“You’ve completely lost your mind, Artem!” Olga shouted, shooting up from her chair. “We’re family!”
“What family, Olya?” He stormed into the kitchen, barely holding his temper. “I come home and the place looks like a dump—like the trash area behind a mall. The dishes haven’t been washed for weeks, plates are rotting on the stairwell, and the stench is so bad the cat ran off to the basement.”
Olga rolled her eyes, braced her hands on the table, and exhaled like she was exhausted by the very conversation.
“Here we go… same thing again. You walk in and immediately start yelling. Tired? Then rest. I’m not even touching you.”
“Rest?” Artem let out a short, angry laugh. “I just got back from the road—from a business trip. Five hours driving, three meetings back-to-back, my head’s boiling. I wanted to come home, eat, and crash. Instead I’ve got a mess of dirt and people who’ve been ‘temporary’ for three months.”
A dim light burned in the kitchen, the bulb under the ceiling flickering as if it, too, was sick of the chaos. Crumbs on the table. Half a packet of cookies. A jar with leftover kompot. The refrigerator strained and hummed like an ancient trolleybus—and inside it there was nothing but emptiness.
Olga turned away and started scrolling through her phone.
“You’re just in a bad mood, that’s why you’re picking. Everything’s fine.”
“Fine?” He twisted his mouth. “Fine, you say? Where’s your mom right now?”
“In the room. Watching a series.”
“And your sister?”
“Probably out walking with the kid.”
“And Sergey and your dad?”
“Playing, like they always do.”
Artem gave a tired smirk. “Of course. Everyone’s busy. And I’m the idiot who has to work like a horse so everyone else can have a good time.”
He took off his jacket and hung it on the hook—the hook nearly tore out of the wall. This house had been his pride, his work, every centimeter thought out by him. And now it had become a revolving door where no one answered for anything.
Three months earlier it had started as “just a couple of days.” “Until Marina’s apartment situation gets sorted.” “Until Mom and Dad get a break from renting.” He hadn’t argued—family helps, right? They weren’t strangers. But now every corner was taken, the kitchen was always occupied, and the TV blared from morning until night.
He walked into the living room and—exactly as expected—his mother-in-law and father-in-law were stretched out on the couch, glued to the screen. In the corner a game console buzzed, a controller in someone’s hands. On the coffee table: beer cans, empty chip bags, chicken wing bones.
“Hello,” he forced out through clenched teeth.
Nikolai Petrovich nodded without taking his eyes off the screen, and Tatyana Viktorovna waved him away.
“Don’t distract us, Artem. This is the crucial part.”
He turned and headed upstairs to the bedroom.
“Crucial part,” he thought. “Yeah. Sure.”
He stood in the shower for a long time. Hot water washed away not grime, but the anger that had been piling up for weeks. He’d kept quiet, endured, believed it would settle, that they’d move out soon, that Olga would wake up. But nothing changed.
When he came down again, it was nearly eleven. The kitchen was empty. He opened the fridge: bare shelves. He took a slice of bread, smeared it with mayonnaise, added a tomato on top. He sat and ate in silence. Only the spoon clinked in his mug.
Olga walked in wearing a cozy house top, hair messy, her face set in practiced indifference.
“Why are you mad again?”
“And why should I be cheerful?” he said. “I walk into my own house and it looks like it’s been raided. Nobody does a damn thing.”
“Don’t start. I’m tired today.”
“Tired from what?” he snapped.
“From everything! From this…” She waved her hand. “The hustle, the relatives, the nerves. It’s hard.”
“It’s hard for you?” Artem narrowed his eyes. “You’re home all day—TV, tea, phones. I’m supporting everyone, and you’re tired. Maybe I’m missing something about this life.”
Olga pressed her lips together.
“I’m not obligated to sit in the kitchen and scrub nonstop.”
“I’m not talking about scrubbing,” Artem’s voice dropped, heavy. “But could you at least clear the dishes? Or am I supposed to come home after work and pick up a rag too?”
“There it is—‘me, me, me’! Everything’s wrong for you!”
“And who should it be right for?” he exploded. “Your mom, who calls me ‘heartless’ because I’m sick of living in this circus? Or your Sergey, who’s been sitting on my neck for three months and won’t even chip in for electricity?”
