— Yeah, right now! I ran off, left everything, and moved in with your parents! I have my own apartment, and I’ll live in it, and I’m not going to rent it out!
— Inga, I was thinking… Actually, I have an idea for how we can sort out our life, — Stas’s voice, full of self-satisfaction and anticipation of praise, caught her in the kitchen.
She was slicing vegetables for a salad, and the sharp knife slid confidently over the firm cucumber, leaving perfectly even, fresh-smelling slices behind. Inga didn’t turn around, just tossed a glance over her shoulder, continuing her methodical work:
— If your brilliant idea is again about taking a bigger car loan, I’m not even going to listen.
— No, it’s much better! Bigger, more… global, you know? — he entered the kitchen, bringing with him the smell of the street and cheap cologne from his office. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed in the pose of someone about to enlighten the world with his discovery. — We’re moving.
The knife in Inga’s hand froze. She slowly set it down on the cutting board and turned to her husband. Her gaze was calm but alert, as if trying to gauge the level of absurdity in his mood today.
— Where exactly are we moving? Did you get a job in another city?
— Even better! We don’t have to go anywhere. We’re moving in with my parents, in Maryino. — He smiled. Smiled so widely and genuinely, as if he had just proposed a world tour rather than voluntary exile to a three-room Khrushchyovka with his mother, Raisa Pavlovna, for whom Inga had always been “that city snob with pretensions.”
— You’re joking, — it wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact. She didn’t even try to hide her bewilderment, studying his beaming face.
— Jokes? Just listen to the plan. We move in with them. They’ve got a three-room apartment, there’s enough space for everyone, dad barely goes into his room, sits by the TV. Mom will get help, she’s always complaining about her back, saying it’s hard for her. And we’ll be right there, we’ll always help. No need to pay utilities — huge savings! — he counted on his fingers, listing benefits that existed only in his mind. — And now the best part! Your one-room apartment, — he pointed to the ceiling as if the apartment were somewhere above them, — we’ll rent it out! Prices are good now, forty-five, maybe even fifty thousand, we can ask confidently. And that money — goes into the common pot! Imagine the boost to the budget! In a couple of years, we could save for a down payment on our big apartment!
He finished his speech and looked at her expectantly, waiting for delight. Inga was silent. She looked at her husband, and in her mind, images of the future flashed at kaleidoscopic speed: her mother-in-law’s perpetually dissatisfied face, unsolicited advice about borscht, dust on the shelves, and Stasik’s “improperly” ironed shirts. Lessons on how a “real woman” should wake at six in the morning and bake pies instead of “sitting on her computer.” Life under a microscope, where every move would be judged, criticized, and reported to her husband in a twisted form. And her own apartment, her cozy nest, her fortress bought by her parents, would be handed over to strangers.
— Yeah, right now! I ran off, left everything, and moved in with your parents! I have my own apartment, and I’ll live in it, and I’m not going to rent it out!
Stas’s smile slipped off his face. He clearly didn’t expect such resistance. His eyebrows climbed, displaying offended confusion.
— You don’t understand. This is for us, for our family. What, are you being selfish? I’m thinking about the future, and you…
— What future, Stas? A future in which I become free labor for your mother? A future where I won’t have my own space because you decided you could make extra money off me? No, thanks. Live in that future yourself.
— Oh, is that it? So I’m bad because I want us to live better? — Stas straightened, moving his hands from the doorframe. His face turned from good-natured enthusiasm to hard and offended. — I came up with a plan for how we can get out of this dump, how to start saving money, and you immediately go on the defensive. Ungrateful, that’s what this is.
Inga picked up the knife and resumed chopping vegetables, but now her movements were sharper, more abrupt. The blade striking the board became a dry, irritating accompaniment to their conversation. — Your plan, Stas, is brilliant only for you and your mom. You get money and free hands in the form of me to manage her household, and she gets full control of our home. And what do I get in this plan? A room in an apartment where I’m openly disliked, and daily lectures? Brilliant.
He walked around the table and stood opposite her, trying to meet her eyes, but she stubbornly looked at her hands, at the bright scatter of chopped peppers.
