— Hello, Vadim? I’m in the garage. Spot one-oh-four is empty. Do you have a sane explanation, or do I call the police right now and report it stolen?
Elena’s voice was frighteningly calm, even though adrenaline made her whole body hum. She stared at the oil stain on the concrete—the only trace her white Toyota had left behind—and simply couldn’t accept it.
In the earpiece came a soft rustle, then wet chewing, as if her husband was finishing a sandwich. Only then did his relaxed, unbothered voice appear:
— Lena, why are you going straight to the police? Nobody stole anything. I thought it through… Listen, Sveta needed help. Her Peugeot’s thermostat died, and Galina Petrovna is at the dacha with sacks of produce. They’re forecasting rain—would be a shame to ruin the harvest.
Elena went rigid. The scene was so absurd her mind refused to process it. She glanced at her watch: thirty-five minutes until a meeting with a key client. In the trunk were catalogs, product samples, and her presentation laptop. And all of it was now heading who-knew-where.
— You handed the keys to my car—the car I’m paying off on a loan—to your ex-wife so she could go haul potatoes from a dacha? Vadim, are you serious? I’m supposed to take the metro to an important meeting while she drives around in my vehicle?
— Lena, don’t boil over, — Vadim stretched the words lazily, with a sincere inability to grasp the disaster. — She genuinely needed it. It’s mud, slush, the roads are a mess, and your crossover sits higher. You just have to hop across town—nothing complicated. Take a taxi. I’ll pay you back from my salary. She’ll bring it back tonight, even wash it. Fill the tank. We’re people, we help. And, by the way, we have a shared past. You can’t just cross someone out like they never existed.
— And the samples? — Elena asked quietly. — There were boxes in the trunk. My work. My money, Vadim.
— Oh, those… cardboard ones? We unloaded them in the entryway. Everything’s fine, they’re there. Sveta moved them carefully so there’d be room for the sacks. Lena, you’re not a monster. There’s an elderly woman out there freezing at the dacha.
Elena ended the call. Listening to him any longer felt physically painful.
She stood in the middle of a massive underground garage, in an expensive business suit, a leather briefcase in her hand, and felt like a complete fool. We unloaded them. They’d been inside her apartment. They’d rummaged through her trunk. They’d handled her things. All for the sake of making sure Vadim’s former mother-in-law didn’t get her potatoes wet.
She called the client. She had to make her voice sound apologetic, invent some ridiculous lie about a sudden illness. The meeting was postponed, but the customer’s dry tone told her everything: the contract was now at risk. She’d lost money. A lot of money—money that paid the loan on the car a stranger was driving at that very moment.
She didn’t ride home—she marched, like a soldier to the front. Her fury, hot and blinding at first, had cooled into a heavy, icy knot in her stomach.
She rode the elevator up, opened the door with her key—and immediately saw them: her boxes.
They weren’t “neatly” placed. They’d been dumped in a heap beside the shoe rack. The top box was torn open, and a corner of a glossy brochure stuck out, smudged with a dirty fingerprint. Vadim hadn’t even bothered to stack anything properly. They’d tossed her work aside like trash to clear space for someone else’s sacks.
Elena walked into the kitchen without taking off her shoes. On the table sat a grimy mug with coffee dregs and a plate full of crumbs. Vadim had been eating breakfast—slowly, comfortably—while she ran around in the mornings getting ready for work.
She sat down and opened her banking app.
Notifications kept popping up.
One hour ago: Lukoil gas station — 3,500 rubles.
Thirty minutes ago: roadside café “At Ashot’s” — 1,200 rubles.
— “She’ll fill the tank,” — Elena whispered, staring at the screen. — On my money. You didn’t even give her cash. You gave her my card.
This wasn’t just taking the car. It was a bold, cynical seizure. Vadim wasn’t some noble helper—he was “kind” at her expense. He was showing off to his ex-wife, proving how generous and successful he was, treating his current wife’s resources like a bottomless pit.
A key turned in the lock.
Elena didn’t flinch. She sat upright, hands on the table, staring at the front door.
Vadim walked in, whistling. A bag clinked in his hand—beer, obviously. He was relaxed and pleased with himself. He still didn’t know his comfortable little world—built on her back—had cracked the second he handed Svetlana the Toyota keys.
— Oh, you’re already home? That was fast! — he chirped, kicking off his sneakers. — I ran out for something cold. Thought we’d sit tonight, unwind. Sveta called—they’re already on their way back. So you panicked for nothing, Lenusya. Car’s fine, potatoes are saved, everyone’s happy.
