“Get out of this house! We’re not pigs to eat your leftovers!” the mother-in-law shouted, waving her arms.
Lena shifted Dasha to her other arm and pushed the entrance door open with her shoulder. The grocery bag pulled her down, and the pack of diapers kept slipping. Her daughter whimpered—she was tired, wanted to sleep, but there were still two flights of stairs to their apartment. The building had no elevator, and carrying a stroller up to the fourth floor with a one-year-old child felt impossible.
The apartment greeted her with silence. Andrey hadn’t returned from work yet. Lena put her daughter in the crib and set the kettle to boil. She sat down at the table and took out her phone. No messages. That meant her husband was fine, his day went as usual. She glanced at the clock—half past six. He would be home soon; she needed to start dinner.
Their small one-room apartment on the outskirts felt cramped, especially with a child. The crib, the changing table, boxes of toys—these took up almost half the room. The kitchen was tiny—three people could barely squeeze in. But it was their apartment, even if rented. Their own small corner. A place where they could close the door and be alone. Or together, the three of them, with Dasha.
Andrey worked as a manager in a trading company. The salary was small—thirty-eight thousand in hand. Rent took fifteen, utilities another three. That left twenty for everything else—food, diapers, medicine, clothes for Dasha. Lena had learned to save. She bought the cheapest items, cooked in large batches for several days, and mended the baby’s clothes.
Andrey came home later than usual. He silently undressed and went to the kitchen. Sat at the table and buried himself in his phone. Lena placed a plate of buckwheat and cutlets in front of him.
“How was your day?” she asked, sitting down across from him.
“Fine,” Andrey said without looking up.
Lena recognized that tone. Something was wrong. But she didn’t ask. Her husband would talk when he was ready. After dinner, Andrey sat on the balcony for a long time, smoking, even though he had quit six months ago. Then he came back into the room and sat beside his wife on the couch.
“Lena, they’re laying us off,” Andrey said, his voice dull. “The company is in the red. They’re shutting down our department. In two weeks it’ll be my last day.”
Lena froze. Inside, everything tightened into a knot, but on the outside she tried to remain calm.
“It’s okay,” she said, taking her husband’s hand. “You’ll find a new job quickly. You have experience, recommendations. You’ll definitely find something.”
Andrey nodded, but she could see the worry in his eyes.
Two weeks passed quickly. Andrey received his salary and severance pay. That gave them a month of breathing room—maybe a month and a half if they saved as much as possible. He started looking for work immediately. Sent out dozens of résumés, called every ad, went to interviews. But everywhere they either wanted experience in a related field, or they were willing to hire—but for twelve to fifteen thousand.
A month passed. Then another. Their money was disappearing. First it went to food and rent. Then they had to borrow from Andrey’s acquaintances—five thousand here, three there. The landlord started calling, demanding payment. Andrey asked him to wait another week, but the landlord was losing patience.
“I have a mortgage on this apartment,” he said sharply. “The bank doesn’t wait. Either you pay, or you move out.”
Lena tried to find work herself. She called shops, cafés, salons. But everyone needed a flexible schedule, and she had a one-year-old child. They couldn’t afford a nanny. Dasha was too young for daycare. It was a vicious circle.
When the landlord called a third time and gave them three days, Andrey hung up and covered his face with his hands.
“What are we going to do?” Lena asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” Andrey stared at the floor. “Maybe go to your parents?”
“They’re in Samara. They have a one-room apartment, and my brother lives there too. It’s already cramped for them.”
“That leaves my mom,” Andrey said it as if he were proposing they move to another planet.
Valentina Petrovna lived alone in a small house on the outskirts of the city. Her husband had died five years earlier, and since then she’d grown used to solitude. Andrey called her once a week, sometimes stopped by for half an hour. But living with his mother? That was something out of a fantasy.
“Will she agree?” Lena remembered how Valentina reacted to the news of their wedding—tight lips, a cold stare. “I hope you know what you’re doing, son.”
“She’ll have to agree. We have no other options.”
Andrey called his mother that evening. The conversation was brief. Valentina listened in silence and then said:
“Come. But this is temporary, until you get back on your feet.”