— What are you making up? Nobody doesn’t like you. Mom’s just… she’s old-school. Straightforward. She cares about us. She wants everything to be proper, like family. You just never tried to understand her. Always looking down on her.
— Understand? — Inga smirked without lifting her head. — I understand her perfectly. That time when she, “caring for us,” threw out my spices because, and I quote, they “smelled like foreign poison.” Or when she told me that my remote work was idleness, and it would be better if I went to scrub floors in the building entrance, at least that would be useful. I understand everything perfectly, Stas. I understand that to her, I will always be a stranger, lazy and wrong as a daughter-in-law. And I am not going to voluntarily put myself in that cage.
Stas threw up his hands, irritation rising. He began pacing the small kitchen, from the sink to the window and back, like an animal trapped in a small enclosure.
— Trivialities! You’re clinging to trivialities! So what if she said something? That’s her character! As if your mother is some angel incarnate! We’re talking about serious things, our financial well-being! The possibility of buying our own proper, big apartment! And you talk to me about some spices! That’s pure selfishness! A wife should support her husband’s endeavors, not throw a wrench in the works!
— Support — yes. But not at the cost of my own humiliation and comfort, — she finally lifted her eyes to him, her gaze cold and hard, like the steel of the knife in her hand. — This apartment, — she swept her gaze over the kitchen — is my comfort. It’s my place. The only place where I can rest from your “straightforward” mother and everyone else. And you’re suggesting I give it up to strangers and send myself into the epicenter of constant disapproval. And for what? For some ephemeral “common pot,” from which your mother will immediately teach you how to spend money correctly?
He stopped right in front of her, looming over the table. His face flushed red.
— This isn’t your apartment, Inga, it’s ours! We’re a family! And everything we have is shared! And decisions must be made together, for the common good!
— Exactly, Stas. Together. But you came with a ready-made plan in which my role is that of a voiceless victim. You didn’t even ask for my opinion. You just presented me with a fait accompli. For you, this apartment is not my home. For you, it’s just an asset. A resource to be used profitably.
— It’s not an asset, Inga, it’s bricks! Just bricks and concrete that can work for us, not just sit there! — Stas raised his voice, crossing the line where calm conversation turns into open argument. He slammed his palm on the kitchen table. The dishes in the drying rack jingled faintly. — You’re clinging to this apartment as if it’s the only thing you have! What about me? What about us? Family is when everything is shared, when people make compromises for the common good!
Inga slowly set the knife on the counter. The sound of metal against wood was the only noise in the kitchen besides his heavy breathing. She wiped her hands on a towel, her movements deliberately unhurried, which annoyed him even more.
— Compromises, Stas? A compromise is when I agree to go to your parents’ dacha on my only day off. A compromise is when I cook your favorite greasy carbonara even though I can’t stand it. What you’re suggesting is not a compromise. It’s surrender. You’re asking me to give up my home, my peace, and my personal space in favor of your parents. And you call that “for the common good.”
— Yes, common! Because the money we get will benefit both of us! We’ll finally be able to breathe freely! Stop counting every kopeck! You don’t understand because everything was handed to you on a silver platter! Your parents gave you the apartment as a gift, so you sit there like a princess in a tower! And I’m working my ass off so we can afford even a little! And when I find a real solution, you start talking about some comfort!
His words felt like slaps. He devalued everything: her work, her parents, her right to property. He painted a picture where she was a spoiled dependent, and he was the suffering provider.
— My parents gave this apartment to me, Stas. Not to us. To me. So I would always have my own corner. And I won’t allow their gift to become a source of your income and my humiliation. You want to solve your problems? Solve them yourself. Find a second job, ask for a raise, do whatever you want. But not at my expense.
Rage flashed in his eyes. He stepped toward her, and for a moment she thought he might grab her, shake her. But he stopped, fists clenched. The air in the kitchen became dense, heavy — you could cut it with a knife.
— So that’s how it is… “Mine,” “yours”… I see. For you, there’s no family. There’s only you and your interests. All this time I thought we were a team, but it turns out I’m just a convenient cohabitant in your apartment.
— A team doesn’t make decisions behind one of its player’s back, — she cut him off. — A team discusses plans; it doesn’t issue ultimatums.
