Yana was standing at the stove, stirring soup, when she heard the familiar click of a key in the lock. Kirill was home earlier than usual, and that could mean only one thing—Valentina Petrovna would be coming over again today.
In two years of marriage, Yana had learned to recognize those days instantly: by the particular look on her husband’s face, by the way he avoided her eyes as he stepped into the apartment. He hung his jacket on the hook and walked into the kitchen, tossing a brief warning over his shoulder that his mother would be there in an hour.
Yana nodded without turning around and kept cooking. Her hands moved on autopilot as she chopped vegetables for a salad, even though her stomach had already tightened into a familiar knot. Every visit from her mother-in-law turned into an ordeal Yana endured in silence, jaw clenched. Valentina Petrovna always managed to find a new way to remind her daughter-in-law of her “place” in the family—temporary and insignificant.
At exactly seven, the doorbell rang. Yana dried her hands on a towel and went to open the door, already bracing herself. Valentina Petrovna entered with her head held high, swept the apartment with a critical, appraising glance, and walked straight into the living room without even greeting Yana. Kirill hurried to kiss his mother on the cheek and help her off with her coat.
“Well?” Valentina Petrovna settled into an armchair like a queen on a throne. “Did you set the table? I hope you’ve at least learned to cook by now. Alice, at your age, was already making dishes you could lick your fingers clean.”
Yana placed plates on the table, forcing herself not to react to the latest jab. The name Alice came up so often in that house it felt like Kirill’s ex lived there as a ghost, permanently hovering over their marriage. Yana had understood long ago that in her mother-in-law’s eyes, she would never compare to that imagined ideal.
They sat down to eat. Kirill silently served himself. Valentina Petrovna tasted the soup, made a face, and said nothing—yet that eloquent silence cut deeper than words. Yana picked up her fork, but she couldn’t swallow; the food caught in her throat. She glanced at her husband, hoping for even the slightest reaction, but Kirill stayed focused on his plate.
“You know, I ran into Alice’s mother at the store the other day,” Valentina Petrovna began, and Yana felt her entire body tighten. “Such a lovely girl she was—smart, well-raised. We talked so nicely, remembered how she used to come by. Always perfectly put together, always smiling, always knew exactly what to say.”
Yana set her fork down. She couldn’t pretend to eat anymore while every sentence struck at her dignity. Kirill kept chewing, eyes lowered, and that indifference hurt more than any barb Valentina Petrovna threw.
“She cooked beautifully,” the older woman continued, gaining momentum. “I still remember her bringing her signature cake once—Kirill and I talked about it for a week. And she always dressed with taste, not like…” She gave Yana a meaningful look. “You could tell she was from a good family, with manners.”
Under the table, Yana’s hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. She stared at her plate, counting to ten, then twenty, trying to calm herself. But inside everything boiled—hurt and fury, and resentment toward her husband who sat there letting his mother belittle his wife.
“Kirill, sweetheart, do you remember what a bright girl she was?” Valentina Petrovna turned to her son. He gave a vague nod, not looking at either his mother or his wife. “She would have made a real man out of you. Helped you build a career—she had connections. And how she wanted children, dreamed of a big family.”
Heat rushed into Yana’s face. The subject of children was especially painful—they weren’t planning a baby yet, and it had become another tool for her mother-in-law’s digs. Valentina Petrovna regularly hinted that Alice would have “already given them an heir,” while Yana was only dragging things out.
“Such a pity she left back then,” Valentina Petrovna sighed theatrically. “Only for a year. Kirill would’ve waited, of course. But youth, hot blood—he couldn’t help himself. Met the first girl he stumbled across and ran straight to the registry office.”
Yana lifted her head and looked at her husband. Kirill still stared at his plate as if it contained something fascinating. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He didn’t defend her, didn’t stop his mother, didn’t ask to change the subject. He stayed silent—like he had for two years.
“But it’s fine,” Valentina Petrovna’s voice became almost cheerful, and that sudden brightness made Yana uneasy. “I spoke to Lyudmila Sergeyevna recently—Alice’s mother. She said her daughter is coming back in a month. Her contract is ending, and she’s returning home.”
