— Why on earth should I go to your mother every evening, wash her, and change her diapers? Hire a caregiver for her, because I’m not doing this anymore.
— Why didn’t you visit Mom today?
Vadim’s voice, sharp and devoid of any warmth, struck Valeria in the back. She was just taking off her shoes in the hallway, savoring the moment as she freed her swollen feet from the narrow office pumps. All day she had dreamed of this: coming home, changing into a soft T-shirt, and stretching her legs out on the couch. The smell of lasagna warming in the microwave already filled the small apartment, promising modest but well-deserved comfort. Vadim’s question shattered that fragile idyll in an instant.
She didn’t turn around.
— I was working, Vadim. I forgot to tell you, the quarterly report, I stayed until the very end — she replied, trying to keep her voice steady, not as tired as she felt.
He didn’t move, still standing in the doorway, massive and discontented. His jacket was unbuttoned but not removed, as if he had dropped by for a minute just to voice his complaint and leave. It was his new habit — to begin conversations with accusations, without giving her a chance to breathe.
— Working. Everyone works. And she’s there alone waiting. She counted on you coming. We agreed that you’d stop by her place every evening after your office.
There was no question in his words, only a statement of her guilt. Lera finally straightened up and looked at him. On his face was that expression of righteous anger she had started to notice more and more often. As if he were a prosecutor and she the perpetually guilty defendant.
— I called her during the day, told her I wouldn’t make it. She said it was fine, — Lera stepped toward the kitchen, instinctively trying to step out of the line of fire. — A social worker came in the morning, brought groceries. I didn’t abandon her to her fate.
— And what else would she say? — Vadim followed, his voice gaining force. — That she feels bad and can’t make it to the bathroom? She won’t complain, she’s too proud. You should understand that without words! You, as the future mistress of our house, as my wife, should foresee such things!
He planted himself in the middle of the kitchen, filling all the space. The microwave beeped, announcing the lasagna was ready, but no one paid attention. Valeria looked at him, and her fatigue slowly transformed into something else. Into cold, sober irritation.
— Vadim, I’m not a mind reader. I’m a person who worked ten hours today almost without a break. I physically couldn’t split myself in two.
— That’s not an excuse. That’s just pretexts, — he cut her off, and a hard, unyielding gleam flashed in his eyes. — Taking care of her is your duty. Your direct duty as a future wife. You should understand and accept that as a given.
He spoke with such assured, immovable conviction, as though quoting from some family code he himself had written. The word duty hung in the kitchen air, pushing out the scent of food and comfort. It was alien, bureaucratic, like a stamp on a document you sign without looking.
Lera froze. She no longer heard the fridge humming or the cars outside. She looked at the face of her fiancé — the man she was supposed to marry in two months — and she didn’t see love, care, or partnership. She saw a warden who came to check whether she was performing her tasks properly. And at that very moment, all the fatigue she had accumulated throughout the day evaporated, replaced by an icy, crystalline clarity.
— Duty? — she repeated. Quietly, almost without intonation. Yet that quiet word sounded louder than any shout in the kitchen. She stared at him, her gaze that of someone who has just noticed an ugly detail in a familiar painting, one that changes its entire meaning.
— Yes. What did you think?
He nodded smugly, as though she had asked the stupidest question in the world and he, weary of her incomprehension, had finally explained everything. That nod, that calm, assured tone became Valeria’s trigger. Not for hysteria. For something far colder, far more final. Suddenly she saw the whole picture, stripped of the rosy filters of love and hopes for a shared future.
In her mind flickered fragments of their plans: the white dress they had chosen last week, their playful arguments about where to go on their honeymoon, his promises to carry her in his arms. And now, over these bright images, another picture superimposed itself — revoltingly clear and real: she, exhausted after work, going not home but to his mother’s stuffy apartment, smelling of medicine and old age.
She saw her own hands changing a diaper, felt the dull ache in her back from lifting and turning a frail, helpless body. And beside her, in this picture, there was no Vadim. He was somewhere else, in their cozy apartment, waiting for dinner and convinced that his woman was “fulfilling her duty.”
Lera let out a bitter chuckle, but there was no amusement in it. It was the sound of a snapped string.
— My duty? — she repeated, and now there was steel in her voice. — So in your view, I’m getting married to become a free caregiver for your mother? To wash her, feed her with a spoon, and change her diapers until the end of her days? Is that the happy family life you’re offering me?
Vadim frowned, his face twisting into a grimace of irritation. He hadn’t expected such resistance. In his world, a woman was supposed to quietly accept her role.
