The door opened without a sound. I had oiled the hinges myself six months earlier because Anton was supposedly “saving his strength for a big breakthrough” and couldn’t waste energy on household trivia. Apparently, the breakthrough had happened—just not in his career.
The hallway smelled of cheap perfume, fried potatoes, and that unmistakable, sticky scent of betrayal. A pair of women’s thigh-high faux leather boots—so outdated they would have looked ridiculous even in the middle of nowhere—were sprawled arrogantly across my doormat. Next to them stood Anton’s shoes. And, like the finishing touch on a truly tasteless masterpiece, there were Alla Zakharovna’s orthopedic sandals.
The full cast. A family enterprise.
I did not scream, drop my bag, or slide down the wall in theatrical agony. Working as chief accountant for a construction firm burns through your nerves better than military training ever could. When you have tax inspectors breathing down your neck, catching your husband wrapped up in someone else feels like a second-tier inconvenience. I simply hung up my coat, fixed my hair, and walked into the kitchen.
It looked like a painting titled: Three Little Pigs Dividing Someone Else’s Dinner.
At my table, in my chair, sat Zhanna—the sales clerk from Pyaterochka with whom I sometimes chatted about laundry detergent discounts. Now she was wearing my terry-cloth robe. Anton, my lawful husband—for the time being—was serving her salad, the same salad I had chopped the night before until one in the morning. And at the head of the table sat Alla Zakharovna, former theater box-office cashier, wearing the expression of a grand artistic director judging an audition.
“Olenka?” My mother-in-law did not even flinch. On the contrary, she acted as though my arrival was nothing more than an unfortunate disruption to the script. “We were just… rehearsing. Life, you know, is complicated.”
“I can see that,” I said, nodding as I leaned one hip against the doorframe. “The props are mine, the set is mine, and the actors look like they came from a burned-down theater. Anton, pass Zhanna the bread. She seems to be having trouble swallowing. Or maybe she isn’t?”
Zhanna blushed furiously, trying to pull the robe tighter across her chest. Anton froze, a pickled cucumber trembling on his fork.
“Olya, you’ve misunderstood everything,” he began in his trademark tone of the tortured genius no one appreciates. “Zhanna and I have a spiritual connection. She hears me. But you’re always buried in your reports, your numbers… I’m suffocating next to you. I need air!”
“Air, Anton, is a mixture of nitrogen and oxygen,” I replied calmly. “Zhanna smells more like a two-for-one promotion in the beer aisle.”
“How dare you!” Zhanna shrieked. “We love each other! Alla Zakharovna gave us her blessing!”
I turned to my mother-in-law. She pressed her hands dramatically to her chest, her cheap bracelets clinking together.
“Olya, dear,” she began, rolling her eyes. “You have to understand. A man is like a bird—he needs space to fly! But you keep dragging him down to earth. You’re so dry, such a bookkeeper! Zhannochka, on the other hand, is a muse. As someone from the world of art, I recognized that spark immediately. Don’t be selfish. Let him go in peace. Your apartment is large enough—you can stay here alone for a while and think about your behavior.”
That was when it became my turn to perform.
“Alla Zakharovna,” I said, my voice turning soft as syrup, “you always used to say that refinement is something you’re born with, like the shape of your ears.”
“Exactly!” my mother-in-law said, drawing herself up, delighted. “My grandmother was a countess… at heart.”
“Well then, true refinement, Alla Zakharovna, means knowing not to stick your nose into someone else’s wallet or someone else’s bed,” I said with a smile. “And your ‘bird’ Anton hasn’t brought a single penny home in three years, though he’s certainly pecked through all my supplies. You call that flying. The tax code calls it dependence.”
Alla Zakharovna took a deep breath, clearly preparing a lecture on greed and materialism, but I kept going.
“And while we’re speaking of higher things—you always claimed the theater was a temple, didn’t you?”
“A temple! A sanctuary!” she cried dramatically, lifting one finger skyward. “There is no place there for anything base!”
“Then why, when you worked at the box office, were you reprimanded twice for selling complimentary tickets to friends under the table?” I asked, looking directly at the bridge of her nose. “Lyudochka from your theater’s HR department told me.”
Alla Zakharovna choked on air. Her hand jerked, and a piece of herring slid off her fork and landed right on her starched blouse.
“That is… slander!” she squealed, frantically rubbing at the greasy stain and only spreading it wider. “Jealous people and their schemes!”
At that moment, she looked like a plucked chicken desperately trying to pass itself off as a peacock.