“Don’t you dare talk about my family!” she shrieked. “They help me!”
“Help you? By watching TV?”
“They’re my relatives, do you understand?! And all you care about is money and order.”
“Because it’s my house, Olya,” Artem said quietly, but with steel. “I built this place. Not them. Not you. Me. And now everyone lives here except me.”
She stood up and shoved the chair back so hard it crashed.
“You’re just selfish! You only care about everything sparkling!”
He looked at her and said nothing. He was tired of arguing. Just tired.
A minute later Tatyana Viktorovna appeared in the doorway—right on schedule.
“What’s all this yelling again? Artem, how long are you going to bully my daughter?”
“Bully?” he laughed. “So I’m bullying her because I’m asking why our house is drowning in dirt?”
“You’re not a man if you shout at a woman!” she declared, hands on hips. “A real man understands a woman has it hard!”
“Hard—watching TV?”
“Don’t you dare!”
Nikolai Petrovich and Sergey leaned into the kitchen—apparently the game had paused.
“What’s going on?” Nikolai Petrovich asked.
“Nothing,” Olga waved it off. “Artem’s yelling again.”
“I’m not yelling,” he ground out. “I’m trying to understand why I work myself into the ground while you live here like it’s a resort.”
Sergey smirked. “Come on, don’t whine. We’re here temporarily.”
“Temporarily,” Artem repeated, “for three months.”
Silence. Only the fridge hummed.
Artem stood and went to the window, staring into the dark yard. A fine rain fell, like someone was sifting water through a sieve. Puddles mirrored the streetlamp’s glow.
“I’m not made of iron,” he said quietly. “That’s it. Enough.”
Olga frowned. “Enough of what?”
“Enough of living like this. I’m done. And if nothing changes—I’m leaving.”
She went pale. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
Tatyana Viktorovna jumped up immediately.
“Don’t you threaten my daughter!”
“It’s not a threat,” Artem said calmly. “It’s a fact.”
He took the mug from the windowsill, poured the last of the tea down the sink, and went upstairs. Behind him he heard whispers, outraged voices, plastic bags rustling. He was still boiling inside, yet strangely calm.
He lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. Once he’d dreamed this house would be a place of comfort and quiet. Now it felt чужой—like someone else’s apartment after a party. Cold. Not his.
Outside a door slammed and someone laughed loudly. Downstairs his mother-in-law started ranting again; her voice carried through the floors.
“I knew it! He was never one of us! From the very start, with all his ‘importance’!”
Artem shut his eyes and clenched his teeth.
“That’s it,” he thought. “Tomorrow will be the last talk.”
Morning began with noise. Downstairs a pot clanged, cabinet doors slammed. Artem woke to the racket with a weight in his chest—as if he hadn’t slept at all, only hauled coal all night.
He went downstairs. The kitchen was buzzing with a life that wasn’t his.
Olga stood by the stove in a robe, hair twisted up, her expression sour. On the table: a mountain of plates. Someone poured tea, someone chewed, the TV blared. The usual morning madhouse.
“Morning,” Artem said.
No one answered. Only his father-in-law, without looking up from his phone, grunted, “Yeah, not much of a good morning. Rain again.”
Artem poured himself coffee and sat in silence. The milk was gone, the sugar stuck to the spoon. The coffee tasted bitter—just like his mood.
“What’s with you?” Olga asked, glancing at him. “Upset again?”
“I’m just watching,” he replied. “This house is like a train station—everyone running around, nobody actually doing anything.”
“Well, not everyone’s as obsessed with neatness as you,” she smirked. “Relax.”
He didn’t answer. He took a sip and wiped his mouth with a napkin—though there weren’t even napkins left in the house anymore.
Marina ran into the living room with her phone in her hand.
“Mom, my charger’s gone! Someone took it again!”
“I didn’t take anything!” Tatyana Viktorovna shouted from the other room. “Don’t accuse your elders!”
“I’m not accusing—I’m asking!”
“Keep it down,” his father-in-law cut in. “You’re making noise first thing in the morning. People are trying to sleep.”
“Who’s sleeping, Dad? You’re already on your phone!”
