— I’m telling you, Seryozha: it’s either me or her! — Galina Petrovna’s voice echoed through the kitchen like an air-raid siren.
Sergey sighed heavily and rubbed the bridge of his nose:
— Mom, please don’t start again…
— Are you taking her side now?! — she raised her voice. — Have you forgotten who raised you?
When you came to me like a soaked little chick — in torn shoes, with your diploma hanging around your neck and hope in your eyes?
Anastasia stood by the window, holding a mug of bitter instant coffee, silent.
Arguing with Galina Petrovna was like yelling at a kettle to stop whistling — it would make noise, but nothing would change.
— This isn’t your apartment, sweetheart, — the mother-in-law continued, not lowering her voice.
— It’s my husband’s inheritance, and my son is the rightful owner. You’re just a guest. Got it?
— Got it, — Nastya replied calmly, turning toward her.
— But this “owner” of yours has been living off my money for the past two years.
And don’t forget: I bought the fridge that guzzles electricity like it’s running on caffeine.
Galina Petrovna paused — but only briefly.
She’d spent her life in market-style verbal battles — one second of hesitation and back into the fight.
— Money doesn’t give you the right to rule! I’m his mother! A mother belongs beside her son!
— Right between us in bed? — Nastya countered, taking a sip of coffee. It was unsweetened, like the last two months of their marriage.
Sergey tried to step in:
— Mom… let’s not make a scene. Maybe you could stay at Aunt Valya’s for now?
— Me, Galina Petrovna, live at the dacha with that nutcase who talks to dogs? Never!
— Then move out, — Anastasia said quietly.
— You said it yourself — this isn’t my apartment. So it can’t be your family either.
Galina Petrovna threw up her hands dramatically and collapsed onto a stool, performing the role of a martyr heading for the stake.
The kitchen fell silent for a moment. Only the dripping faucet could be heard — the same one Sergey promised to fix three weeks ago.
Like the chandelier in the living room, the pipe under the sink… and their marriage.
— You think I don’t see how you’re tearing him away from me? — the mother-in-law hissed, leaning forward.
— I want a normal life, Galina Petrovna.
Without soap operas in the morning and nightly inspections.
Without the smell of your perfume in my closet and your control over my decisions.
— How dare you?! — the woman jumped up as if the stool had shocked her. — You don’t even have children to leave anything behind! What apartment do you need?!
— And there it is, — Nastya smirked. — It’s not your son you care about — it’s the square meters. You want a will — and then everyone goes home. Your love is just decoration.
Sergey stood up sharply:
— Enough! Both of you! Mom, calm down. Nastya… you’re not helping.
She silently placed her mug in the sink. Water droplets kept falling, like counting down the final note.
— I applied for a mortgage, — she tossed over her shoulder. — Got approved.
— What?! — they both cried out.
— I’m moving out. I need peace. And a home that doesn’t reek of someone else’s perfume or will.
She left the kitchen slowly, carefully, as if afraid that any sudden move would make it all collapse. Sergey followed.
— Wait… I thought you’d stick it out. We had an agreement.
— I thought you were a man, — she interrupted.
— Not a boy choosing between his mother and wife like between canned meat and sausage.
Galina Petrovna stood in the kitchen doorway. Her face looked like a crystal set doused in water. Her gaze — like someone whose favorite corner was just demolished.
— Have you lost your mind, Nastya? You think you can handle a mortgage on your own? At your age?
Nastya threw on her jacket and turned:
— Better to pay for your own place than spend your life being called a guest.
Even if it takes a lifetime to pay it off.
The door shut behind her with a dull thud. Two people were left in the kitchen — who suddenly realized: it had already begun.
Only no one knew where it would end.
— So where now? — Sergey stood at the threshold, shifting his weight.
He wore an old black jacket Nastya hated: the zipper torn, elbows worn, smelling like a train station.
— Out into the world, — she answered shortly, dragging her cracked suitcase down the stairs.
— I’ll stay with Ira for now. Then I’ll find my own place. The mortgage was approved, remember?
Sergey slumped. He wasn’t a bad person — just always chose the path of least resistance.
In the battle between mother and wife, past and present, he preferred… to sleep.
— Maybe you rushed into it?.. Mom will cool off…
— Cool off? — Anastasia laughed so sharply that a passerby turned around.
— Her temperature is always a hundred Fahrenheit — especially when it comes to money.
She waved him off and walked to the bus stop. Her bag thudded against her leg, her knees ached, and inside was a nauseating emptiness.
Like she’d ripped out a piece of her life and was now dragging it along with her slippers and phone charger.
Irina greeted her at the door with a plastic bag and firm kindness in her eyes:
— Here’s the key. I’ve got a spare room — my son’s in St. Petersburg. Stay until you find a place.
— Thanks, Irka. Just for a bit. Until I sort the mortgage.
— I’ve been there. Lived with my ex’s mom under one roof for five years.
Did you ever hit her?
— Mentally — three times a day. Sometimes with a shovel.
— That’s normal. We all start that way.
My ex’s mom once put dill in my tea — said it was for my health.
Turned out she wanted me working in trauma care. “Through experience,” so to speak.
They laughed. It was sharp, strained laughter — but not hopeless anymore.
At the factory, it was like a battlefield. The conveyor hummed like an old fridge, the bosses ran around looking like squeezed lemons, and the cafeteria was serving buckwheat with an aluminum aftertaste again.
— Hey, Nastya, — Valera from the fifth department walked over.
— Where’s Sergey?
