“Want to wash their clothes? Cook for them if you like — but I’m not taking part in this circus,” Sonya told her husband.

“Want to wash their clothes? Cook for them if you like — but I’m not taking part in this circus,” Sonya told her husband.

Sonya stood by the window, watching her husband Kirill fussing around in the yard with his father. Nothing unusual — just an ordinary Saturday — but a heavy feeling kept growing in her chest. She tried not to show how tired she was, how angry she felt, how much she disliked everything that was happening — but inside, she had been boiling for a long time.

Three months ago, Kirill’s parents — Pyotr Ivanovich and Valentina Petrovna — had moved into their home. They came “temporarily,” supposedly because they were having heating issues in their old house outside the city. Sonya had doubted that from the start — knowing Valentina Petrovna, she understood: once this woman moved in somewhere, getting her out would be very difficult.

Sonya and Kirill had been together almost seven years. He had always been a gentle person who hated conflicts. At work he was responsible, and at home he also tried his best, but whenever the situation involved his parents — that was it, his will vanished.

Sonya closed the window and went to the kitchen. There, at the table, sat Valentina Petrovna, peeling apples slowly, with the expression of a great martyr.

“Sonya,” her mother-in-law drawled without looking up, “you should marinate the chicken for dinner. Pyotr Ivanovich likes it juicier. And don’t forget the mashed potatoes — yesterday they were all lumpy.”

Sonya wanted to say something but held back. She knew: if she started now, there would be an argument, and Kirill would once again ask her to “just be patient.”

She cleared the peelings from the table and went to get potatoes. The shelf was a mess — Valentina Petrovna loved taking over someone else’s kitchen.

In the evening, Kostya — Kirill’s brother — arrived. Young, groomed, always on his phone. He had also settled in their home: apparently, the renovation of his apartment was “taking longer than expected.” Two months longer, to be exact.

Kostya didn’t come alone — he brought his new girlfriend, Inna. A girl of about twenty-two, loud laugh, nails ten centimeters long.

“Sonya, you got anything to snack on?” Inna called from the doorway and, without waiting for an answer, climbed into the fridge.

Sonya stood by the stove, stirring the soup, listening to Kirill and his father talk about some metal parts behind the garages, Kostya laughing at memes, and Inna slamming the fridge door. And she cooked a soup that would likely be called “tasteless” again.

Their neighbor Galya — an old friend of Sonya’s mother — sometimes stopped by in the evenings. She understood everything, silently sat on a stool, and watched Sonya rush between the stove and the dishes.

“You should tell them all to go to hell,” Galya muttered once. “They’re spoiled rotten. No shame, no conscience.”

But Sonya only shrugged.

“Kirill asks me to. Says it’s all temporary.”

That evening, Galya came again and brought a jar of pickled tomatoes. She sat silently for a while, then said:

“Can you pull all this off on your own? Aren’t you going to break yourself?”

Sonya sighed and waved it off:

“Oh, stop it. I’ll manage.”

At night, she lay next to Kirill, listening to his calm breathing, and wondered: how much longer? A month? Two? Half a year? Or “until I throw them out myself”?

It was drizzling outside, and in Sonya’s chest scratched a feeling that this was going to last a long time. Far too long.

A week later, nothing had changed. Except that Inna started coming more often — now she not only ate dinners at their place but also stayed overnight in Kostya’s room. In the mornings, Sonya woke up to her ringing laughter in the kitchen — Inna would take juice, sausage, leave everything on the table, and leave. Cleaning up dishes was not her thing.

Valentina Petrovna also didn’t lose her grip — she added new demands to her old ones: the towels needed to be washed “properly,” the windows had to be cleaned, the men’s clothes folded “the right way.” Sonya swallowed her resentment and kept silent.

“Kirill, talk to them,” she said quietly one evening when they finally had a moment alone in the kitchen. “I’m not made of steel. I come home from work — and half the house is upside down. I’m like a maid. I’m exhausted.”

Kirill lowered his eyes, pulled his cup of tea closer, and spun the spoon in his hands for a long time.

“Just hold on a little longer. Mom said specialists will come soon and fix everything. Kostya also promised to finish his renovation.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Sonya almost raised her voice. “‘Soon,’ ‘promised’… They live here, eat at my expense, I do their laundry, I cook for them! Have you ever seen your mother wash even her own dishes?”

“Why are you starting again?” Kirill sighed. “It’s hard for them, you know that…”

She got up, took a container of soup from the fridge, and handed it to him:

“Heat it up yourself tomorrow. I’ll leave for work early.”

Kirill muttered something but didn’t argue.

The next day, Sonya stayed late at work on purpose. Her coworker Tanya invited her for coffee after their shift. They sat in a small café near the bus stop and talked about simple things — new orders, kids, grocery prices.

Suddenly Tanya asked:

“Why have you gotten so thin? What’s eating you up?”

Sonya smirked.

“I just don’t want to go home, that’s all.”

Tanya, older and experienced, understood immediately. Sonya told her everything — about Kostya, about Valentina Petrovna, about Inna. Tanya listened silently.

“Come on, Sonya. You can’t live like that. You’re not a slave. Kick them out, let them rent a place or go stay at Kostya’s apartment.”