— Why do you always exaggerate everything? She’s my mother! She raised me, stayed up countless nights…
— Don’t tell me about her sleepless nights, — Lera cut him off sharply. — I’m talking about my life. About our life together. Or won’t there be one? Will it only be your life and your mother, while I’m just the service staff, expected to be grateful for the opportunity?
He moved around the table and leaned on the countertop, staring down at her. It was his favorite stance in arguments — the stance of dominance.
— This is called family. This is called respect for elders. In normal families, that’s how it’s done. A wife takes care of her husband and his parents. That’s the foundation. My father cared for his mother until her last day, and my mother helped him, and no one thought it was shameful. But you… you must be cut from a different cloth. All you want is comfort and entertainment.
His words were like small, poisonous darts. He tried to sting her, to make her feel selfish and wrong. But he was too late. The process had already begun, and her soul was being covered with icy armor.
— Yes, Vadim, I am cut from a different cloth, — she calmly confirmed, looking him straight in the eyes. — I’m from the kind of cloth where marriage is a partnership between two equal people, not a lifetime contract of servitude. I thought I was marrying a man with whom we would build our future together. But it turns out I’m just being interviewed for the position of nurse. With no salary, of course.
— Stop spouting this nonsense! — he slammed his palm on the table, not hard, more to emphasize his anger than to hurt. — You’re just looking for an excuse to shirk your duty! It’s not that hard — stopping by for an hour or two!
— An hour or two? Every day? After work? And on weekends too, I suppose? And when do we get to live, Vadim? When do we get to be together? Or will our evenings now go like this: you on the couch in front of the TV, and me on the phone reporting whether I’ve changed Zinaida Viktorovna’s diaper?…
She said it with such cold, bitter sarcasm that he was momentarily struck dumb. He stared at her, confusion flickering in his eyes. He genuinely couldn’t grasp what she found unacceptable. In his world, everything was logical and correct. He was the man. She was his woman. His mother was part of him. Therefore, his woman had to take care of that part of him. It was as simple as two plus two.
— I thought you loved me, — he finally muttered, resorting to the cheapest, last-ditch argument.
Valeria slowly shook her head.
— I thought so too. But today I realized you’re not looking for love. You’re looking for convenience. A free add-on to your comfortable life. And love… in your world, love means I silently agree to everything you order me to do. Well, darling. That’s not love. That’s consumerism.
The word consumerism hit him in the face like a slap. Vadim recoiled from the countertop, his features contorted. He wasn’t used to Valeria—his quiet, compliant Lera—speaking to him like this. Or looking at him like this: cold, appraising, as if weighing him on invisible scales and finding him sorely lacking. For a moment, confusion flashed in his eyes, but it drowned instantly in a fresh wave of wounded pride. He was losing this battle, and for him that was unbearable.
And so he reached for his trump card. The one that had to work.
Without a word, he demonstratively pulled his phone from his pocket. His movements were deliberately slow, theatrical. He didn’t look at Lera, but he felt her gaze, and it fed his confidence. He scrolled to the contact “Mom” and pressed call, immediately switching to speaker. This was his all-in move, his last attempt to appeal to her conscience, to what he believed was her feminine softness.
— Yes, son? — came a thin, trembling voice from the phone’s speaker, faint and muffled as if struggling through cotton. The voice of a sick, lonely woman.
Vadim cast Valeria a quick, triumphant glance. See? Listen. Listen and feel ashamed.
— Hi, Mom. How are you? I just wanted to check in, — his own voice instantly changed. All the steel and harshness drained away, replaced by softness, velvet, the tone of a caring son. It was a sickening performance, and Lera saw it with terrifying clarity.
— Oh, Vadimchik… Well… I’m lying down. My head is spinning today. I was waiting for Lera, she promised she’d come. She won’t? Did something happen?
Every word of Zinaida Viktorovna’s carried the weight of frailty, of hurt, of loneliness. She didn’t complain outright, but her intonation painted a picture of abandonment better than any words.
— No, Mom, she won’t come. She has… work, — Vadim let the pause linger, stuffing that simple word with a whole world of accusation. — A lot of work. Very important matters.
Lera stood with her back against the cold refrigerator, silent. She didn’t move, barely breathed. She listened to the exchange and felt the last drop of warmth inside her for the man standing two steps away freeze solid. He wasn’t just arguing with her. He was cynically, cold-bloodedly using his ailing mother as a battering ram to break her will. He had turned her fears and loneliness into a weapon against the woman he supposedly loved. This was beyond the pale. This was vile.
— Have you eaten something, Mom? — Vadim went on with his act. — You need to eat. You know you mustn’t go hungry.
— What’s there to eat alone… No appetite at all. Must be my blood pressure again. I took a pill, now I’m just lying here, staring at the ceiling. Good thing you called, son, otherwise I’d be in utter despair…
He let that phrase hang in the air, letting it seep into Valeria’s conscience. He stared at her, not even trying to hide his smugness. His eyes said: Well? How does it feel? Do you see now how heartless you are?