Yana froze.
Valentina Petrovna looked at her with barely concealed triumph. In that stare Yana could read everything—hope that once Alice returned, everything would “snap back into place.” That Kirill would come to his senses and return to his real love, and Yana—the temporary replacement—would finally disappear from their lives.
“When Alice comes back, Kirill won’t be able to resist,” Valentina Petrovna went on, eyes fixed on her daughter-in-law. “He’ll file for divorce and go back to the one he always loved. It’s obvious. Who could stand against a woman like that?”
Something inside Yana snapped. She shot up so abruptly the chair scraped back with a loud screech. Her hand rose on its own and slammed down on the table—hard enough to make the plates jump, spoons rattle, and a glass of water tip over and spill across the tablecloth.
“No need to wait a month!” Yana’s voice rang out loud and steady—without the usual tremble. “I’m filing for divorce right now. Today. Go ahead and celebrate.”
Valentina Petrovna sat frozen with her mouth open, her fork suspended in midair. Kirill went pale and finally looked up from his plate, staring at his wife with genuine shock. He opened his mouth to speak, but Yana didn’t let him.
“Don’t pretend to be surprised,” she said, already heading for the door and grabbing her jacket from the hook as she moved. “This is exactly what both of you wanted. Congratulations—you got your way.”
Valentina Petrovna sprang up and rushed after her, shouting something about disrespect and ingratitude. But Yana had already opened the bedroom door and started throwing things into a bag. Her hands moved fast and sure—clothes, documents, makeup, essentials—everything she needed went in.
“Yana, wait—let’s talk,” Kirill finally found his voice, appearing in the bedroom doorway. He looked lost, shifting from foot to foot, unsure what to do.
“Talk about what?” Yana zipped the bag and turned to him. “About how you stayed silent for two years while your mother humiliated me? About how I was just a temporary distraction while the ‘true love of your life’ was off living her adventures? There’s nothing to talk about.”
She brushed past him, bumping his shoulder. Valentina Petrovna stood in the hallway still yelling, but Yana no longer listened. She put on her boots, swung the bag over her shoulder, and walked out, slamming the door so hard her ears rang. The mother-in-law’s shouting carried even through the closed door, but Yana didn’t look back or slow down.
As she went down the stairs, she felt a strange sense of relief. The weight that had pressed on her shoulders for two years suddenly lifted. Cold evening air hit her face as she stepped outside, and Yana breathed it in deeply. Freedom smelled like autumn and rain—and it was the most beautiful scent she had ever known.
The next few months passed quickly. Yana rented a small one-bedroom apartment on the edge of the city, found a new job at an advertising agency, and slowly began rebuilding her life from scratch. The divorce went through fast—there was nothing to divide. Kirill kept the rented place, and Yana took only her own things. They didn’t even meet at the registry office; everything was handled through representatives.
Little by little, the wounds began to close. Yana made new friends at work, started yoga, signed up for a swimming pool membership. She learned to take joy in small things: morning coffee in silence, with no one criticizing her choice of mug; weekends when she could sleep until noon without hearing remarks about laziness. Life became light and peaceful, and for the first time in years Yana felt truly happy.
A full year slipped by. She barely thought about Kirill or Valentina Petrovna anymore—they stayed in the past like a bad dream that gradually fades. Now and then she ran into mutual acquaintances, but they tactfully avoided the subject of her former marriage, and she was grateful.
Then one late evening, when Yana was getting ready for bed, a hard, insistent knock sounded at her door. She checked the time—almost ten at night. Who would come this late? She threw on a robe, went to the door, and looked through the peephole.
What she saw made her jerk back.
On the landing stood Kirill and Valentina Petrovna, surrounded by several large suitcases and bags. Her ex-husband looked worn down—stubble covered his face, his clothes were wrinkled, his whole posture sagged. Valentina Petrovna didn’t look any better: her hair was messy, her makeup streaked, and her expression was miserable.
Yana opened the door and stood in the doorway without a word, arms crossed over her chest. For a few seconds no one spoke, and the silence said more than anything. Kirill wouldn’t meet her eyes. Valentina Petrovna nervously twisted the handle of her purse.
