“What—are you throwing me out?” Sergey bellowed, slamming the wardrobe door.
“I’m not throwing anyone out,” Elena answered calmly, though her voice came out rough. “I’m just not living like we’re in a коммуналка anymore.”
“So my mother’s in your way, is she?”
“She’s not ‘in my way,’ Seryozha. She turned my life here into an army barracks.”
The words fell like stones onto the kitchen table, cluttered with plates, pots, and half-drunk tea. Outside, October rain kept spitting against the glass; the warm electric light quivered on the ceiling. Everything in this home was familiar down to the tiniest detail—and that was exactly why it hurt: the people were strangers now, but the walls still felt like family.
“Do you even hear what you’re saying?” Sergey flared, spinning around. “This is my home too!”
“‘Yours’ is a pretty loud claim,” Elena threw back quietly. “Who carried the mortgage? Who stayed up nights writing reports so you could pay for school?”
“Oh, stop dragging that up—how long ago was that? A hundred years!”
“And have you ever dragged it up? Even once? Have you ever said thank you?”
She turned away so she wouldn’t have to see his eyes—there was no shame there, no regret. Just irritation and resentment, like a boy caught in a lie.
And yet once, it had felt like destiny.
She remembered that evening as if it were yesterday: a tiny corner café, the smell of cheap coffee, a tired young man with shaggy hair asking her how to spend less on rent. Back then she couldn’t even imagine that man would become her husband. Sergey was simple, a little lost, speaking with a childlike honesty. “I feel safe with you,” he’d said once—and she’d softened.
At first he lived with her “temporarily”—until he “found something of his own.” Then he started helping: carrying bags, fixing the faucet, buying groceries. Even then Elena could feel herself getting pulled in, though she understood it wasn’t equal. He was younger, broke… but his eyes still held gratitude then.
“You’re smart,” he’d say, hugging her. “I’d follow you to the ends of the earth.”
“No need for the ends of the earth,” she’d laugh. “Just find a decent job.”
And he did. First as a loader, then at a warehouse, then—with her help—at a factory in procurement. He studied by correspondence. Elena paid. She always believed that if you support someone, you can make a person out of anyone.
Years passed. They married. Their son, Alyosha, was born. Everything like normal people: morning rush to kindergarten, lines at the clinic, paychecks, utilities, a vacation once every couple of years. It seemed like that was how life was supposed to be.
But when their son grew up and moved away, everything that had tied Elena to Sergey seemed to dissolve. Their conversations got short, their looks turned cold, and emptiness moved into the apartment.
And then she appeared—Galina Petrovna.
“Lena, Mom’s going to stay with us for a bit,” Sergey tossed out casually, like he was asking her to move the kettle.
“For a bit—how long is that?”
“Well… until we sort out her apartment. Some paperwork…”
At first Elena was even glad: an older woman, not young anymore—maybe they’d talk, bring life back into the home. But within a week Elena realized she’d been wrong.
Galina Petrovna was the kind who lived like it was a Soviet communal flat: control everything, comment on everything, poke into everything.
“Elena, why did you buy that sauce? It’s expensive.”
“Elena, why do you turn the TV on when you cook? Wasting electricity.”
“Elena, why is there dust on the windowsill?”
Every “Elena” sounded like she was a schoolgirl and her mother-in-law was a strict teacher.
“Galina Petrovna,” Elena explained patiently, “I have work. I can’t sit at home all day.”
“And who’s asking you to sit?” the older woman snapped. “A household has to be under control.”
Meanwhile Sergey pretended he noticed nothing. He left in the morning “for work,” came back late with his face buried in his phone. And between the two women the tension only thickened.
That evening, everything finally tore.
Elena came home late, soaked, her head buzzing from meetings and wet shoes. She wanted nothing but to sit down, drink tea, and stay silent. But the moment she took off her coat, Galina Petrovna was already in the kitchen doorway.
“What is this?”
“What is what?”
“You didn’t make soup.”
“And you couldn’t warm something up for yourself?”
“I’m not obligated to! A woman in the house is supposed to feed the family!”
Elena sat at the table and dropped her head. Her heart hammered in her temples.
“Galina Petrovna,” she said quietly, “you have a son. Let him feed you.”
Silence hung heavy as smoke. Then the explosion:
“What did you say?!” her mother-in-law went crimson. “I’m not some stranger woman! I’m the mother!”
“Exactly—Sergey’s mother. Not mine.”
Right then Sergey walked into the kitchen, phone in hand—confused, but with a sly confidence in his face.
“What’s with all the yelling?”
“Your wife is insulting me!” Galina Petrovna shrieked. “She’s kicking me out!”
“Lena, why are you doing this?” Sergey frowned. “Mom is living with us. She has problems with her apartment.”
