“Go wash my mother—now! She needs to be taken care of, and you’re just staring at the TV!” her husband grumbled.

“Go wash my mother—now! She needs to be taken care of, and you’re just staring at the TV!” her husband grumbled.

“Why are you standing there like a statue?! Can you even hear me?”
Ksenia flinched. Stepan’s voice struck her ears as if someone had slammed a door in a quiet room. She looked away from the screen, where yet another soap-opera heroine was crying over a shattered love, and saw her husband—red-faced, disheveled, with that permanent crease between his eyebrows.

“Go wash my mother—now! She needs care, and you’re just glued to the TV!” he repeated, yanking an old jacket off the hook.

Outside the window, winter whirled. Snow fell thick and stubborn, plastering the glass with wet flakes. Dusk came early, as it always did in January, and the light in the neighbors’ windows looked especially yellow, almost orange—as if, somewhere beyond those чужие walls, fireplaces were burning and pies were baking.

Ksenia slowly got up from the couch. Her legs had gone numb—she’d been sitting like that for forty minutes, at least. The room smelled of fried onions and something else—hospital-like, maybe? No, just old age. Her mother-in-law had smelled like that these past few months.

“I just left her,” Ksenia said quietly. “I changed her linens, gave her her medicine…”
“Yeah, you changed them,” Stepan mimicked. “So why did she call me and complain that nobody comes in? Why is she lying there wet?”
“Stepan…”

“Don’t ‘Stepan’ me! My mother is dying, and you don’t care! All you care about is your stupid shows!”
Ksenia clenched her fists. Something hot and ugly rose inside her—as if water were starting to boil in her chest. She wanted to shout that for three months she hadn’t slept properly, that she got up to the old woman at night, that she washed those sheets every day, that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d left the house for no reason, without a purpose—only to the store or the pharmacy. That her own life had gone somewhere, dissolved into these days that had started to look alike, like twins.

But she stayed silent.
Stepan was already pulling on his boots, getting ready to leave—where? The garage, probably. He always went to the garage when he was angry. That was where he had his own business: bolts, nuts, the endless repair of a car that never started anyway. That was his freedom. Small, reeking of oil and tobacco—but his.

“Go on, then,” Ksenia tossed out. “Run to your mother.”
He turned back. There was something new on his face—not anger, no. Surprise, maybe?
“What did you say?”

“What you heard. Go yourself. Wash her yourself if I do everything wrong. I’m tired.”
The word “tired” sounded strange. Too simple for what was going on inside her. Tired is when you’ve been on your feet too long or lugged grocery bags home. But this… this felt as if someone were slowly pumping the air out of her, day after day, and now she was almost empty.

Stepan stood in the entryway, his face growing darker and darker.
“You’ve got a nerve,” he said. “A real nerve. You think you have the right to tell me what to do? In my house?”

“In your house?” Ksenia stepped closer. “Stepan, I’ve lived here for twenty-three years. Twenty-three! Your mother never loved me—you know that. She always said I wasn’t good enough for you. That you could’ve found someone better.”

“So what? She’s old, she’s sick…”
“She was like that at thirty and at forty. Always. You just didn’t see it because you’re her son.”
Stepan took a step forward, looming over her. Ksenia caught the smell of his cologne—cheap, sharp. The same as twenty years ago, when they’d just gotten married.

“Don’t you dare talk about my mother like that.”
“Or what?” her voice sharpened, turning mean. “What are you going to do, Stepan? Hit me? Throw me out?…”

Silence. Outside, the wind howled, driving snowy whirlwinds between the buildings. Somewhere below, the entrance door slammed; someone laughed loudly—voices that quickly dissolved into the winter darkness.

“I don’t recognize you,” her husband said softly. “What’s happened to you?”

Ksenia gave a little smirk—dry, joyless.

“To me? Take a look at yourself. When was the last time you asked how I’m doing? When you took any interest in what I feel? Even once these past months? You come home, eat my dinner, demand everything be ready and clean, and then you disappear into your garage. Or you sit down in front of the TV while I’m busy with your mother.”

“I work! I earn money!”

“And I’m relaxing here, am I? It’s a resort for me, yeah?”

Stepan clenched his jaw. His hand twitched—instinctively, as if he wanted to grab something, to hit something, but he stopped himself. He turned and walked down the hall—straight to his mother’s room.