And then he made his biggest mistake. He decided that since logic and manipulation hadn’t worked, it was time to break her will, to show who was boss. He looked down at her with the expression of final, irrevocable rightness. The certainty that the last word would always be his gave his voice a metallic firmness.
— Who said I’m asking? This is no longer up for discussion. I’ve already decided and told my parents that we’re coming tomorrow.
Silence. Not ringing, not heavy, just empty. A vacuum. At that moment, Inga felt something inside her snap. Something warm, alive, that had made her forgive his little offenses, tolerate his mother, and believe in their shared future. It all disappeared, evaporated, leaving only cold, ringing ice. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Not a husband. Not someone close. But a stranger, an arrogant man who invaded her home and was trying to dictate the rules…
She tilted her head slightly, and a barely perceptible, strange smile appeared on her lips.
— Excellent, — her voice sounded surprisingly calm and even. — Then tomorrow you’ll go.
For a moment, Stas was taken aback by her calm tone. He had expected anything: shouting, pleading, accusations. But this icy composure threw him off. He took it as his unconditional victory. She had realized resistance was useless. He smiled condescendingly, stepping back from the table, regaining the air of a benefactor who had just made a difficult but correct decision for the good of the family.
— That’s better. I knew you were a smart woman and would understand. No need to get so worked up right away. Tomorrow morning we’ll pack the essentials, and the rest we’ll move over the weekend. Mom will be happy.
He spoke, and Inga simply stared at him without blinking. She no longer saw a husband before her. She saw a smug invader convinced he had already won. She said nothing in response to his speech. She simply turned and silently left the kitchen. Stas, deciding she had gone to the bedroom to “digest” her defeat and resign herself to the new reality, cast a triumphant glance around the kitchen, which would soon no longer be their home. He was already mentally calculating the future profit, planning how they would live with his parents, how he would come back from work to find both his mother and his wife waiting for him at home. An idyll.
A minute later, Inga returned. In her hands, she was carrying his large black sports bag — the one he used for business trips and the gym. She walked right up to him and, without changing her expression, dropped the bag at his feet. It landed on the linoleum with a dull thud.
Stas stared first at the bag, then at her. His victorious smile slowly faded, replaced by confusion.
— What’s this? You decided to help me pack? No need, I’ll do it myself…
— Since you’ve already made all the decisions for the two of us, you’ll now live by your decisions. Alone, — her voice was even and devoid of any emotion, like a newsreader announcing the weather forecast. — In your beloved parents’ apartment.
He looked at her, and at last the meaning began to sink in. This wasn’t hysteria. It was a verdict.
— You… what are you saying? You’re throwing me out? Because I want a better life for us?
— You want a better life for yourself, Stas. I want to live in my own home, — she stepped aside toward the kitchen doorway, as if clearing his path. — So pack your things. The essentials. Just as you planned. I think an hour should be enough. And by tomorrow, your things will no longer be in my apartment.
Rage flooded his face crimson. Confusion gave way to animal fury.
— You’ve lost your mind! This is our home! We live here together! You can’t just throw me out into the street!
— My home, Stas. Turns out it’s only mine, — she corrected him as calmly as she would correct a mistake in dictation. — And I’m not throwing anyone out. You made the decision to move. You told your parents you’d be arriving tomorrow. I just don’t want to interfere. I’m respecting your decision. Go. They’re waiting for you.
He looked at her, opening and closing his mouth, but no words came. All his confidence, all his feigned authority crumbled to dust. He realized she wasn’t joking, bluffing, or trying to manipulate him. She was simply erasing him from her life. Coldly, methodically, irrevocably. He was no longer a husband but just an obstacle in her apartment.
— You… you’ll regret this! — he finally managed to blurt out, but even this threat sounded pitiful and unconvincing.
— Maybe, — Inga shrugged. — But that will be later. Right now you have fifty-eight minutes.
She turned and left the room, leaving him alone in the kitchen. He stood in the middle of what had suddenly become someone else’s space and stared at the damned sports bag at his feet. This wasn’t a scandal. This was an execution. And he had just happily slipped his own head into the noose…