“You’re the one who’ll have problems with an apartment if you don’t explain yourself right now!”
And then he said the words that made the ground disappear under Elena’s feet:
“What is there to explain? It’s Mom’s apartment now.”
For a second she didn’t understand.
“What did you say?”
“Well… Mom and I decided. I took care of it.”
“Took care of what?”
“The apartment. Better in her name—more reliable.”
Elena rose from the table slowly, like an old woman after a serious illness.
“You… put… my apartment… in her name?”
“Oh come on—‘my apartment,’ ‘your apartment,’” he flapped his hands. “We’re family! Everything’s shared!”
And Galina Petrovna stood there, pleased—lips pressed into a thin line, eyes shining.
“My son did the right thing,” she drawled. “You never know how things might go later.”
Elena looked at them and understood: that was it. Nothing would ever be the same.
That night she didn’t sleep. She walked through the apartment, touching the furniture, the curtains, the framed photographs. Every object was her hands, her life. And now—someone else’s.
“How did it come to this?” she thought. “Everything was for the family… for him…”
Sergey slept peacefully, even snored.
“Sleeping like a saint, you bastard,” she thought. “Got what you wanted and not a shred of conscience.”
In the morning everything continued as if nothing had happened: her mother-in-law poured tea, Sergey watched the news—only Elena knew something had finally snapped for good.
“Mom, do we have salt?” Sergey asked, poking at his eggs.
“Ask the lady of the house,” Galina Petrovna smirked.
“As if I’m the lady of the house,” Elena said with acid. “We have a different lady now.”
Sergey snorted.
“There you go again. Couldn’t you just accept it?”
She didn’t answer. She only looked at him—long, carefully—like at someone she’d once known, but who had died a long time ago.
That evening she sat on the sofa and called her son.
“Alyosha, we’ve got… problems,” she started, but couldn’t continue. “No, it’s fine—don’t worry.”
“Are you sure, Mom? You sound strange…”
“I’m just tired. Work, autumn, rain…”
After she hung up, Elena sat in the dark for a long time. Behind the wall her mother-in-law grumbled; in the bedroom the TV rustled—Sergey was watching football. And inside Elena one thought kept buzzing: something has to be done.
The next morning began with screaming.
“Elena, did you touch my things?!”
“What things?”
“You moved my blanket! I cover the bed with it!”
Elena exhaled.
“Galina Petrovna, maybe you should go stay with your daughter. She has kids, space, and you’d get the help you need there.”
“So that’s what you’re really like,” the old woman hissed. “First you pretended to be kind, now you want to throw me out.”
Sergey burst out of the room like on cue.
“Lena! Mom is staying here, got it?”
“No. Not got it.”
He stepped closer, his voice turning cold.
“I said she’s staying.”
And that was when something inside Elena broke. All the patience, all the familiar softness—gone like it had been wiped away.
“Alright, Seryozha,” she said evenly. “Let her stay. But you two start packing.”
He went pale.
“What?”
“What you heard. Starting today, you’re both guests here.”
Elena stood up, wiped her hands on her apron, and went into the room—for the documents. Her footsteps on the laminate were firm, almost menacing.
The door shut with a sound like a final period. Not just in that argument—in everything that had been the last twenty-five years. Elena stood with her shoulder against the doorframe and listened: the footsteps fading, the elevator growing quiet, emptiness spilling through the apartment like warm water.
“So quiet,” she whispered, not sure if she was amazed or afraid.
The kitchen met her with familiar smells—tea, bread, a hint of dish soap near the sink. Everything looked the same, but the air was different. No Galina Petrovna with her barbs. No Sergey with his endless excuses. Empty… but peaceful.
She filled the kettle and sat by the window. October evening—the kind when leaves fly and the streetlights tremble like they’re cold too. “Funny,” Elena thought, “how many times I dreamed of a day when nobody would tell me how to live.”
The first two days passed in a strange haze.
Her phone stayed silent, and that felt unnatural. No Sergey’s “Where are you?” No his mother’s “Did you buy bread?” Only work calls—dry and businesslike.
On the third day the neighbor, Aunt Nina, called—the one Elena used to sit with on the bench, talking about the news and the price of potatoes.
“Len, I notice your lights are on late. Everything okay?”
“It’s okay, Nina. Just… feels empty.”
“Oh, that’s temporary. Men are like children: they grumble, then crawl back.”
“I don’t think this one will.”
“Oh come on! After all those years!”
Elena smirked. “Lived”—yes. But did they ever live? That was the real question.
A week later she cleared out Sergey’s closet. Neatly folded his things into bags and set them by the door. In a drawer she found an old T-shirt with the logo of the company where he’d started—“SeverLogistik.” Small, worn, smelling of old sweat and cigarettes. She sat on the edge of the bed, pressed it to her face—and something inside her pinched.