He shuffled into the kitchen, the bag rustling, and opened the fridge for snacks. His sweatpants sagged at the knees, his T-shirt was washed thin. He looked like the king of the house. The king of someone else’s house.
— You paid for their lunch with my card, — Elena said. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.
Vadim froze with a piece of cheese in his hand. Irritation flickered across his face—the exact look he got when a pesky fly interrupted his comfort.
— Here we go, — he rolled his eyes. — Lena, it’s nothing. They were hungry, grabbed some shashlik. I couldn’t say, “Sveta, pay for yourself,” when I offered help. That’s not manly. I’ll transfer it from my advance—don’t nitpick. You know I’m tight on orders right now.
— You’ve been “tight on orders” for two years, Vadim, — Elena rose slowly. — And I’m tight on patience. You didn’t just hand over my car. You humiliated me. You put your former family ahead of my work, my income, and my self-respect.
— Oh, drop the drama! — Vadim snapped the fridge shut. — “Humiliated,” “self-respect”… Be simpler! It’s just metal on wheels. Sveta is the mother of my son—even if he’s grown. I need to keep relations. And you’re acting possessive. Are you seriously that stingy?
He popped open the beer with a hiss and took a greedy gulp, making it clear the conversation was, to him, finished. To Vadim it was just another petty domestic spat, the sort that got smoothed over at night or with a chocolate bar. He didn’t see the abyss opening beneath his feet.
— I’m not stingy, Vadim, — Elena said softly, and steel rang in her voice. — I’m just curious: if you care so much about Svetlana’s comfort, why are you still living in my apartment, eating my food, spending my money? Maybe you should move to where your help is so desperately needed. Straight to the potatoes.
— You’re joking, right? — Vadim gave a nervous laugh, but worry flashed in his eyes. He set the beer down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. — Move in with Sveta? Lena, what are you talking about? We have a family, a home, plans. And over there… it’s just human decency. I can’t abandon people in trouble. That would be vile.
Elena looked at him and felt like she was seeing him for the first time—not the charming man she’d met three years ago, but a stranger: soft around the edges, comfortably settled in her kitchen. He talked about “duty” while sitting in an apartment whose mortgage she paid, chewing cheese bought with her money.
— What’s vile, Vadim, is stealing from your wife so you can impress your ex, — Elena said evenly. She wasn’t yelling. Her voice was flat, like an air conditioner’s steady hum—and that chill made Vadim more and more uneasy. — Let’s talk about your “manly contribution.” You say we share a budget. Great. Let’s count. Utilities last month—six thousand. I paid. Groceries—forty thousand. I paid. The car loan for the Toyota your Svetlana is driving—twenty-five thousand. Me again. So what did you put in?
Vadim flushed. Red blotches crawled up his face. He jumped up as if stung.
— You… you’re petty! — he spat, stabbing a finger toward her. — You’re an accountant, not a woman! I’m creative, I freelance—you knew what you were getting! And I take care of the house, by the way! Who put up that shelf in the bathroom? Who answers the door for couriers while you’re out running around? That’s work too! And money… money will come! I’ve got a project lining up.
— You hung that shelf six months ago, and it’s crooked, — Elena shot back, perfectly still. — And your “project” has been “lining up” for two years. You turned our life into a comfortable symbiosis: you’re the parasite, and I’m the host. But today you crossed a line. You took my work tool and gave it to outsiders. Do you understand that if anything happens to the car, insurance will tell me to get lost—because the driver isn’t on the policy? Did you even think of that, “hero”?
— Nothing will happen! — Vadim waved it off, sat down again, and drank deeply, as if looking to alcohol for backup. — Sveta drives carefully, she’s got ten years of experience. And she’s not an outsider. We raised a son together. Those ties don’t get cut by a stamp in a passport. You wouldn’t understand—you’re a career woman, you’ve got a calculator instead of a heart.
Elena gave a bitter, sharp little smile.
— You want to know the difference between us, Vadim? I build my life myself. And you try to be everyone’s good guy on someone else’s dime. That’s called putting on a “spectacular show of generosity” on credit. My credit. You want to be a hero for Sveta? Fine. Earn money, buy her a jeep, let her haul manure in it. But don’t touch what’s mine.
Just then Vadim’s phone pinged again. He grabbed it, hoping for an escape, but his face tightened as he read.
— See? Everything’s fine, — he muttered, without much conviction. — She says they stopped for coffee at a gas station. Half an hour and they’ll be here. Traffic at the city entrance.
— Coffee, — Elena repeated slowly. — I’m here calculating losses, I blew a meeting that could’ve gotten me a yearly bonus, and they’re drinking coffee. On my money. In my car.