They packed in one day. The little they had fit into three bags and a few boxes. Andrey arranged for a friend to drive them to his mother’s house. Valentina opened the door and looked at them silently. At her son with red eyes. At her daughter-in-law with a child in her arms. At the bags and boxes at their feet.
“Come in,” the mother-in-law said, her voice showing neither joy nor sympathy. Simply a statement of fact.
The house was clean and quiet. It smelled of something old—furniture, books. Valentina led the young family to a room at the end of the hallway. A small bedroom with a double bed and a wardrobe. The window overlooked the yard, where an old apple tree grew.
“Will Dasha sleep with us?” Lena asked.
“Where else?” Valentina shrugged. “There are no other rooms.”
The first few days passed relatively calmly. Andrey spent whole days at the laptop, sending out résumés and calling employers. Lena took care of Dasha, cooked, cleaned. Valentina Petrovna mostly stayed in her room, coming out to the kitchen to eat or watch TV.
But after just a week, Lena began to feel the tension. Her mother-in-law started making remarks. At first small ones—saying they used too much water, didn’t turn off the lights. Then bigger ones.
“Why do you cook soup every day?” Valentina Petrovna stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “Gas is expensive. You can cook a big pot once every three days.”
“But soup spoils,” Lena stirred the borscht without turning around.
“Nothing spoils in my fridge. I know how to store things properly.”
Lena stayed silent. Valentina lingered a moment, sighed, and left. But an hour later she returned with a complaint about dust on the windowsill. Then about Dasha crying at night and keeping her awake.
Andrey tried to stand up for his wife, but Valentina would cut him off sharply:
“This is my house, Andryusha. I took you in when you had nowhere to go. So I have the right to express my opinion.”
The young family’s money ran out completely. They didn’t even have enough for Dasha’s diapers. Andrey asked his mother to lend them two thousand rubles. Valentina pulled out her worn wallet, counted the bills, and placed them on the table.
“Return it when you get back on your feet,” she said. But there was something else in her voice. Not anger. Something like weariness. A heavy kind of fatigue.
Lena knew that Valentina’s pension was small—fourteen thousand. Utilities ate almost half of it. The rest went to groceries, medicine. And now she had to feed three more people. A baby who needed diapers, formula, clothes. Every evening Valentina sat at the table with a battered notebook and a calculator, counting expenses. She frowned, shook her head.
Lena felt like a burden. An extra person. She saw how Valentina sighed when she looked at her. How she pressed her lips together when Dasha cried. How she stared at the food in the fridge, as if calculating how fast everything was disappearing.
“I need a job,” Lena said to Andrey one evening as they were going to bed.
“And what about Dasha?”
“You’ll look after her. While you’re searching for work, you can take care of the baby. I’ll find something at least part-time.”
Andrey wanted to object, but kept silent. He understood they had no other choice.
Lena found a job listing for a cleaning position at a small café on the main street. Hours from eight in the morning to one in the afternoon. The pay was fifteen thousand. Not much, but better than nothing. At the interview, the administrator—a tired-looking woman in her forties—looked Lena over and nodded:
“Come in tomorrow. We’ll try you out.”
The job turned out to be hard. Washing floors, wiping tables, cleaning toilets, taking out trash. By the end of her shift, Lena’s legs ached and her back hurt. But she didn’t complain. They needed the money. Any money—just so she wouldn’t feel like a complete freeloader in Valentina Petrovna’s house.
Lena received her first paycheck two weeks later. Seven and a half thousand. She gave half to her mother-in-law. Valentina took the money silently and stuffed it into the pocket of her robe. She didn’t say thank you or anything else. Lena waited for some kind of reaction, but Valentina simply turned around and went to her room.
The atmosphere in the house kept getting worse. Valentina stopped hiding her dissatisfaction. She sighed whenever she saw Lena and commented on her every move. If Lena cooked dinner, then she was wasting too many groceries. If she didn’t cook, she was being lazy. If she washed the dishes, she was wasting water.