She had loved him. Truly. And it hurt. She loved the way women of her generation love—down to the bone, all the way into endurance.
“What an idiot you are,” she told herself, setting the shirt aside. “Forgave everything, rescued him every time. And he just used you.”
That evening her son called.
“Mom, I talked to Dad. He said you two fought.”
“‘Fought’ is a gentle word for it.”
“He’s not looking great… maybe you could… at least talk to him?”
“Alyosha, I talked to him my whole life. He never once heard me.”
“You’re still not made of steel.”
“Exactly. I’m not steel. That’s why I threw him out.”
He went quiet.
“Mom… just don’t shut yourself off. It’ll get better.”
“It will, son. Just not with him.”
Little by little, life returned to the apartment—real life, without pretending. Elena rearranged the furniture, repainted the kitchen—by herself. Bought a new bedspread. Put a plant on the windowsill—a ficus, “so happiness can take root,” as the shopwoman said.
Now every morning she got up not out of duty, but because she wanted to. Made coffee, turned on the radio, tidied up. “Imagine,” she thought, “I used to call all this fuss. Now it feels like grace.”
Sometimes scenes flickered in her head—Sergey on the couch, clicking the remote, and her in the kitchen cooking. And it came without anger, without pain. Just a memory. Like an old photograph—faded, but you can’t quite throw it away.
A month later, someone rang the doorbell.
Elena didn’t go right away. For some reason her heart twitched—like she already knew who it was.
Sergey stood in the doorway. Unshaven, jacket rumpled, eyes guilty. In his hands—a bouquet of chrysanthemums.
“Lena… can I come in?”
“What do you want, Seryozha?”
“To talk.”
She stepped aside without a word. Let him see what he’d lost.
He walked into the kitchen and looked around.
“You rearranged everything.”
“Yes. It’s more comfortable now.”
“It’s quiet here.”
“It got quieter without you.”
He lowered his gaze and stayed silent for a long time.
“Mom is at my sister’s now. Says it’s better there.”
“Wonderful.”
“Lena… I’m an idiot. Forgive me.”
“Too late.”
“Don’t cut me off completely. Twenty-five years… I’m used to it. Without you it’s… empty.”
“Empty isn’t because you’re alone,” Elena said softly. “Empty is because you understood too late.”
He sighed.
“Do you remember the first time I came to you?”
“I remember. And I was stupid to let you in.”
Sergey bowed his head.
“I thought you’d forgive me.”
“And I thought you were a decent man. We were both wrong.”
He stood and took a step closer.
“Will you at least pour me some tea?”
“No, Seryozha. Tea is only for me now.”
He wanted to say something, but her look—calm, tired—made him swallow the words. He stared at her one last time, shrugged like a stranger, and left.
The door closed softly. No slam. No shouting. It simply… closed.
That night Elena sat by the window. The wind chased leaves and tapped on the glass. A cup of tea stood on the table beside her phone.
She opened her contacts, found Sergey’s number. Thought for a second—then deleted it.
“Now it’s really quiet.”
A couple of weeks later Aunt Nina came by.
“Well, Lenka—hanging in there?”
“I am. It’s even better, honestly.”
“You’re brave. Not everyone would do it.”
“No one does… until they’re pushed to the edge.”
They laughed—real laughter, from the heart.
Spring came quietly. Seedling boxes already stood on the balcony; the apartment smelled of paint and freshness.
Her son came for the weekend—with his wife, with gifts, with bright, happy noise. Elena set the table, brought out jam and pies (she actually enjoyed baking now).
“Your eyes look different,” her daughter-in-law said. “Brighter.”
“I’ve started sleeping,” Elena smiled. “Without nerves.”
“And Dad… did he call?” her son asked.
“He did.”
“And?”
“And that’s all.”
She waved her hand and didn’t return to the subject.
When the guests left, Elena stepped out onto the balcony. Down in the yard boys were kicking a ball, and from a neighbor’s window came an Irina Allegrova song—the one about “I won’t give it back, I won’t forgive.”
Elena stood there, breathing warm air, thinking: that’s life—storms, calm seas, and then learning to be yourself again.
“Well, so be it,” she told herself. “I’m alive. That’s what matters.”
With that she went back into the kitchen, took her favorite mug from the cupboard—the one with a tiny crack—and poured tea. She sat by the window where, once, a confused, betrayed woman had sat.
Now another woman sat there—tired, but steady, with quiet dignity in her eyes.
“Hello, new life,” she murmured. “No shouting. No lies. No Sergey.”
And for the first time in a long while, she smiled—truly.