explain your chances. But if you want to spend money on attorneys—be my guest.”
Sergey ground his teeth. He knew she was right. Elena had always been smarter with finances, and his arrogance had kept him from ever reading what he signed when she put papers in front of him.
“Goodbye, Lena,” he said, climbing into the SUV. Now it looked less like a luxury chariot and more like a chunk of metal he might even have to sleep in if his rented place turned out worse than what he’d gotten used to.
“Goodbye, Sergey. And thank you.”
“For what?” he looked back, startled.
“For opening my eyes. And thank you for Sveta, too. If it weren’t for her, I’d probably still be living here, convinced that being a servant is what women’s happiness looks like.”
The SUV rolled out the gate. The truck crawled after it. Elena latched the gate shut.
Silence. Blessed silence filled the yard.
Elena walked up to the fence. On the neighboring lot, Sveta was beating dust out of a rug.
“Hello!” Elena called.
The young woman turned and beamed.
“Oh, hi! I saw your husband moving out—did something happen?”
“Something did, Sveta. Life happened. By the way—do you know a good landscape designer? I want to redo everything here. Plant roses, take down the gazebo. I want it to be beautiful. For me.”
“I do!” Sveta brightened. “I’ve got a great contact. Come over for tea—I’ll give you the number. And I baked apple charlotte—come, I’ll treat you!”
“With pleasure,” Elena smiled. “Let me just change first.”
She went back into the house. Passing the hallway mirror, she stopped. A beautiful, confident woman looked back at her. Tired? A little. But the hunted sadness was gone from her eyes. In its place—freedom.
She winked at her reflection.
“And I’m still throwing that robe out,” she said aloud. “I’ll buy a silk one. And I don’t care what it costs.”
That evening she sat in the kitchen, sipping tea with the apple cake Sveta had brought (Sveta turned out to be perfectly sweet and not stupid at all—just very young), and watched the yard through the window. The garage was empty. The house was full of peace.
Elena picked up her phone, opened her banking app, and ordered delivery from her favorite restaurant. Sushi. Lots of it. And no meat crepes.
Life was only beginning—and it promised to be delicious.
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