Just then Barsik wandered into the kitchen, drawn by the noise. My old, wise cat had only ever tolerated Anton out of respect for me. Barsik padded over to my husband’s legs and let out a quiet meow, asking for food.
Anton, irritated by my composure and by the stain on his mother’s blouse, suddenly lashed out and kicked the cat hard.
“Get out of here, you flea-ridden thing! The whole apartment is covered in fur—I can’t even breathe!”
Barsik flew sideways into the refrigerator, hit his side, and hissed in fear as he scrambled beneath the radiator.
Silence dropped over the kitchen. Not the light kind. Not the ringing kind. A thick, concrete silence. Something inside me clicked. Whatever pity I still had left for those pathetic people evaporated instantly. All that remained was a cold, calculated fury.
I walked slowly toward the table. I picked up the plate of salad from in front of Anton and dumped the whole thing straight into the trash.
“Out,” I said very quietly.
“What?” Anton tried to smile. “Olya, come on, don’t start. We’re all tense, nerves are shot… I kicked the cat by accident. Let’s talk about this…”
“Out!” I shouted so sharply that Zhanna jumped in her chair. “You have five minutes.”
“You have no right!” my mother-in-law screeched, springing to her feet. “Anton is registered here! This is his home too! We’ll sue!”
“Sit down, Alla Zakharovna. That’s a failing grade in law for you,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “Anton is not registered here. He had temporary registration, and it expired three days ago. I deliberately chose not to renew it. I wanted to prepare a surprise. The surprise turned out wonderfully. I bought this apartment two years before the marriage. Every receipt for every bit of renovation—from the tiles to the last screw—was paid with my card. And while we’re doing a little legal education, here’s one more thing: under Article 36 of the Family Code of the Russian Federation, any property owned by one spouse before marriage remains that spouse’s personal property. And any renovations someone wants to claim as shared investment must be proven with documents. Anton’s only paperwork consists of whiskers and a tail—and even those are fake.”
Anton went pale. He knew perfectly well that every ruble he had ever earned from his odd jobs had disappeared into “tool upgrades,” which really meant beer and gatherings like this one, while we lived entirely off my salary.
“Olya, where am I supposed to go? It’s night outside…” he whined, his grand “flight” vanishing in an instant. “Zhanka lives in a dorm, they don’t allow men in there.”
“Then fly, Anton. Fly,” I said, pulling the front door wide open. “You’re a bird, remember? Or go to your mother. She can shelter you in her little temple of the arts in that one-room flat in Biryulyovo.”
“I won’t leave this like this!” my mother-in-law hissed as she pulled on her coat. “You’ll end up alone! An old maid with a cat! Who would want you at thirty-four with that kind of character?!”
“Better alone than living with parasites,” I shot back. “Zhanna, take off the robe. It’s Turkish cotton, not workwear for cashiers.”
Sniffling, Zhanna peeled off the robe, standing there in jeans and a T-shirt. She darted into the hallway first. After her came Alla Zakharovna, chin lifted in false dignity, though she shuffled along rather comically in her orthopedic sandals.
Anton lingered at the threshold.
“You’re cruel, Olya. I thought you had a heart.”
“I do have a heart. I also have a brain, Anton. Turns out that’s a rare combination in this family. Leave the keys on the table.”
He tossed the key ring down. It hit the wood with the sound of the last coins rattling in a beggar’s pocket.
I slammed the door shut. Turned the lock once, then again. The sound was sweeter than any music I had ever heard.
The first thing I did was pull Barsik out from under the radiator. He was trembling. I held him close, burying my face in his warm fur.
“It’s all right, little one, it’s all right,” I whispered. “No one is ever going to hurt you again. Tomorrow we’ll buy you the best fish in the world. And we’ll change the locks.”
I poured myself some tea. The kitchen was quiet. Dirty plates still sat on the table, but they did not annoy me. I felt strangely light, as though I had finally dropped a backpack full of stones I had been dragging uphill for three years.
Of course tomorrow would hurt. Tomorrow I would grieve the wasted time, the ruined illusions. But that would be tomorrow. Today, I had finally come home. Back to myself.
A message flashed on my phone. Zhanna: “You never loved him anyway!!!”
I smirked and hit Block. Then I opened my banking app and transferred the remaining balance from my card—the one Anton had access to, the one he had been draining for six months—into a savings account labeled For the Sea.
The amount looked beautiful. Perfect for one.
“So, Barsik,” I said, glancing at the cat, who was already calmly washing himself on the windowsill, “it looks like we’re starting a new life. And you know what? I already like it.”