“Do you really think I’m going to wash your mother’s bedding and keep quiet?” Darya said calmly.
Darya had been sitting on the couch in her small one-bedroom apartment, reading a book, when Igor came home from work. He looked pensive, even slightly tense. After hanging up his jacket, he went into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and stood at the window for a long time, staring out at the evening city.
“Dar, we need to talk,” he finally said, sitting down beside his wife.
“About what?” She set her book aside and turned to him.
“About Mom. She’s getting worse. The doctors say she needs constant supervision—someone has to be there with her. She’s living alone in her three-room apartment, and it’s already hard for her to take care of herself.”
Darya frowned. Valentina Petrovna had indeed been complaining about her health lately, but until now she’d been managing on her own.
“So what are you suggesting?”
“Let’s move in with her.” Igor took his wife’s hand. “Dar, think about it. She has a three-room place—there’s plenty of space, it’ll be more comfortable for us. And we’ll rent out your one-bedroom—you’ll get a steady income every month. We can easily make thirty thousand, maybe even more.”
“Live with my mother-in-law?” Darya grimaced. “Igor, you do realize that’s not the best idea?”
“Why? Mom’s normal—she’s not some kind of troublemaker. She just needs support, that’s all. A little supervision, nothing more. And this way we help Mom, we’ll live in better conditions ourselves, and we’ll have extra money.”
Darya was silent, thinking it over. Financially, it did seem reasonable. Their one-bedroom apartment felt cramped, especially when guests came over. And Valentina Petrovna really did have a spacious three-room apartment in a good neighborhood.
“Are you sure your mom agrees?” she asked cautiously.
“Of course! She asked for it herself. Dar, come on—yeah? Let’s at least try. If anything, we can always move back.”
After a long stretch of coaxing and promises that the “supervision would be minimal,” Darya gave in. Igor painted the benefits of moving so convincingly that refusing seemed foolish. A week later they packed up their things and moved them into Valentina Petrovna’s apartment.
Her mother-in-law welcomed them warmly—bustling around, showing them where everything was, which room would be theirs. It all seemed perfectly harmless. Darya even relaxed, thinking she’d worried for nothing.
But reality hit her on the third day.
“Daryushka, dear, help me get to the bathroom,” Valentina Petrovna called out in the morning.
Darya set her coffee aside and helped her mother-in-law reach the bathroom. Then Valentina Petrovna asked her to help her wash. Darya froze—she hadn’t expected she’d have to bathe a grown woman, but refusing felt awkward.
After that, a real nightmare began. Valentina Petrovna turned out to be not just someone who “needed a little supervision”—she demanded constant attention and care. Darya had to do more than cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner for three; she had to feed her mother-in-law, help her get dressed, change her bedding, and bathe her every evening.
Igor, meanwhile, acted as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. He’d come home from work, eat dinner, sit down in front of the TV, and relax. When Darya asked him to help, he’d say he was tired, that tomorrow would be a big day, that his mother needed a woman’s care.
“Igor, at least help change your mother’s sheets!” Darya begged one evening.
“Dar, that’s women’s work,” her husband shrugged. “I don’t get involved in those details. You’ll manage.”
Darya worked as a manager at a construction company from nine to six. The workday exhausted her, and in the evenings she didn’t get the rest she deserved—she started a second shift at home. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, taking care of Valentina Petrovna. By ten at night, Darya was dead on her feet, but even then she couldn’t just go to bed peacefully.
“Daryushka!” came the voice from her mother-in-law’s room. “Bring me some water!”
“Daryushka, I’m hot—open the window!”
“Daryushka, I’m cold—close the window!”
Every evening turned into endless running back and forth between rooms. Darya felt her strength draining away, her nerves stretched to the limit. She tried talking to Igor, explaining she couldn’t cope, that she needed help. But he only brushed her off.
“You’re exaggerating. Mom isn’t that demanding. It just feels like a lot to you.”
“It feels like it?” Darya was nearly in tears from exhaustion. “Igor, today I spent an hour bathing your mother, then I cooked, then I cleaned, then I ran back to her again! I don’t even have time to sit down!”
“Then manage your time better,” her husband shrugged, and went back to watching football.
Darya stood in the middle of the room and didn’t recognize the man she’d married three years ago. That Igor had been attentive, caring, ready to help. This one… this one was simply using her as a free housekeeper and nurse for his mother.
One night, when Darya had almost fallen asleep, a loud voice boomed through the apartment:
“Darya! Darya, come here immediately!”
She sprang out of bed, barely understanding what was happening. Her heart pounded—maybe something serious had happened, maybe her mother-in-law was feeling unwell?
Darya rushed into Valentina Petrovna’s room.
“What happened? Are you feeling sick?”
“Change my bedding,” her mother-in-law said irritably. “I spilled tea, the sheet is wet. It’s impossible to sleep.”
Darya froze. One-thirty in the morning. She’d only slept an hour after finishing the dishes and hanging the laundry. And she was being woken up to change the bed because of spilled tea?
“Valentina Petrovna, maybe we can change it in the morning? I can put a towel down…”
“What towel? Do you want me lying on something wet all night? Change it. Now!”
Darya clenched her fists so hard her nails dug into her palms. Without a word, she went to the storage closet, took out fresh linens, and began remaking the bed. Valentina Petrovna stood nearby, watching critically.
“Pull the sheet tighter. There’s a wrinkle here. And you put the pillowcase on inside out—redo it.”
Darya said nothing. If she opened her mouth now, she’d say things she’d regret later. So she simply did what was demanded of her, keeping all her rage inside.