Artem set his spoon down and said quietly, “Do you ever speak normally—without yelling?”
Everyone turned to look at him at once.
“Here he goes again,” Marina snorted. “Artem, why are you such a bore?”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“I’m not a bore, Marina. I just don’t have nerves made of steel. I’ve listened to your fights, your noise, your ‘temporary’ for three months. I want one single day of quiet.”
“If you want quiet, move out yourself,” Sergey smirked, taking a bite of a bun. “Not our fault you’ve got such a heavy personality.”
“Move out?” Artem repeated. “From my own house?”
Sergey shrugged. “I’m just saying.”
“Don’t even try it on,” Artem replied dully.
He stood up, put his cup into the sink—the pile of dishes hadn’t been touched since last night—and went to get ready for work. Olga caught up with him by the front door.
“There you go again, winding everyone up in the morning. You just can’t live peacefully, can you?”
“Peacefully?” Artem pulled on his jacket. “When your house has turned into a hallway? When you’re not a hostess in your own home, but a tenant to your own relatives? No, Olya. I can’t.”
She sighed. “It’s temporary. In a few days we’ll sort Marina’s apartment and they’ll leave.”
“Your ‘few days’ have lasted three months.”
“Well… things happen.”
He looked at her—tired. No anger left. Only emptiness.
“No, Olya. That’s not ‘things happen.’ That’s how people live when they’re used to someone doing everything for them.”
He left, slamming the door.
At work everything slipped through his hands. A colleague glanced at him and asked, “What’s going on, Artem? You look like someone who’s had enough.”
“I have,” Artem muttered. “Home feels like a communal apartment. They sit, eat, argue, and I’m the only one carrying it.”
“Your wife’s family?”
“Yeah. Mother-in-law, father-in-law, her sister, her sister’s husband… the whole set. It was ‘just a couple of days’—now a whole quarter has passed.”
The colleague snorted. “Classic. My neighbor went through that. Until he kicked them out, he had no life.”
Artem nodded in silence. His chest burned—anger, helplessness, and a little pity for himself.
That evening he drove home with a hard decision in his mind: today it ends. No more swallowing it.
The yard was dark, the rain heavier, cars shining under the lamps. He parked his Chevrolet by the gate and breathed in the damp air.
“All right,” he told himself. “Let’s go.”
Inside the entryway—same mess. Coats, shoes, bags, pizza boxes. And the smell: food, socks, cheap perfume.
In the kitchen they were feasting. Laughing, eating, the TV yelling out some comedy. Sergey with beer, the father-in-law in a sweater, the mother-in-law chopping salad, Marina loudly telling a joke.
Artem stood in the doorway.
“Is it okay that I came home?”
“Oh, hi,” the father-in-law waved him off. “We already ate. There’s something left for you in the microwave.”
Artem stayed silent for a couple of seconds, then slowly exhaled.
“Everyone, listen. We need to talk.”
The laughter died.
“Oh, here we go,” Marina said. “Artem, can it wait? We just sat down.”
“No. Now. I can’t do this anymore.”
He sat on the edge of the table, looking at them one by one.
“You’ve been living here for three months. How much longer are you planning to stay?”
“Well… like we said, until we find an apartment,” Sergey answered.
“And have you actually been looking?”
Silence. They exchanged glances.
“We… looked at options,” Marina mumbled.
“Looking at options isn’t looking,” Artem said. “I’m asking directly: are you moving out, or are you going to sit here until I drop dead from loans and nerves?”
“Why are you being rude?” Tatyana Viktorovna cut in. “No one’s forcing you to be nasty! We’re your own people!”
“Your own people help,” Artem replied. “You’re guests who got stuck. And you dragged the homeowner down with you.”
“Don’t touch Olya!” the mother-in-law snapped. “This is all because you’re cold. A woman needs attention!”
Artem laughed.
“Attention? Maybe what she needs isn’t attention—maybe she needs discipline.”
“How dare you!” she screamed. “You have no shame!”
“I do have shame,” Artem said evenly. “That’s why I’m saying this now—because this can’t continue.”
He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket.
“Here’s a lease. An apartment on Leninsky. I rented it for a month. Furnished, hot water, everything. Tomorrow you can move there.”