“Yanochka,” her former mother-in-law finally broke the silence, her voice trembling. “We… we have nowhere to go. Something happened—financial trouble. We had to sell our place to pay off debts. You know how hard things are for everyone right now.”
Yana raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond. She simply stared at them, waiting. Kirill kept his eyes lowered, studying the scuffed toes of his boots.
“We were thinking…” Valentina Petrovna wiped tears already sliding down her cheeks. “You’re not a stranger. We hoped you’d take us in for a little while until we sort things out. Not long—two weeks, maybe a month.”
Kirill finally lifted his eyes to Yana. There was shame and desperation in his look, but he stayed silent, unable to ask for help himself. Yana slowly shifted her gaze from her ex-husband to his mother, and a faint smirk appeared on her face.
“And what did you come here for?” Yana’s voice was calm, but cold as ice. “The woman you used to humiliate me for—she didn’t open the door?”
Valentina Petrovna sobbed louder, and Kirill dropped his gaze again. They both understood exactly who she meant, and their silence was a confession.
Yana leaned against the doorframe, arms still crossed, and kept looking at them with that same cool half-smile.
“You know, I heard something interesting from someone I know,” she said slowly, drawing out each word. “About your incomparable Alice. Turns out when you, Kirill, tried to see her after our divorce… she wouldn’t even open the door.”
Kirill flinched but didn’t look up. Valentina Petrovna opened her mouth to protest, but Yana cut her off.
“Your perfect girl has been happily married for a long time,” Yana continued. “Two kids, a house outside the city—and she didn’t want to hear a thing about going back to the past. She refused to even look at you. Can you imagine?”
Kirill’s face flushed red; his fists clenched, but he stayed quiet. Valentina Petrovna tried to speak, but her voice shook.
“Yana, we were wrong, but we really have nowhere—”
“You destroyed my marriage,” Yana interrupted, her tone sharpening. “For two years you humiliated me, compared me to a ghost, to an ‘ideal’ that existed only in your minds. You made me feel like a pathetic substitute, unworthy of your precious Kirill.”
She paused, looking Valentina Petrovna straight in the eyes.
“And all of it—for what? For a woman who never thought about Kirill all those years. For a woman who slammed the door in his face the moment he tried to drag the past back. You broke my self-esteem, you poisoned my life, for something that was never real.”
Valentina Petrovna began to cry for real—big tears rolling down her face, smearing the last traces of makeup. Kirill finally lifted his head and looked at Yana, desperation spilling from his eyes.
“Yana… please forgive me,” he forced out hoarsely. “I was a coward. I didn’t protect you, I was weak. But we really are in trouble now. We need help…”
“Then solve your problems yourselves,” Yana cut him off. “I’m not obligated to help people who did everything they could to destroy my life. Who tore me down day after day—word by word, glance by glance.”
Valentina Petrovna dropped to her knees right there on the landing, reaching her hands toward Yana.
“Forgive me—I was a fool, I understand everything now!” she cried. “Give us a chance, we’ve changed, we’ve realized—”
“A year ago, I might have wanted to help you,” Yana looked down at them, and there wasn’t a trace of pity in her voice. “But I lived this year in peace. I learned how to be happy without you. And I’m not going to let people back into my life who poisoned every single day I had.”
Kirill stepped forward, hand outstretched, but Yana shook her head. Slowly she began to close the door, never taking her eyes off her ex-husband and his mother. Valentina Petrovna kept sobbing and pleading, but Yana didn’t waver.
“Go to your Alice,” Yana’s final words were quiet, but clear. “If she’s so wonderful, let her help you.”
The lock clicked shut.
Yana stood for a few seconds with her forehead against the cold wood, listening to the muffled sobs and voices on the other side. Then she heard suitcase wheels rolling away, footsteps fading, and finally—silence.
Yana stepped away from the door and went into the kitchen. She switched on the kettle, took out her favorite mug—the one Valentina Petrovna had once called tasteless—and brewed herself green tea. She sat by the window, looking out at the night city, and for the first time that evening she smiled. The smile felt light. Free.
That chapter was closed.
Completely and for good.