Ksenia stayed standing in the entryway. Her hands were shaking. Her whole body felt flooded with lead—heavy, cold. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.

How long can this go on? How long can she endure, bend, keep quiet?

She remembered the day she first saw Stepan. The market, the autumn slush—he helped her carry heavy bags to the bus stop. He smiled wide, boyish. His eyes shone—there was something alive in them, something genuine. “I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he’d said then, kissing her on the forehead before their first goodbye.

Where is that man? Where did he go?

From the room came Stepan’s muffled voice—he was saying something to his mother. The old woman answered weakly, plaintively. Ksenia couldn’t make out the words, but she caught the tone: her mother-in-law was complaining. As always.

Ksenia went back into the living room and turned off the TV. She sat on the couch and looked at her hands—dry, with prominent veins. Her fingers were red from washing and cleaning. On her ring finger was her wedding band, thin and worn smooth by time.

How much longer?

The door to her mother-in-law’s room opened. Stepan came out, his face unreadable.

“She really was wet,” he said. “I changed her.”

Ksenia nodded. She didn’t have the strength to argue.

“Listen,” her husband cleared his throat, “maybe it really is time to change something. Maybe we should hire a caregiver. I’ll think about the money…”

She raised her eyes to him. There was no apology in his words. No understanding. Only a desire to solve the problem—quickly, simply, so it wouldn’t come up again.

“Think about it,” she said shortly.

Stepan stood there a moment, clearly expecting more, but when he didn’t get it, he headed for the door.

“I’m going to the garage. I’ll be back late.”

The door slammed. Ksenia was left alone.

Outside, winter was weaving its white lace. The city was falling asleep under a blanket of snow. And in that silence, in that white stillness, Ksenia suddenly understood clearly: something had to change. It had to.

She just didn’t know what, exactly.

In the morning, Ksenia woke to the doorbell—sharp, insistent. Whoever it was clearly wasn’t going to leave. She glanced at the clock: seven a.m. Stepan had already gone to work without waking her. As usual.

Pulling on her robe, she hurried to the door. Through the peephole she saw a familiar silhouette—Zoya Petrovna, her mother-in-law’s younger sister. Broad-shouldered, with dyed red hair and a perpetually dissatisfied face.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Ksenia muttered, sliding the bolt back.

Zoya Petrovna burst into the apartment like a hurricane, without even saying hello. Her daughter Rita squeezed in after her—thirty years old but looking older, with sharp features and spiteful little eyes.

“Where is Yevdokia Ivanovna?” Zoya Petrovna demanded, taking off her sheepskin coat right in the hallway and tossing it onto the little cabinet.

“She’s still asleep. She was bad in the night—I gave her a sleeping pill…”

“A sleeping pill?!” Zoya Petrovna threw up her hands. “Are you out of your mind? She can’t have doses like that! You’re not a doctor!”

Ksenia swallowed. Inside, it was already starting to boil—that same feeling she’d learned to bury deep, deep down so she wouldn’t explode.

“The doctor prescribed it. I have the instructions…”

“Show me!”

Rita snickered—nasty, girlish. She walked into the kitchen without asking permission and immediately started opening cupboards.

“It’s a total mess in here. Dirty dishes…”

“That’s from last night,” Ksenia started to explain, though she knew perfectly well she shouldn’t have to explain. “I didn’t go to bed until two a.m. I didn’t have time…”

“Didn’t have time!” Zoya Petrovna mocked. “And Dusya is lying there, wet, sick! Stepan called me yesterday and told me everything. Says you’ve gotten completely out of hand. Watching TV while his mother is dying!”

“That’s not true…”

“Don’t talk back!” Zoya Petrovna stepped closer, and Ksenia caught the smell of cheap perfume—heavy, cloying. “I’ve seen for a long time how you treat my sister. I saw it from the start. You don’t love her—she’s a burden to you!”

“I’ve been taking care of her for three months! Day and night!”

“You take care of her badly,” Rita cut in from the kitchen, chewing something. Ksenia realized with horror that she’d found yesterday’s pastries and was already stuffing them in her mouth without even heating them up. “Aunt Dusya is covered in bedsores. We saw it yesterday when we stopped by.”