“Kirill won’t understand,” Sonya said tiredly. “He listens to them more than to me.”

“Well, that’s stupid. Who are you to him — his wife or his housekeeper?” Tanya’s voice was quiet, but firm. “As long as you stay silent — they’ll keep walking all over you.”

At home that evening, everything was the same: Valentina Petrovna sat by the TV, pushing a bundle of dirty laundry away with her foot. Kostya and Inna were laughing somewhere in the hallway. There was a mountain of dishes in the kitchen. Kirill wasn’t home — he had gone to the garage with his father.

Sonya silently took a wash basin and went to gather dirty clothes from the rooms. In Kostya’s room, T-shirts, socks, even one of Inna’s tops were thrown over a chair. On the floor lay an empty energy drink can.

She stood there with the basin, staring at the mess, and suddenly realized she couldn’t breathe. Something inside her snapped.

That evening, she tried talking to Kirill again:

“I can’t do this anymore. Let them at least clean up after themselves. I can’t keep up with everyone.”

Kirill hugged her, patted her back, and gave his usual “just be patient.”

And in the morning, Valentina Petrovna was again saying through clenched teeth:

“Sonya, you mixed up Kostya’s socks. He can’t have synthetics washed with cotton, don’t you know that? And besides, you poured too much fabric softener. The smell is awful…”

Sonya wanted to answer, but suddenly Tanya’s face flashed before her eyes. “You’re not a slave.”

She moved through the entire day on autopilot. At work she cut her finger while slicing pastries — a drop of blood stained her white apron. Sonya stared at that blood and thought how much it resembled her life — dripping, but unheard.

In the evening, when she returned home, Inna and Kostya were standing in the hallway. Inna was holding a new shopping bag full of clothes.

“Sonya, could you steam my dresses? I’ve got a date, and your iron is weird, I don’t know how to use it.”

Sonya walked past in silence.

“Sonya, what’s wrong with you?” Kostya caught up with her. “Come on, help out, it’s no big deal.”

She set her bag down on the floor, turned around, and looked him straight in the eyes.

“I’m not your maid.”

And she walked into the bedroom. She locked the door — for the first time ever.

The next morning began as if nothing had changed overnight. Valentina Petrovna banged pots around in the kitchen, Kostya and Inna laughed loudly in the hallway, and Kirill pulled on his jacket — heading out again with his father to the countryside.

Sonya sat on the edge of the couch and listened as Valentina Petrovna grumbled behind the door about “ungrateful youth.” The word ungrateful dropped into Sonya’s mind like a handful of snow shoved down her collar. She sighed and went to the kitchen.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Valentina Petrovna didn’t even turn around; she only scraped the knife harder against the cutting board.

“To work,” Sonya replied calmly.

“That’s right. Money’s needed. Everything here depends on you, you understand? And don’t start any nonsense — marinate the meat before you leave, Kostya will grill it in the evening.”

Sonya silently looked at her mother-in-law. At her hunched back, at the greasy stains on her old housecoat. At how the knife slid weakly over the chicken skin. And for the first time in a long while, she felt neither anger nor resentment — only emptiness.

She took her jacket from the closet, slung her bag over her shoulder, and said quietly:

“You’ll marinate it yourselves.”

Valentina Petrovna turned around:

“What are you babbling about? Who’s going to do it?”

“Not me,” Sonya repeated, and walked out of the kitchen.

On the landing stood their neighbor Galya. She’d heard the door slam and looked at Sonya questioningly:

“Well?”

“That’s it, Galya. Time to end this circus.”

That evening Sonya returned earlier than Kirill. The apartment was quiet. Inna and Kostya sat in the kitchen — sullen, staring into their phones. Valentina Petrovna lay on the couch under a blanket, sighing loudly.

Sonya walked past without looking at them. In the bedroom, she pulled a suitcase from under the bed and began packing her things. She heard Valentina Petrovna shuffling outside the door, Kostya whispering with Inna. No one came in.

An hour later, Kirill arrived. He found Sonya sitting in the middle of the room with a half-packed suitcase. He froze in the doorway.

“What’s going on? Where are you going?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sonya lifted her eyes. “You decide who’s more important to you. I’m done serving them.”

Kirill looked at her as if she were a stranger. His shoulders sagged. He came over and sat beside her.

“Sonya, come on… you know… Just hold on a little more…”

She let out a short, hollow laugh.

“Kirill, do you even realize what you’re saying? Your ‘hold on’ has eaten me alive from the inside.”

He tried to take her hand, but she pulled away:

“If you want to live like a herd — live like a herd. Want to wash for them, cook for them — go ahead. But I’m not taking part in this circus anymore,” Sonya told her husband.

He opened his mouth but said nothing. Valentina Petrovna stood in the doorway — silent, her mouth twisted. Kostya peeked out from the kitchen and quickly ducked back in.

Sonya zipped the suitcase, stood up, and looked at all of them.

A heavy, sticky silence filled the apartment. Even the air seemed not to move. Someone flushed a toilet behind the wall — the neighbors had come home.

Sonya picked up her bag, cast one last glance at Kirill — and walked out of the room. The door closed with a soft click.

No one ran after her.