Do you even realize that this can’t go on?!” Olya’s voice broke as her fingers clenched the edge of the chair.
“What did I do this time?!” Konstantin gripped the tabletop, trying to steady the tremor in his hands.
“If I stay silent now, I’ll just explode!” The girl threw a cup into the sink. The sound of porcelain made Nastya, who had peeked through the door, quickly retreat.
“Nastyusha, it’s okay, go to your room!” Kostya stepped toward his wife, but she sharply pulled away.
“You want the truth? Your freeloading days are over!” Olya, swallowing tears, darted into the corridor. Her gaze fell on her husband’s backpack, hanging next to his jacket. A tug at the zipper — and the contents spilled onto the floor.
“Have you completely lost your mind?!” The man grabbed her by the wrist.
“Lost my mind? You’re the one living in illusions!” She broke free, pushing him away. “For three years I’ve been feeding your dreams! Enough!”
A sudden phone call interrupted their fight. The screen read — “Mother-in-law.” Olya, annoyed, turned on the speaker:
“Olenka, are you and Kostya arguing?” came a worried voice.
“We’re not arguing, we’re getting divorced!” the girl hissed. “Take your genius back!”
The silence hung so thick that Nastya’s sobs could be heard through the wall. Chatter came from the phone:
“Dear, what happened?”
But Olya had already hung up, wiping away the traitorous tears from her chin.
—
Before meeting Konstantin, Olya’s life flowed smoothly. Raised by her grandmother, a nurse, she learned from childhood that stability is more important than dreams. An accounting position after university seemed a logical choice, though her soul sometimes yearned for watercolor paints.
Their romance began with guitar strumming in a college dormitory. Kostya — a charismatic rebel with a guitar on his back — charmed her with the romance of freedom. “Why do you need those boring reports? — he whispered, wrapping an arm around her waist. — Let’s create an art space! You were born for creativity!”
The first years of marriage felt like a celebration. Even the nagging care of Tatyana Viktorovna didn’t irritate: “Kostik is sensitive, don’t overload him with job searches.”
Everything changed with the birth of their daughter. While Olya was on maternity leave, Kostya switched through a dozen temporary jobs: photography, editing, music lessons. But by the time Nastya was three, his “creative searches” had dwindled to nightly gaming marathons.
“Ol, the office will kill my personality!” he defended himself, as complaints about lack of money grew frequent.
The girl silently closed mortgage accounts, hid utility bills, and believed that one day he would come to his senses. Until this evening.
Conflicts became their daily ritual. Konstantin frowned when Olya rejected another purchase request, and she boiled seeing him spend hours at the monitor, calling it “searching for inspiration,” while a mountain of unwashed dishes grew on the countertop.
Over three years, Kostya tried a dozen activities. He complained about “slave conditions” on freelance, conflicted with clients, or abandoned projects due to “lack of creativity.” The financial hole had to be filled with Olya’s salary, and he merely shrugged off concerns: “Don’t worry, once we launch a cool startup — we’ll live well!”
—
The tense silence in the apartment was shattered by a persistent call. Olya, expecting a courier with groceries, opened the door — and froze. On the doorstep stood Tatyana Viktorovna in an elegant coat, with Sergey Petrovich looming behind her with a box of homemade pies.
“Let’s discuss everything calmly,” the mother-in-law adjusted her scarf, feigning a businesslike tone, but the tremor in her hands gave away her anxiety.
Kostya emerged into the hallway, hunched as if trying to appear smaller. The father, silently placing the gift on the table, murmured: “Maybe it’s just a family crisis? It’ll pass…”
“Crisis?” Olya clenched her fists to steady her voice. “For three years I’ve managed our family budget in the red, while your son considers contributing to the household beneath his dignity!”
Tatyana Viktorovna reached out to Kostya, stroking his shoulder: “Son, maybe you should stay with us? Rest, and ideas will come…”
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting!” Olya sharply pulled back her sleeve. “Take him. I’m exhausted.”
Sergey Petrovich coughed, shifting his gaze to the partially opened nursery door: “And Nastya? You wouldn’t deprive her of a father…”
“Father?” the girl bitterly smiled. “He even forgets to take her to kindergarten. I manage alone — let her at least have stability.”
The in-laws shifted uncomfortably. Kostya, his gaze buried in his sneakers, muttered: “Mom, let’s go…”
Olya leaned against the wall, watching them fuss with suitcases. In the nursery, Nastya quietly played with cartoons — too accustomed to quarrels to cry.
“You have no right to cut me off from Nastya!” Konstantin suddenly stood, knocking over a stool.
“You can visit, but we’re not staying under one roof anymore,” Olya crossed her arms across her chest, building a barrier. “I’ll file for divorce tomorrow.”
The silence thickened, broken only by muffled sobs from behind the thin wall.
“Dear, this is temporary anger,” Tatyana Viktorovna wrung her fingers as if pleading. “One day you’ll look back — and regret the rush.”
“I’m already alone,” the girl closed her eyes, holding back a tremor in her voice. “Every day is a race: work, loans, household. I can’t breathe.”
“It’s always the same!” Kostya slammed his fist on the table, making the cups rattle. “You think I’m not trying? There’s nothing in this city for ambitious people!”
“Your ‘ambitions’ are stuck in games and excuses!” Olya raised her hand, pointing at the laptop in the corner. “Vasya, your friend, translates texts freelance — supports his family. And not by whining, but by working!”
“And what, should I become a clerk like him?” he retorted sarcastically.
“Become even a janitor, just stop living at my expense!” Olya’s eyes flashed. “Creativity is not a synonym for idleness.”
