“Do you want to move in with me just because I don’t have a husband?” I said ironically.
I was standing by the window in my living room, looking at the gray rooftops of our neighborhood, and I couldn’t believe it… Finally! After three years of divorce, after all the courts and the division of property, I had what I’d dreamed of all my life — my own space. My apartment. My rules.
Light-colored walls I had chosen myself at the hardware store. A sea-green sofa so expensive that I’d saved for it for half a year. And this silence… God, how I had missed it! Twenty years of marriage had taught me to cherish every minute of peace.
“Irochka, sweetheart, why are you standing there frozen?” my cousin Galina’s voice pulled me back to reality.
She was sitting on my new sofa, carelessly propping her legs on the coffee table I had only recently dusted with religious zeal. She was holding a mug of coffee — my coffee, mind you.
“Gal, you said you’d stay for a couple of weeks,” I began cautiously, turning toward her.
“Well, yes, so what?” she shrugged and took a sip. “Until I sort out the housing situation.”
And that situation hadn’t been resolved for a whole month now. Thirty full days ago, Galina had called me, sobbing into the phone:
“Ira, he kicked me out! Can you believe it? Ten years together, and now he says I’ve driven him crazy!”
Of course, I couldn’t refuse. Family is family. Aunt Klava, her mother, had always been kind to me. And Galka… well, Galka is who she is. A bit selfish, a bit careless, but deep down — a good person. Or so I told myself.
“Do you want to move in with me only because I don’t have a husband?” The question escaped before I could stop it.
Galina almost choked on her coffee.
“What nonsense are you talking about?”
“I’m just curious. You’ve got married friends — Lena, for example. Or Olga from college…”
“Ira, what does that have to do with anything?” She slammed the mug on the table so hard that coffee splashed onto the glass surface. “Are you suggesting I’m using you?”
I stayed silent. What could I say? In a month, Galina had turned my apartment into… into a hostel, really. Every evening she had video calls with friends until one in the morning. Loud ones, with laughter and comments about everyone we knew. The bathroom was occupied for two hours at a time — not just for showers, but masks, laundry, blow-drying.
And yesterday she’d come out with:
“Listen, why don’t we move the sofa? Put it by the window. And turn the TV around. Everything feels kind of uncozy here.”
Uncozy! In the apartment I had decorated with such love, where every little detail had been thought through!
“Gal, I don’t mind helping,” I said, trying to keep my tone gentle. “But I think a month is already…”
“A month is what?” she jumped up from the sofa. “I thought you understood me! I have nowhere else to go!”
“And work? You said you were getting a job…”
“I am, I am! But until I get my first paycheck, I can’t rent! Or do you want me to live on the street?”
Ah, the familiar tactic: guilt first, then offense. Galina had always done that, even as a child. I remembered how she used to “forget” money for ice cream and then sulk because I didn’t treat her.
“That’s not what I meant…”
“What then?” Her eyes narrowed. “I know what you’re thinking! That I’ve latched onto you because you live alone and have no one to complain to!”
Right on target. But how could I admit it?
That evening I called Sveta, my best friend.
“Sveta, I’m losing my mind…”
“Ira, what now?” Sveta’s voice was so warm I almost burst into tears.
“Galka. She’s been living here a month, and I feel like a guest in my own home.”
“Kick her out.”
“What do you mean, kick her out? She’s family!”
“Ira,” Sveta sighed so deeply I heard it through the phone, “family isn’t a free pass for freeloading. You’re not running a shelter!”
“But she really doesn’t have any money…”
“Has she tried working? Or are her hands broken?”
I knew Sveta was right. Galina always managed to sponge off someone. At college, she’d lived off a stipend her parents got for her through their connections. Then she’d spent ten years living off Mikhailych — her live-in partner. And now…
“You know what,” Sveta went on, “just ask her straight: when does she plan to move out?”
“I’ve already asked. She says ‘soon.’”
“Soon meaning when? Next week? A month? A year?”
“I don’t know…”
“Exactly. And neither does she.”
After talking to Sveta, I lay awake for a long time. On the other side of the wall, Galina was watching some TV series — loudly, with commentary. I could hear her laughter, remarks like “What an idiot!” and “What a twist!”
I used to spend that time reading. Or just lying in silence, thinking about myself. About who I was now — without a husband, without his constant complaints and orders. Free.
And now…
In the morning, I woke up to the smell of fried eggs. I went to the kitchen — Galina was cooking breakfast, humming under her breath.
“Good morning, dear!” she turned to me with a smile. “I made us eggs. With bacon!”
“Gal, where did the bacon come from?”
“I bought it yesterday. At the market, from that guy… Ira, you’re out of salt.”
“What salt?”
“Just regular salt. I used the last pinch.”
I opened the cupboard. Sure enough, the salt shaker was empty. As was the shelf with cereals — a gaping hole where the oatmeal and buckwheat used to be.
“Gal, could you…”
“What?”
“Buy your own groceries.”
She looked at me as if I’d suggested she sell a kidney.
“Ira, you know I’m short on cash right now…”
“And the bacon?”
“That’s nothing! I was treating you!”
Treating me — with bacon bought using my own money, the one she’d ‘borrowed’ two days ago for ‘essentials.’