“What?” Olga gasped. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. I paid the first month. After that, you decide where you live.”
The mother-in-law jumped up.
“We’re not going there! We’re not bums wandering around rentals!”
“And I’m not a milk cow meant to feed everyone,” Artem said calmly.
“You… heartless bastard!” she shrieked.
“Maybe,” he said. “But at least I’m honest.”
He stood.
“Tomorrow morning by ten, I want nobody here. That’s it. Final decision.”
“Artem,” Olga said quietly, “wait… we’re family…”
He looked at her.
“No, Olya. We’re neighbors who ended up together by accident. Family is respect. What we have is consumption.”
Olga started crying.
The mother-in-law raised a storm, the father-in-law grumbled about “men these days,” Marina cursed, Sergey silently finished his beer, tossed the can into the sink, and went to his room.
Artem stood in the middle of the kitchen like a captain on a sinking ship and realized—this is it.
There was no turning back.
He didn’t sleep that night. He lay there listening to them packing downstairs, bags rustling. Sometimes someone whispered, sometimes someone swore. In the morning, when he came down, suitcases were lined up by the door.
Olga stood there, eyes red.
“I can’t believe you can do this.”
“I can’t believe it either,” he said, “but there’s no other way.”
She tried to hug him, but he stepped back.
“That’s it, Olya. It’s over.”
Tatyana Viktorovna walked past with a snort.
“You’ll see—you’ll end up alone, and nobody will come to you.”
“Fine,” he replied. “At least it’ll be clean.”
They left. The door slammed. The house fell silent. Even the clock seemed to tick more gently.
A week passed.
The house was quiet, clean, almost sterile. Even the fridge didn’t hum as irritably as before. Artem came home from work and, for the first time in a long while, felt like he was entering his own place. He took off his shoes, walked barefoot on the parquet—soft creaks, the scent of cleaner, order. Exactly the way he wanted.
He cooked dinner for himself, watched the news, went to bed in silence. On Sunday he even turned on music and vacuumed to an old rock band—catching himself smiling for the first time.
Like he could finally breathe.
But on Tuesday evening his phone rang. A familiar number.
He stared at the screen for a long time, then sighed and answered.
“Hello.”
“Hi,” Olga’s voice sounded rough. “Am I bothering you?”
“You already are,” he replied calmly. “What happened?”
A pause.
“It’s bad here, Artem. The apartment is awful. The neighbors are loud, the heat doesn’t work, the water’s rusty. We… we can’t live like this.”
“I didn’t force you,” he cut her off. “You chose it.”
“It’s temporary,” she rushed. “I just… I thought maybe we could talk?”
He exhaled.
“Olya, what’s there to talk about? I said what I said.”
“I understand everything!” she interrupted. “It’s my fault. Mom understands too—she went too far. Everyone’s worn out. But maybe… maybe we can start over? Without them. Just you and me.”
Artem fell silent. Something pricked in his chest.
“Without them?”
“Yes. I left them. Today. I rented a room from an acquaintance. I have almost nothing, but I’m ready to begin again—if you’ll just hear me out.”
He stood with the phone pressed to his ear, staring at the window where rain drummed against the sill again.
“I don’t know, Olya. Maybe it’s too late.”
“It isn’t,” she said quickly. “We loved each other. Remember how it was? You used to say, ‘As long as we have a home, the rest will follow.’ That’s what I want—to make that home ours again.”
He didn’t answer.
His heart beat unevenly. Their first evenings came back to him—renovations, laughter, the smell of paint, conversations until dawn. How she picked curtains, argued about wallpaper. Back then it felt like forever.
“Artem,” she said softly, “give me one chance. Just one. I’ll fix it.”
He closed his eyes.
“Come tomorrow. We’ll see.”
The next day he got home earlier than usual. Cleaned up. Put the kettle on.
At exactly seven the doorbell rang. Olga stood there in her jacket, tired eyes, shadows beneath them. But the old arrogance was gone.
“Hi,” she said quietly.
“Come in.”
She stepped inside, looked around.
“It’s so clean. Like a magazine.”
“When you live alone, cleanliness holds itself.”
She sat at the table, warming her hands around a mug.