“What bedsores?!” Ksenia felt the ground drop out from under her. “She doesn’t have bedsores! I treat her every day, I turn her over…”

“Lie some more,” Zoya Petrovna said, heading for her sister’s room. “I’ll look for myself.”

Ksenia rushed after her. Yevdokia Ivanovna lay in bed, pale, eyes closed. Her breathing was heavy, wheezing. Zoya Petrovna rudely threw back the blanket and lifted the old woman’s nightshirt.

“There! You see?!” She jabbed a finger into her sister’s back.

Ksenia bent closer. Yes, there was a small red patch—tiny, no bigger than a coin. But not a bedsore. Just irritation from lying down too long. She put cream on that spot every day…

“It’s not a bedsore,” she said quietly. “It’s just…”

“Shut up!” Zoya Petrovna barked. “You think I don’t know how this starts? I worked as a nurse for twenty years! You’ve ruined my sister! On purpose!”

“Are you out of your minds?” Ksenia stepped back. Her hands were trembling. “I do everything for her! Everything!”

“Want me to call Stepan?” Rita chimed in, already back from the kitchen with her mouth full. “Let him know what his wife is doing.”

“I’ll call right now!” Zoya Petrovna grabbed her phone.

Ksenia stood in the middle of the room and felt everything inside her tighten into a hard knot. It was unfair. It was cruel. She was giving the last of her strength, forgetting herself, her own life—and this was the result. Accusations. Humiliation.

Yevdokia Ivanovna opened her eyes—cloudy, inflamed.

“Zoya?” she whispered. “You came?”

“I’m here, Dusenka, I’m here,” Zoya Petrovna said, perching on the edge of the bed and instantly switching from anger to syrupy sympathy. “Don’t worry. We see everything. Everything.”

The old woman turned her head toward Ksenia. And there was something in her look… malice, maybe? A tiny spark of satisfaction.

“She… she’s bad…” her mother-in-law rasped. “Forgets… the medicine…”

“Lies!” Ksenia burst out. “I always give it on time! Always!”

“Don’t yell at a sick woman!” Zoya Petrovna jumped up. “And now you’re screaming, too! Stepan! Stepan, do you hear this?!”

She was speaking into the phone. Ksenia heard her husband’s muffled voice but couldn’t make out the words.

“Come here immediately!” Zoya Petrovna went on. “Your mother is in terrible shape! And this one… this one has lost her conscience completely!”

The call lasted about three minutes. The whole time, Rita stood in the doorway, watching Ksenia with a barely concealed smirk. There was obvious pleasure in her eyes—someone else was suffering, someone else was down in the pit while she was on top, and it warmed her.

“Stepan is coming right now,” Zoya Petrovna announced, putting her phone away. “And we’re going to talk to him. We’re going to have a serious talk. Because this can’t go on!”

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Ksenia felt something inside her crack. “This is my home! My family! What right do you have—”

“Right?!” Zoya Petrovna puffed up with indignation. “I have the right to protect my sister! And you—who are you? Just a wife. Easy come, easy go.”

“Mom’s right,” Rita nodded, licking her fingers. “It’s not even clear what gives you the right to boss everyone around. The place is Stepan’s. And his mother is his.”

Ksenia sank onto a chair. She had no strength left to argue. And what was the point? They had already decided everything. They had already formed their opinion, and nothing would change it.

Outside, winter went on—merciless, cold. Snow fell without stopping, burying courtyards, cars, benches. The world was turning white, clean… but inside this apartment, a completely different color ruled. Gray. Dark.

The door slammed—Stepan was back. Ksenia lifted her head and met his eyes. There was no doubt in them. He had already blamed her for everything.

Stepan shrugged off his jacket without looking at his wife. He went straight to his mother, bent over the bed.

“How are you, Mom?”

“Bad, son,” Yevdokia Ivanovna moaned. “So bad… She doesn’t feed me… Doesn’t give me water…”

“What?!” Ksenia sprang up. “That’s nonsense! I made her broth just yesterday!”

“What broth?” Zoya Petrovna snorted. “From a bouillon cube, I bet. Nothing but chemicals. Sick people can’t have that!”

“Stepan, you know…” Ksenia tried to come closer, but her husband stopped her with a look—cold. чужой. Like a stranger.

“I know,” he said slowly. “I know you’ve been… different lately. Rude. You don’t listen. Yesterday you even yelled at me.”

“I didn’t yell! I just told the truth!”