— Divorced. Almost.
— No way? Who got the apartment?
— What?
— I mean, he lives with his mom. Where are you staying?
— Got approved for a mortgage. A studio. Outside the ring road.
— That’s basically Belarus! Are you crazy? Alone, at your age, your health…
— Thanks, Valera. This felt like a clinic visit.
— I didn’t mean it like that…
Nastya walked away. A studio outside the ring road wasn’t Belarus. It was a chance. Foolish, risky, with interest and debt.
But a chance.
Most importantly — her own. Without her mother-in-law’s pictures on the wall, without her rose-printed blankets, without the endless “Did you check your blood pressure today?”
Three weeks later she stood inside a concrete box — her apartment.
No doors, peeling walls, mold in the corners and a smell like someone had died on the floor. But — her own.
— Well, boss lady? — asked the foreman, a man with the face of a Caucasian general. — Shall we begin?
— Let’s start, — Nastya exhaled. — But no sticky tiles, no ceiling mirrors, no cheap Chinese decor.
And no mothers-in-law in the closet.
— As you wish.
Then her phone rang. Sergey.
— Hi, Nastya. I… Mom broke her arm. Fell on the stairs.
She says you “threw her out” and now it’s your fault.
— Was the staircase mine? Did I push her?
— She’s freaking out. And I’m alone. Everything’s falling apart. I thought… maybe you’d come back?
— Glad you finally thought. Now you can fix the faucet. Or is that not yours either?
— Nastya… We’re not okay without you. Come back.
— “We” — is that you or her?
— I feel bad alone. She probably does too… I don’t even know.
Just then, the door burst open. The foreman entered with tools in hand, chewing something.
— Shall we begin, beauty?
— Let’s, — she said into the phone. — Sergey, sorry, I’m busy. I’ve got renovations to do.
She hung up.
That night, covered in paint and exhausted, Nastya sat on the windowsill.
Outside, other people’s windows blinked — people fighting, dining, or just silently sitting together.
She checked her phone. One message from Sergey: *“I’m still waiting. I’m sorry.”*
Another — from Galina Petrovna: a photo of her arm in a cast with the caption: *“Thanks, dear. Happy now?”*
— To hell with you all, — Nastya whispered. Why does freedom cost this much pain?
She turned off her phone. Lay down on the cold floor. Concrete was better than any unwanted presence.
— What do you all want from me?! — Nastya’s voice broke.
She stood in the middle of her nearly finished apartment.
A lightbulb swung from the ceiling like a pendulum, counting seconds till the next conflict.
In the kitchen, the old electric stove she’d dragged from a flea market clattered — heavy as family resentment.
The foreman had left an hour ago.
Left a note on a bag of cement: *“Better than a mother-in-law’s place. Call if the wallpaper starts moving.”*
Anastasia stood with her phone to her ear, listening to Galina Petrovna sob.
— I can’t even hold a spoon! And your Sergey…
He’s useless! I’m like a chicken with its head cut off!
— You said I’m nobody to you. Not family.
— You’re my son’s wife! How can you be so heartless?!
— I’m not anymore. I signed the papers.
— What?!
— Sergey didn’t tell you? He brought them himself.
— This is all your fault! You destroyed our family!
Nastya set the phone down. Let her scream into the void. Maybe she’d hear how quiet it was without her.
The next day came a knock at the door.
— Oh, a saint! — Irina exclaimed, seeing Nastya in a crumb-covered robe and well-worn slippers.
— Like a monastery vision. So penitent.
— Come in, nun. Coffee’s gone up in price.
— I brought kefir. Cheaper. — Ira kicked off her sneakers and headed to the kitchen. — So how are you?
— Like a nail sticking out of the wall. Everyone bangs into it, but no one wants to pull it out.
— And Sergey?
— He called. Now he’s silent. Breathing. I’m silent too. First one to break loses.
— Do you even want him?
— I don’t know… I just wanted to live. Not fight. Not dig trenches.
Just live. Tea in the morning, a show in the evening, no one snoring beside me but a cat. But I got war instead.
— Then live. Or go back to Galina Petrovna’s military base.
Nastya smirked:
— By the way, she’s healed now. Posing with her cast in front of a samovar.
A week later, he stood at the door. No call. A bag from the grocery store in hand.
In his eyes — a kicked dog’s expression.
— Hi. I brought you yogurt. Your favorite. Apricot.
— You hate apricots.
— I’m learning to love what you love.
— A little late.
Silence settled between them — thick as spackle.
Filling the cracks they’d made themselves.
— I thought I could be in the middle. I couldn’t. I’m weak.
— You know, Sergey… I’m strong. But I’m tired of it. I’m done pulling everyone along.
I’m 52. I want someone to take care of *me*. Not drag others like a whole ER on my back.
He reached out his hand. Slowly. Cautiously.
— Can I just sit next to you?
Nastya looked at him for a long time. Not at her husband. Not at mama’s boy.
But at the man she’d spent ten years with. Good or bad — didn’t matter.
— Sit. But no snoring. And that bag goes on the floor — new tile.
He sat. Quietly. Gently. Like he was afraid to scare away the peace.
Later that night, Nastya lay on the floor, wrapped in a blanket.
Sergey slept on the couch. Apricot yogurt had leaked from the bag.
She smiled.
Maybe they still had a chance. But only — as different people.
No wars, no sacrifices, no control. Or at least — honest about their weaknesses.
— You know, — she whispered into the dark, — I’m weak too.
I just hid it better.
And somehow… it felt lighter.