She stood and walked to the window. Outside, dusk was settling. A wet, raw autumn evening draped itself over the city. Somewhere out there, in the moving river of cars, her white Toyota rolled along—turned into a vegetable hauler.
— You didn’t just give away my car, Vadim, — she said, staring at her reflection in the dark glass. — You showed me my place. To you I’m a resource. A function. “Lena will pay,” “Lena will understand,” “Lena will manage.” And Svetlana is “someone in trouble,” “family,” “sacred.” You made your priorities clear. And I accepted them.
— Oh, stop winding yourself up! — Vadim snapped, thumping the can on the table. — Stop playing the victim! The car will be back, I’ll take it to the wash tomorrow. Or on the weekend. It’ll look brand new. You’d better think about dinner—the fridge is empty, there’s nothing but cheese.
Elena turned to him slowly. There was so much icy contempt in her eyes that Vadim instinctively pressed himself into his chair.
— There won’t be dinner, — she said clearly. — And there won’t be breakfast. The free ride is over. You’re so proud of your past, Vadim? Then live on it. Let your “real family” feed you. I’m done supporting a grown, able-bodied man who thinks having a body part gives him the right to run my life.
— You’re throwing bread in my face now? — Vadim choked with outrage. — How can you even say that? Am I your husband or what? In sickness and in health—forgotten that already?
— In sickness and in health, — Elena nodded. — Not in arrogance and stupidity. You created a problem out of thin air, Vadim. You set me up. And instead of apologizing, you sit here drinking beer and demanding dinner. You’re pathetic.
Vadim jumped up, knocking over the empty can. Foam spilled across the table and dripped onto the floor, but he didn’t even notice.
— Pathetic? Me? I did everything for you! I put up with your attitude! Your constant trips, your late-night reports! Another man would’ve left long ago for a normal, homey woman who makes borscht instead of counting money!
— Then go, — Elena said quietly. — The door isn’t locked. Go to the one who makes borscht and hauls potatoes. Just leave the keys to my apartment on the console.
A heavy silence fell. Vadim breathed hard through flared nostrils. He was used to Elena grumbling and then softening. He was used to pressing her guilt, her fear of being alone. But those buttons weren’t working now. The mechanism had snapped.
Down in the courtyard, a familiar horn sounded—once, then again, demanding and insolent.
Vadim lunged to the window.
— They’re here, — he muttered, avoiding her eyes. — See? Your precious car is alive. I’ll go down, help unload, and we’ll close this topic.
— We’ll close it, that’s for sure, — Elena said, following him into the hallway. — But first I want to see what you’ve done to my car. And listen, Vadim: if I find a single new scratch, your “project” of rescuing your ex-family is going to cost you very dearly.
She threw on a coat, grabbed the spare set of car keys—just in case—and walked out to the landing without waiting for him to lace up his sneakers. She couldn’t wait to look that “saintly woman” in the eyes—the one her husband was willing to derail their life for.
— Here, take your ride back! — Svetlana climbed out with a satisfied stretch, tugging her puffer jacket back into place. She looked like a winner returning with trophies: cheeks flushed, hair tousled, eyes shining with the bold confidence of someone sure she’d get away with anything. — A bit dirty, sure, but we got the job done. Mom sent you a jar of pickles. It’s in the trunk, as thanks.
Elena silently approached her car. The snow-white Toyota she’d been so proud of now looked like a tractor fresh from plowing. The wheel arches were packed with thick black mud, gray streaks had dried along the sides, and a brand-new, deep scratch cut across the front bumper like a knife wound.
— What is that? — Elena asked softly, pointing at it.
— Oh, come on, it’s nothing! — Svetlana waved it off, pulling out a cigarette. — We brushed a bush when we turned around. You’ve got comprehensive insurance, don’t you? Why are you trembling? They’ll buff it out. The important thing is, we saved the potatoes. Vadik, come help with the sack—this one’s for you, by the way.
Vadim fussed around, trying to look busy. He could feel the tension in the air and tried to talk his way through it.
— Lenusya, we’ll run it through the car wash tomorrow, it’ll look brand new! — he tried to put an arm around her shoulders, but Elena stepped back and his hands caught nothing. — The scratch is nothing, I’ll ask the guys in the garage, they’ll fix it for peanuts. But look at the harvest!
Elena opened the driver’s door. A wave of damp earth, cheap tobacco, and something sour rolled out. A dark stain spread across the beige leather of the passenger seat, and the floor mats were trampled as if an entire platoon had marched through. It wasn’t just mess. It felt like an insult to her private space.