“The truth?” He straightened and turned to face her. “What truth? That my mother has become a burden to you? That you’re tired? And who isn’t tired, Ksenia? Am I not tired? I work my guts out every day, I bring money home!”

“And what am I doing?!” Her voice broke. “I’m sitting here like a servant! Day and night! I can’t even step outside!”

“Then we’ll hire a caregiver,” Stepan said indifferently. “If it’s that hard for you.”

“It’s not about the caregiver!” Ksenia felt tears rise into her throat, but she held them back. Not here. Not in front of them. “It’s about you not hearing me! Not seeing me!”

“God, here we go again with these female antics,” Stepan waved his hand. “Aunt Zoya, will you stay with Mom?”

“Of course,” Zoya Petrovna smiled triumphantly. “Rita and I will stay. We’ll take care of her properly.”

“Good.” Stepan headed for the door. “And you, Ksenia, start packing. You’ll go to your mother’s for a few days. Get some rest.”

Ksenia froze. It was banishment. Gentle, wrapped in “concern”—but banishment.

“You’re kicking me out?”

“I’m giving you a breather,” he didn’t even turn around. “Or do you want to stay and keep making scenes?”

Rita giggled behind his back. Zoya Petrovna settled into a chair by Yevdokia Ivanovna like a queen on a throne. The old woman lay with her eyes closed, but Ksenia saw the corners of her lips lift slightly. A satisfied smile.

And then something clicked inside.

Not broke—no. The opposite. It fell into place.

“You know what, Stepan,” Ksenia said quietly, but very clearly. “I really will leave. But not for a few days.”

He turned around. Surprise on his face.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m leaving for good.” The words flew out on their own, as if someone else were speaking in her voice. “I’ve lived with you for twenty-three years. I put up with your mother, who hated me from day one. I put up with you coming home and not even saying thank you. I put up with being nothing but furniture to you. Convenient. Free.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Stepan stepped toward her. “Completely?”

“No,” Ksenia shook her head. “On the contrary. For the first time in a long time, I see everything clearly. I’m tired of being invisible. Tired of being виноватой for everything. Take care of your mother yourselves. You’re all so righteous, so caring—well then, show me how it’s done.”

“Ksyusha, come to your senses!” Zoya Petrovna jumped up. “You’re a wife! You have duties!”

“He had duties too,” Ksenia nodded toward her husband. “To love. To respect. To protect. Where is any of that?”

Stepan’s face turned purple. His fists clenched.

“You’ll regret this,” he hissed through his teeth. “You’ll come crawling back. Where will you go? You have nothing!”

“I’ll go to my mom’s. Then I’ll find a job. Rent a room.” Ksenia went into the bedroom and pulled an old bag from the closet. “And then we’ll see.”

She packed quickly, without thinking. Only the essentials—documents, a few sweaters, underwear. Her hands didn’t shake. Her heart beat evenly. A strange calm covered her—as if a long illness had finally receded and she could breathe deeply again.

Stepan stood in the bedroom doorway. Watching. Silent. Something like confusion flickered in his eyes—he clearly hadn’t expected this turn.

“Are you serious?” he asked more quietly.

Ksenia zipped the bag. She looked at him—long, carefully. She tried to find, in that face, the young guy from the market who had promised to protect her. She didn’t find him. A stranger stood before her: tired, angry, with deadened eyes.

“Deadly serious,” she said.

She walked past him—past Zoya Petrovna with her triumphant expression, past Rita with her smug little smirk. She stopped by her mother-in-law’s bed. Yevdokia Ivanovna opened her eyes.

“Goodbye,” Ksenia said. “Get well.”

Fear flickered in the old woman’s eyes. Only now, it seemed, did she understand what she had done.

Ksenia left the apartment. The stairwell was cold—the window wouldn’t close, and the wind roamed freely between floors. She threw on her coat, took her bag, and went downstairs.

Outside, winter continued. Snow crunched underfoot, frost nipped her cheeks. But Ksenia felt warm. Inside, an unfamiliar feeling spread through her—lightness, maybe. Freedom.

She walked across the snow-covered courtyard, and with every step, the past fell behind her. There, in that apartment, with those people.

Ahead was the unknown. Scary—but somehow right.

Ksenia smiled. For the first time in many months.

And she walked on, into the white winter distance, toward where a new life begins.