“You know what, let me make a list of what needs buying, and you…”
“Ira,” her voice turned plaintive, “I really am looking for a job. As soon as I find one, I’ll pay you back. And I’ll move out. Promise.”
Promise. How many times had I heard that before?…
Three days later, something happened that finally opened my eyes.
I came back from work early — they let me go because of overtime. I was climbing the stairs, taking out my keys, when the door opened before I could put them in the lock.
On the threshold stood Galina — cheerful, holding a set of keys.
“Oh, Ira! You’re home early today.”
“Gal, what’s that?” I nodded toward the keys.
“Oh, that…” she hesitated. “Well, I made a copy. For convenience.”
“For whose convenience?”
“Well, mine… I mean ours!” she quickly corrected herself. “In case you’re late, and I need…”
I walked inside without finishing listening. Papers were lying on the sofa in the living room.
“What’s this?”
“Oh, those are documents for registration,” Galina tossed off casually as she passed.
“Registration? What registration?”
“Well, temporary. For work, I need…”
“Galina!” I felt a boil of anger inside. “Are you planning to register yourself at my apartment?”
“Temporarily!” she threw up her hands. “Just temporarily!”
“And you didn’t think to ask me?”
“Oh, come on, what difference does it make? You live alone anyway!”
There it was. You live alone anyway.
So it’s okay to use me as a hostel. My opinion didn’t matter.
“You know what,” I sat down on the sofa, my legs suddenly weak, “let’s be honest.”
“About what?”
“You’re not planning to move out, are you?”
Galina froze. Then slowly sank into the armchair opposite.
“Ira…”
“Don’t ‘Ira’ me. Just tell me the truth.”
She was silent for a minute, then sighed:
“Why should I move out? I’m comfortable here. You’ve got plenty of space…”
“And did you ask me?”
“I thought you’d actually enjoy it! Being alone is boring…”
“I’m not bored!” I jumped up. “I was perfectly fine on my own! I could finally live the way I wanted!”
“Sorry for being alive!” she snapped.
“That’s not what I mean! You live here as if this apartment is yours! You rearrange the furniture, invite guests without asking!”
“What guests?”
“Your friend Lena? The one who sat in the kitchen till two in the morning yesterday?”
“She was just dropping by!”
“For six hours! And she brought a bottle of wine — my wine, by the way!”
“One bottle…” Galina muttered.
“Gal,” I sat back down, trying to stay calm, “you don’t just want to stay here temporarily. You want me to support you. But I don’t have the strength or the desire for that.”
Her face fell.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you want to live here, eat my food, use my things, and give nothing in return. You don’t even say thank you properly.”
“Ira, are you serious?”
“More than serious.”
She stood up, paced around the room.
“I thought we were family…”
“We are family. But that doesn’t mean I have to support you forever.”
“Forever!” she snorted. “It’s just a month!”
“A month — with plans for forever. You said yourself: why move out?”
Galina stopped in the middle of the room, arms crossed.
“So what do you suggest?”
“That you move out. This week.”
“And where am I supposed to go?”
“I don’t know. To your parents. To friends. Rent a room…”
“With what money?”
“Get a job.”
“I am looking!”
“You’ve been looking for a month. And not a single offer?”
She said nothing. And I understood — she wasn’t really looking. Or if she was, it was just for show.
“All right,” she finally said, “since I’m not wanted…”
“Gal, it’s not about not wanting you…”
“Then what?”
“It’s about you not respecting me. You think that because I don’t have a husband, I should be grateful for your company. But I don’t owe you that.”
“Where did you get that?”
“You said it yourself: ‘being alone is boring,’ ‘you’ve got a big apartment,’ ‘what difference does it make.’ All of that translates to: ‘Ira has nothing better to do.’”
Galina stood there, looking at me as if seeing me for the first time.
“That’s not what I meant…”
“Then what?”
“I just…” she faltered. “I thought it would be more fun for you.”
“I’m already having fun. I enjoy my life.”
“But you’re alone!”
“So what?” I felt myself boiling again. “What’s wrong with that? Why does everyone think solitude is a sentence?”
“Well… I don’t know…”
“I work, I have friends, hobbies. I read, I go to the theater, I meet my girlfriends. I’m not lonely!”
“All right, all right,” she raised her hands, “I get it.”
But her face said otherwise — she didn’t get it. To her, a single woman was always a victim of circumstance, someone who needed help to be entertained.
For three days she packed. For three days she sulked, slamming doors and sighing. At parting, she said:
“You know, Ira, I didn’t think you were so cold.”
I didn’t answer. What was there to say? That wanting to live my own life isn’t coldness?
After she left, I spent a whole week coming home and freezing in the hallway. Silence. Real, deep silence. No loud phone conversations, no advice about where to put the flowers.
I could sit on my sofa with a book and read till morning. I could put on classical music — the kind Galina called “boring.” I could just lie there, thinking about my own life.
Two months later, a message arrived:
“Sorry, I really overstepped. I found a job, I’m renting a room. Maybe we could catch up sometime?”
I smiled. Maybe we could. When I was ready.
For now, I’d bought a lock with a numeric code — one that could only be opened from inside or by someone who knew the code. And a ticket to St. Petersburg for a long weekend — my first vacation in years.
Sitting on the plane, I looked out the window at the clouds drifting below and thought: No one will settle into my life again without my consent. No one.
And you know what? It was the best decision I ever made.