Sergey Petrovich, who had been silent until now, ran his hand through his stubble: “Son, why didn’t you say? I would’ve talked to colleagues, found you a place…”
“In your office from nine to six? No thanks,” Kostya grimaced as if swallowing a lemon. “I’d rather return to my old room — at least I can breathe there.”
Olya, staggering, walked into the kitchen. The narrow space, once fragrant with cinnamon and coziness, now felt like a cage. She grabbed the edge of the sink, feeling nausea rising.
The mother-in-law, creeping closer, suggested: “Let’s discuss this without shouting. Maybe…”
“Everything’s said,” Olya interrupted, but waved her hand, allowing her to sit.
Sergey Petrovich, fidgeting on the chair, spoke first: “Give him a month, Olenka. Maybe a chance will come…”
“Chances ran out three years ago,” she bitterly laughed. “Every day I choose: buy Nastya fruits or pay the electricity. And he waits for the universe to fall at his feet.”
Tatyana Viktorovna reached for her hand: “He just… doesn’t know any other way.”
“Because you taught him to run from responsibility!” Olya exhaled, realizing the dam had broken. “You decided everything for him: from lessons to university. Now I should replace your role? No. I need a husband, not a ward.”
Kostya, pale, froze in the doorway: “If everything’s decided — let’s divide the belongings. Mortgage, furniture…”
Olya looked at him, noticing for the first time the gray at his temples. When had he aged? — she wondered. But she pursed her lips, nodding: “Tomorrow I’ll hire a lawyer.”
Nastya behind the wall turned up the cartoons — a customary soundtrack for quarrels. Olya caught herself thinking that her daughter no longer ran to reconcile them. She’s used to it, — she thought bitterly, swallowing a lump in her throat.
“The only things we have,” Olya spread her arms, emphasizing the absurdity of the situation, “are the mortgage that I pay and a car from my parents. There’s nothing to divide.”
Sergey Petrovich coughed, avoiding her gaze: “Maybe we’ll pay off part of the loan? To… to keep everything as before?”
“Dad,” Kostya rubbed his bridge of his nose, “you know I can’t earn such amounts.”
“I don’t need anything,” Olya interrupted. “Take his things. Nastya will stay with me, but he can visit whenever he wants.”
“And where will I live?” Kostya asked, for the first time lowering his eyes.
“With your parents,” Olya responded coldly. “Since they believe so much in your ‘inspiration,’ let them provide comfortable conditions.”
Tatyana Viktorovna pulled a handkerchief to her eyes: “Fine… Only for Nastenka’s sake — no scenes in front of her.”
“I’ve understood everything,” Kostya quickly turned to the wardrobe. “I’m packing and leaving.”
Nastya slipped from behind the door, clinging to the hem of her mother’s sweater: “Dad, will you take me?”
Olya crouched to be at her daughter’s level: “Sunshine, adults are deciding…”
“But I want to know!” the girl planted her palms on her hips, mimicking her mother’s gesture. “Why is dad leaving?”
Kostya drew her close, pressing her to his chest: “I’ll be nearby, bunny. Come visit — we’ll bake gingerbread with grandma.”
“So you’re not coming back?” Nastya broke free and recoiled as if she saw a stranger. “Mom, is this forever?”
“Sometimes adults… stop being a team,” Olya swallowed a lump, feeling a tremor approaching her lips. “But we both love you. It’s even better this way.”
The girl burst into tears, clutching her father’s T-shirt. Kostya, growing paler, handed her to Olya, then grabbed his bag as if it could anchor him.
“Let’s take Nastya to her room,” Sergey Petrovich suggested, forcing a smile. “Help Kostya pack.”
“No need,” Kostya grumbled, snatching his jacket from the hanger. “Bring the boxes — the rest I can do myself.”
Silence filled the apartment, thick as syrup. Olya mechanically patted her daughter’s back, remembering how Kostya swore to “straighten up” before Nastya’s birth, how they laughed at his adventurous plans. Now it seemed like a dream.
An hour later, three boxes labeled “Books,” “Clothes,” “Miscellaneous” loomed at the door. Kostya looked at Olya, but she turned away, clutching Nastya, who was now sobbing quietly.
“That’s it,” he pulled the suitcase handle. “I’m leaving.”
“Call if…” started Tatyana Viktorovna, but Olya interrupted:
“I’ll call if there’s a reason.”
The door slammed shut. Olya slumped to the floor, leaning against the wall. In the mirror opposite, a woman with tear-stained cheeks reflected, but in her chest burned a strange flame — as if she had shed a heavy backpack.
“Mom, is it true Dad won’t come back?” Nastya pressed her forehead to her shoulder.
“He won’t come back,” Olya lifted her daughter, kissing her crown. “But he will write to you, invite you over. Do you want that?”
The girl nodded, squeezing the edge of her mother’s sweater.
Outside, an engine roared. Olya approached the window, watching as Kostya’s parents loaded boxes into the trunk. He stood aside, smoking, and in the lamplight seemed like a stranger — a man from another life.
“Nastyush,” Olya took her hand, “let’s make something tasty. We can even have ice cream today!”
“And then cartoons?” the girl rubbed her eyes, trying to smile.
“Of course!” Olya flung open the fridge but suddenly froze, noticing the shards of the mug still lying under the sink. She put on gloves, gathered them as if burying the past.
As Nastya picked a movie, Olya surveyed the kitchen. Kostya’s shelf of mugs was empty, but on the table stood a child’s drawing — a yellow house under a rainbow. That’s enough for us, — she thought, turning on the stove.
“Mom, look!” Nastya pointed at the screen where animated creatures danced. “They’re like us!”
Olya sat next to her, embracing her. It was dark outside, but inside, the apartment smelled of omelets and hope. Let tomorrow be challenging — today, they laughed together, and it was a new beginning.