But he had miscalculated. He expected tears on her face, remorse, shame. Instead he saw only a mask of ice. Her eyes, once warm and alive, had turned into two dark, impenetrable crystals. There was nothing in them — no anger, no hurt. Just emptiness. Emptiness where, an hour ago, there had still been love.
She was looking straight through him, at the ugly essence of his act. In that moment, she understood completely: it wasn’t about his mother. It was about him. About his rotten, consumerist nature, for which every person was merely a resource. His mother, herself — all of them were functions, instruments to secure his personal comfort and peace of mind.
— Alright, Mom, get some rest, — Vadim said at last, closing the conversation. — We’ll… sort it out here. I’ll talk to her. Everything will be fine.
He ended the call and, with a satisfied air, placed the phone on the table. He was certain the game was played and won. He waited for her capitulation. Waited for her to come over, embrace him, and admit that he had been right.
He waited in vain.
The silence that followed the call was thick and heavy. It didn’t ring, it didn’t press — it simply existed, like a new, invisible object in the room. Vadim crossed his arms across his chest, assuming the posture of a victor. He looked at Valeria with poorly concealed triumph, convinced she would soon break, come closer, and begin apologizing. In his world, this was checkmate. He had cornered her with an irrefutable piece of evidence — his mother’s suffering — and now expected her unconditional surrender.
He waited a minute. Two. Then he declared, loud enough for her to hear from anywhere in the apartment:
— Starting tomorrow, you’re resuming your duties! You’ll go to my mother and help her, whether you want to or not! Clear?!
Valeria slowly pushed herself away from the refrigerator. She took a step toward the center of the kitchen and stopped. Her face was calm, almost lifeless, but in her eyes a cold, dark fire was kindling. She looked at him as though seeing him for the first time — not her fiancé, not the man she loved, but a stranger, a man she found repulsive.
Then she spoke. Her voice was steady, without a single trembling note, but there was such force in it that Vadim involuntarily straightened.
— And why on earth should I go to your mother every evening, wash her, and change her diapers? Hire a caregiver for her, because I won’t be doing it anymore!
The words dropped into the silence of the kitchen like stones. Not like a scream, but like a verdict. Vadim was stunned. He opened his mouth to retort, to unleash his righteous fury on her, but she didn’t give him the chance.
— Did you think your little performance would work? — she sneered, but it was a grimace of contempt. — You thought you could play on my pity, paint me as some heartless monster? Congratulations. You’ve just shown me your true face. The face of a cheap manipulator willing to use his sick mother as a club to beat me into submission.
He stared at her, and his confidence began to crack, like thin ice beneath his feet. This wasn’t Lera. This was another woman, unfamiliar and terrifying in her cold composure.
— So listen to me, Vadim, — she continued, taking another step toward him. — There will be no wedding. I’m not going to bury myself under your mother’s diapers at the whim of a future husband who believes it’s my duty. I wanted a family, not a life sentence in a prison of servitude.
— How dare you… — he began, but his voice drowned in her gaze.
— And now about your mother. You care about her so much, don’t you? You’re such a devoted son. Well, here’s your chance to prove it. You can put on the apron yourself and fulfill your filial duty. You’re the man, the future head of the family. Go ahead. Every evening, after work. You’ll cook for her, wash the floors, do her laundry. And change the diapers, Vadim. Don’t forget the diapers. She’s your mother. It’s your duty. You said it yourself — it’s the foundation, it’s respect. So show your respect.
She delivered it methodically, each word like a nail hammered into wood. She had taken his own weapons — his words about duty, family, and respect — and turned them against him. She painted for him the future he had so easily prepared for her.
When she finished, she turned without another word and walked toward the hallway. She didn’t run, didn’t slam the door. She simply walked. Vadim watched her back, and the truth began to dawn on him. Not that he had offended her. But that the perfectly constructed world in which he lived so comfortably had collapsed in a single night. He had destroyed it himself, with his own hands.
She took her handbag and keys from the table. He heard her putting on her shoes. He wanted to shout something, to stop her, but not a sound came. His mouth was dry.
The front door clicked quietly shut.
Vadim was left alone in the kitchen. He looked around, as though he no longer recognized the familiar space. His eyes fell on the microwave, where the forgotten lasagna still sat. Dinner for two. He walked over slowly and opened the door. The smell of cooled, dried-out food spread through the kitchen. The smell of a life gone wrong. And for the first time that evening, he felt neither anger nor resentment. He felt a primal, chilling fear of the reality in which he had just been left. Alone. With his duty…