Andrey tried to defend his wife, but Valentina shut down every attempt:
“You’re unemployed, living off me, and you’re still trying to teach me how to behave in my own house?!…”
After words like that, Andrey would fall silent, grow gloomy. Lena could see how much her husband was struggling. How guilty and useless he felt. How every rejection at an interview pressed on him harder and harder.
Lena cried at night. Quietly, into her pillow, so as not to wake Andrey or Dasha. She wanted to run away from all this. Anywhere. Even just outside. But there was nowhere to run. And they only had enough money for the bare essentials.
One evening, when Lena finished her shift, the administrator called everyone into the kitchen.
“Guys, we’ve got some dishes left that can’t be stored until tomorrow,” the administrator said, pointing to several containers on the table. “Salads, hot dishes, pastries. Take whatever you need. Otherwise we’ll have to throw them out.”
Lena walked closer. The containers held chicken salad, pasta with cutlets, cabbage pies. Everything was fresh, smelling appetizing. It simply hadn’t been sold that day. A common practice in cafés — leftovers were given to staff.
“Can I take three containers?” Lena asked.
“Take them, of course.”
Lena walked home feeling pleased. Finally, she could feed her family a proper dinner, not cheap buckwheat or potatoes. Save some of Valentina Petrovna’s money. Maybe her mother-in-law would soften at least a little when she saw Lena making an effort.
At home, Lena put the containers on the table. The bright café logo shone on every lid. Andrey was sitting in the room with Dasha, playing with their daughter. Valentina Petrovna heard footsteps and came into the kitchen.
“What is this?” the mother-in-law pointed at the containers.
“Food from the café. They gave us the leftovers they couldn’t sell. Fresh dishes, they just can’t be stored until tomorrow,” Lena opened one container to show the salad.
Valentina Petrovna frowned. She came closer and peered inside. Her face changed — her brows drew together, her lips tightened into a thin line. She pushed the containers away as if they were something disgusting.
“Leftovers?” her voice turned cold. “Scraps?”
“They’re not scraps,” Lena tried to explain. “It’s food that wasn’t sold. They give it to the staff so it won’t be thrown away. It’s normal, everyone does this.”
“Normal?” the mother-in-law raised her voice. “You think it’s normal to drag scraps into my house?! What a disgrace!”
“Valentina Petrovna, these aren’t scraps, they’re just—”
“Get out of this house!” Valentina Petrovna screamed, waving her arms. “We are not pigs to eat your leftovers!”
Lena stepped back. Andrey appeared in the doorway with Dasha in his arms. The girl got frightened by the shouting and began to cry.
“Mom, calm down,” Andrey tried to approach, but Valentina Petrovna pointed to the door.
“Do you see what your wife has driven us to?! Such humiliation! Bringing scraps home like a beggar! In my house! I’ve lived my whole life honestly, worked hard, and now what? Eat slop?!”
“It’s not slop, Mom, it’s normal food,” Andrey said quietly but firmly.
“Normal food is bought in a store! Not begged for in a café kitchen!” Valentina Petrovna turned to Lena. “Pack your things. Immediately. And leave with your child. I will not allow my home to be turned into a shelter for beggars!”
Lena stood clutching her hands to her chest. Everything inside her went numb. She wanted to say something, to explain, but her voice wouldn’t obey. Dasha cried louder, squirming in Andrey’s arms.
“Mom, if Lena leaves, I’m leaving with her,” Andrey said seriously.
“What?” Valentina Petrovna hadn’t expected that. “You choose her?”
“I choose my family,” Andrey went to the room, put Dasha in her crib, and began packing.
Valentina Petrovna stood in the kitchen, fists clenched. Lena walked past her without looking. She began packing the child’s things. Her hands trembled. Andrey silently packed clothes and documents. In twenty minutes everything was ready.
They left the house together. Andrey carried Dasha on one arm and two bags in the other. Lena carried a box of toys and a bag of baby food. Valentina Petrovna stood in the doorway watching them go. Her lips pressed tight. Her eyes dry. But there was something there… confusion? Fear? Lena didn’t want to think about it.
They reached the bus stop. Sat on the bench. Dasha fell asleep in her father’s arms. Andrey stared at the asphalt. Lena leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“Where will we go?” she asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Andrey hugged her. “But we’ll figure something out. Together.”