She closed the door slowly, shutting out the stench, and turned to her husband. Her face was completely calm—and that was more frightening than any scream.
— The apartment keys, Vadim.
— What? — he froze with a sack of potatoes clutched to his belly. — Lena, are you starting again? We agreed—I’ll clean it up. Come on, stop putting on a show in front of people.
— I’m not putting on a show. I’m ending a farce, — Elena held out her hand, palm up. — The keys. Now. You wanted to be useful to your family so badly? Congratulations—you’ve got your chance. Go with them. Haul potatoes. Patch roofs. Drive your “in-need” relatives around. You’re free, Vadim.
— You’re throwing me out? — his voice squeaked. — Over dirty mats? Lena, wake up! I’m your husband! You can’t toss me into the street like this, at night!
— I can, — she cut in sharply. — I pay for this apartment. I pay for this car. I buy the food you eat. You’re a guest who overstayed and started wiping mud on the carpet. Hospitality is over. Keys.
Vadim turned helplessly toward Svetlana, looking for backup. His “battle buddy” leaned on her old Peugeot, watching the scene with interest, sending smoke into the cold air.
— Sveta, tell her! — Vadim pleaded. — Explain it’s normal to help family!
Svetlana snorted, flicked her cigarette to the ground, and crushed it with her sneaker.
— What do I have to do with your drama, Vadik? — she drawled. — That’s your marriage. Deal with it yourselves. I need to go—Mom’s blood pressure still needs checking.
— What do you mean, “yourselves”? — Vadim dropped the sack. Potatoes thudded and rolled across the asphalt. — I did all this for you! Lena’s kicking me out! Sveta, so… I crash at your place for a couple days? Until she cools off?
Silence. Only the wind in the wires and a distant siren somewhere far away. Elena folded her arms, waiting grimly for the finale.
Svetlana looked at him like he’d offered her a dead rat.
— At our place? — she repeated, eyebrows climbing. — Vadik, have you lost your mind? Where would I put you? We’ve got a two-room apartment—Mom in one, me in the other. And I have a personal life, by the way. Kolya is coming this weekend. He doesn’t need “surprises” from the past.
— Kolya? — Vadim looked like someone had hit him with a dusty sack. — What Kolya? You told me you were alone… that you needed help…
— I needed help with potatoes, idiot, — Svetlana laughed, opening her car door. — Why would I need a man in the house? Especially one like you. No money, no place, and child support baggage. You’re convenient when I need a ride or a delivery. But long-term? Sorry—I’ve done that ride already. I’ve had my fill.
She slid behind the wheel and started the engine. The old Peugeot coughed and rattled.
— Keep the potatoes for yourselves—for your “hard work”! — she yelled out the window, then floored it and shot out of the yard, leaving Vadim standing in the middle of scattered vegetables.
Elena stepped closer. Vadim stood hunched, staring after the fading red taillights. All his swagger and borrowed bravado had evaporated, leaving only a worn-out man in stretched sweatpants.
— You see, Vadim, — Elena said quietly. — That’s your real value. You’re useful only while you have a resource. My resource. On your own, you’re just free labor.
— Lena… — he turned to her, eyes wet. — Lena, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I get it now. Let’s go home, please? I’m freezing.
Elena shook her head. Inside, nothing stirred—no pity, no triumph—only a revulsion, a need to scrub herself clean.
— No, Vadim. I’m going home. And you… you pick up the potatoes. That’s your payment. And put the keys on the hood.
— I’ve got nowhere to go, — he whispered. — I don’t even have money for a hostel. You blocked the card.
— You have friends. The same guys who “fix bumpers for peanuts.” You’ve got your mother in another city. Plenty of options. Welcome to adulthood—where you pay for your mistakes with your own comfort, not someone else’s.
She took the keyring from his limp hand, slid off the car key, and shoved the apartment keys into her pocket with deliberate finality.
— Goodbye, Vadim. I’ll pack your things tomorrow and leave them in the hallway. Pick them up when you can.
Elena turned and walked toward the entrance. Back straight. Steps steady. Behind her, Vadim shouted something—maybe a curse, maybe a plea—but she didn’t turn around. The door slammed shut, cutting her off from the past.
Vadim was left alone in the dark parking lot. Cold wind slipped under his thin T-shirt. Muddy potatoes lay scattered around him—the only thing he had left from two “families.” He sat on the curb beside the grimy Toyota he’d never managed to claim, covered his face with his hands, and finally understood: the script of the noble knight had failed, and the comfortable role of freeloader had ended—fired without severance. Life had finally handed him the bill, and he had nothing to pay it with.