“I’ve been thinking… I kept waiting for you to adapt. When I should’ve been the one to move. I got too comfortable. I’m sorry.”
He nodded without looking at her.
“‘Sorry’ is just a word, Olya. I’ve heard it plenty.”
“But this time it’s different,” she said, lifting her eyes. “I don’t want to go back to that filth, those fights. I left my mom. We argued. She called me a ‘traitor.’ And I told her I want to live, not just survive.”
“You really said that?”
“Yes.” She gave a sad smile. “For the first time in my life, I think.”
He poured tea and sat across from her.
“I don’t know if I can trust you again.”
“And I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself,” she said. “But I want to try.”
He looked at her.
“Why now? Why not earlier?”
“Because before, I thought you were just complaining. But when I was without you, I realized everything I had was held up by you—by your calm, by your ability to actually do things. And I only took.”
Silence. The clock ticked.
He stood and walked to the window.
“You know, I used to think people get softer with age. Then I realized—no. They just get tired of shouting. I don’t want to live in yelling anymore.”
“And you won’t,” she said quickly. “I’ve changed.”
He turned.
“Everyone says that.”
Olga sighed, pulled an envelope from her bag.
“This is money. I got a job—at a pharmacy, as a cashier. The pay is small, but it’s honest. I’ll pay you back for what you covered during that time. Little by little.”
He took the envelope and looked at her.
“You don’t have to. I wasn’t angry about the money.”
“I know,” she said. “But I need to show you somehow that I understood.”
He paused, then handed it back.
“All right. We’ll see. No promises. Let’s just have tea.”
They sat and drank in silence—like two strangers who used to be close.
She told him Sergey and Marina had moved in with acquaintances in Lyubertsy, and her parents had gone back to the settlement where they used to live. Everyone had fought—“arguing over who was to blame.”
“Maybe that’s for the best,” Artem said.
“Maybe,” she agreed.
After that Olga started coming by more often—bringing food, helping around the house, not arguing.
He watched carefully, like someone who’d been burned by hot milk. Sometimes he caught himself thinking, Maybe she really did change.
They didn’t truly laugh together again until a month later. A small step—but a real one.
One evening in late November they were walking through a store. Outside, snow fell; inside, the air smelled of mandarins. Olga said:
“You know what I realized? A home isn’t walls. It’s when the person beside you wants to be there—not just endures it.”
He looked at her, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“You read that from a therapist?”
“No. I got there myself,” she smirked.
They paused by a display of string lights.
“New Year’s is coming,” Artem said. “Want to buy a tree?”
“Only a small one,” she replied. “No overdoing it.”
“Deal.”
That evening, after they set up the tree, Artem stood for a long time watching the lights blink. The house was quiet, warm, and smelled faintly of cinnamon.
In the kitchen Olga was setting out plates, humming under her breath.
He walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her.
“I’m glad you came back.”
She pressed his hand to her chest.
“Me too.”
And in that moment everything felt simple—no grudges, no speeches.
He understood: not everything is lost, if at least one person is truly willing to change.
A couple of weeks later Tatyana Viktorovna called.
“So, you forgave her?” she asked, challenging.
“I did,” Artem answered calmly.
“Bad move,” she snapped. “People don’t change.”
“And you’re exactly the same,” he said with a faint smile. “All the best, Tatyana Viktorovna.”
And he hung up.
Olga stood beside him and heard every word.
“She won’t let it go,” Olga said quietly.
“Let her,” Artem replied. “It’s not our problem anymore.”
Winter came, and the house felt alive again. Artem stopped waking up with that heavy feeling in his chest. They ate breakfast together, argued over small things but without malice. Sometimes friends came over—they laughed, drank tea, remembered the old days.
One evening Artem stepped outside and looked at the house. A warm light glowed in the window. On the porch, their boot prints lay side by side. And suddenly he knew: it had been worth surviving.
Because only through chaos did he learn how much he wanted quiet. And only through loneliness did he understand he wanted someone close.
From inside Olga called out:
“Artem! Come eat—your dinner will get cold!”
He smiled.
“Coming, boss.”
He went back in, closed the door behind him, and the soft click of the lock sounded like a period at the end of a long, difficult—but honest—sentence.
The End.