They rented a room from one of Andrey’s distant relatives. Small, but their own. They paid almost nothing — his aunt simply wanted to help. Andrey kept looking for a job with even more determination, as if being kicked out had lit something inside him.
A month later Andrey was hired as a sales representative for a major retail chain. A salary of forty-five thousand plus commissions. Three months after that, when it was clear the job was stable, they rented a normal one-bedroom apartment. Renovated, furnished, with a crib for Dasha.
Lena could finally stay home with her daughter without worrying about money for diapers. She cooked whatever she wanted. Bought groceries without counting every coin. For the first time in a long while, she felt relief.
Valentina Petrovna remained alone in her house. In the first days after they left, she walked through the rooms, cleaning, tidying. The house became quiet again. Clean again.
Just like before. But now the silence felt heavy. Once, loneliness had been familiar, even cozy. Now it felt empty.
Valentina Petrovna waited for a call from her son. She thought Andrey would ring in a day or two, apologize, ask them to come back. But the phone stayed silent. A week. Two. A month.
She learned that her son had found a job from a neighbor who ran into Andrey at the store. The neighbor said the young family had rented an apartment and that everything was going well for them. Valentina Petrovna listened and nodded, pretending she knew. But inside, something clawed at her — her own son hadn’t told her anything.
Three months later, Valentina Petrovna finally decided to call. She dialed the number and listened to the ringing. Andrey didn’t answer right away.
“Hello?”
“Andryusha, it’s me,” the mother-in-law said, her voice trembling. “How are you?”
“Fine, Mom.”
“I heard you found a job. That’s good. I’m glad.”
A pause hung between them. Andrey stayed silent.
“Maybe you could come visit?” Valentina Petrovna swallowed. “We could see each other. I miss you.”
“I’ll come,” Andrey said, his voice even, without warmth. “I’ll stop by this weekend.”
Valentina Petrovna met her son at the doorway. She hugged him, trying not to cry. Andrey walked inside, sat at the table. His mother set tea and pie in front of him. They talked about work, the weather, mutual acquaintances. About anything except that night.
“And Lena? Dasha?” Valentina Petrovna finally asked.
“They’re at home.”
“Why didn’t you bring them?”
Andrey looked at his mother for a long moment.
“Lena doesn’t want to come here. And I understand her.”
Valentina Petrovna pressed her lips together. She wanted to object, but the words stuck in her throat. What could she say? That she had been right? That she had acted properly? Then why did her soul feel so empty?
“I wanted what was best,” the mother-in-law said quietly. “I didn’t want you to be humiliated.”
“Lena wasn’t humiliating herself, Mom. She was trying to help the family. Working herself to exhaustion. And you called her a beggar. You said we were eating slop. You threw her out with a child in her arms. Do you think she’ll forget that?”
Valentina Petrovna said nothing. Andrey finished his tea and stood up.
“I have to go. See you.”
He left. Valentina Petrovna sat alone in the kitchen. She stared at the empty cup across from her. Remembered that evening. The containers of food. Lena’s face — pale, confused. Dasha crying. Andrey packing their things.
Maybe she should have kept quiet. Not yelled. Not thrown them out. Just talked. Explained that it hurt, that it felt unpleasant. But not chased them away. Now her son came once a month. Alone. Without his wife. Without his granddaughter. And that was worse than all the inconveniences their presence had ever caused.
Valentina Petrovna stood up and walked to the window. The last leaves swayed on the apple tree outside. Winter was coming. Cold. Silence. Long evenings in an empty house. That used to not scare her. But now it did.
She picked up her phone. She wanted to call Andrey again. To ask him to bring Lena and Dasha. To say she was sorry. That she had been wrong. That she wanted to fix everything. But after dialing the number, she put the phone down. The words wouldn’t come. And she understood— even if she did say them, Lena wouldn’t forgive her. The hurt had settled too deeply. The words spoken that night couldn’t be taken back.
Valentina Petrovna returned to the kitchen. Sat at the table. Opened her expense notebook. Now it held only her own costs. Very few. For one person. In an empty house.