When she finished, she left the room without saying goodnight and headed back to the bedroom. Igor was asleep, sprawled across the bed, and didn’t even stir when she came in.
Darya walked up to her husband and lightly nudged his shoulder.
“Igor. Wake up.”
“What?” He cracked one eye open, sleepy.
“Do you really think I’m going to wash your mother’s bedding and keep quiet?” Darya said softly, but very clearly.
Igor grimaced and tried to close his eyes again.
“Dar, what kind of arguing is this in the middle of the night? We’ll talk in the morning.”
“No. Not in the morning. Now. Your mother just got me up at one-thirty so I could change her sheets. She spilled tea on them. Your mother, Igor. Not mine.”
He finally sat up, rubbing his face with his hands.
“So what do you want from me? Mom’s a woman, you’re a woman. That’s women’s stuff—I shouldn’t get involved. You understand it’s uncomfortable for me to bathe my mother, change her bedding. It’s normal that you’re the one doing it.”
Darya felt something inside her flip over. She stared at her husband, unable to understand how someone could be so cynical and cold.
“Uncomfortable?” she repeated. “And it’s comfortable for me, then? Did I sign up to be your mother’s caregiver?..”
“Darya, don’t start. She’s my mom—she needs help…”
“Then help her yourself!” Darya raised her voice. “She’s your mother, Igor! Not mine! I’m not obligated to take care of her! You’re her son—so you do it!”
“It’s women’s work, I’m telling you…”
“No,” Darya cut him off. “It’s your job. You brought me here, you lied that it would be ‘a little supervision,’ but in reality you turned me into unpaid help!”
“You’re exaggerating!”
“I’m not exaggerating anything!”
Darya turned, walked to the closet, and pulled out a large suitcase. Igor watched her, not believing his eyes.
“What are you doing?”
She didn’t answer. Methodically, in silence, Darya began packing her clothes into the suitcase. T-shirts, jeans, dresses—everything flew into the travel bag. Igor jumped out of bed and rushed to her.
“Dar, have you lost your mind? You’re packing in the middle of the night? Where are you going to go?”
“To my parents’,” she snapped, continuing to pack.
“Darya, stop! Let’s talk about this calmly!”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
Igor tried to snatch a sweater from her hands as she folded it.
“Stop it right now! You’re my wife—we’re supposed to stick together! Mom is unwell, she needs help, and what—are you going to abandon us at a hard moment?”
Darya stopped and looked him straight in the eyes.
“Your mom needs help? Great. Help her yourself. Bathe her, feed her, change her bedding. I’m not doing it anymore.”
“But I’m a man! It’s uncomfortable!”
“And it’s comfortable for me?” Darya gave a bitter little smile. “You know, Igor, I have self-respect. And I’m not going to spend my life serving you and your mother.”
“Darya, think about what you’re doing! You’re destroying our family!”
“No.” She zipped the suitcase shut. “You destroyed it. When you deceived me about the move. When you dumped all the care for your mother on me. When you decided I would silently endure it and wait on you.”
Igor grabbed her hands.
“Dar, don’t do this! Forgive me—I was wrong! I’ll help, I swear! Just don’t go!”
Darya pulled her hands free and picked up the suitcase.
“You know what’s the worst part? Even now you don’t understand what you did wrong. You’re not sorry you used me. You’re sorry that now you’ll have to take care of your mother yourself.”
She walked out of the bedroom, threw on her jacket in the hallway, and opened the front door. Igor stood in the doorway of the room, confused and frightened.
“Darya! Darya, come back!”
The door closed.
Darya called a taxi, and twenty minutes later she was standing on the doorstep of her parents’ apartment. Her father, Viktor Mikhailovich, opened the door in his pajamas—sleepy and alarmed.
“Darya? What happened?”
“Dad, can I stay with you for a while?”
“Of course, sweetheart, come in.” He took her suitcase and let her inside.
Her mother, Svetlana Nikolayevna, came out of the bedroom.
“Dashenka, did something happen?”
“It’s okay, Mom. I just… I need to be here.”
Her parents exchanged a glance, but they didn’t press her with questions. They quietly made up the couch for her in the living room, brought a blanket and a pillow. Darya lay down and closed her eyes, feeling the tension of the past few weeks finally release its grip.
In the morning, Igor started calling nonstop. Darya declined the calls, not wanting to talk. Then came messages—long ones, full of apologies and promises.
“Dar, forgive me, I was wrong. Please come back. I’ll fix everything. I’ll take care of Mom myself—you don’t have to help at all. Just come back.”
Darya didn’t believe a single word. She knew Igor too well: the moment she returned, everything would repeat itself. Promises would remain promises, and she’d end up the servant again.
The first thing Darya did was contact the tenants who were renting her one-bedroom. A young couple—students—had rented it for six months. Darya explained the situation and asked them to move out early, promising to return the money for the unused month.
“We understand, don’t worry,” the girl said. “We were actually planning to move out in a week anyway—our semester is over.”
A week later Darya got the keys back. She went to her apartment and stood in the middle of the room for a long time, looking at the familiar walls. How good it felt to come home—to her own space, where no one would demand a sheet change in the middle of the night.
Darya started a small cleaning spree, aired the place out, bought fresh groceries. Igor kept calling, but she stopped answering. Let him deal with his own problems.
Two weeks later, Darya filed for divorce. At the registry office they were given a month to reconsider. Igor showed up for the appointment gloomy and angry.
“Have you thought it through?”
“Yes,” Darya answered calmly.
“And you really want to divorce over something so stupid?”
“Something stupid?” She gave a short laugh. “Igor, you turned me into an unpaid caregiver for your mother. That’s not stupid.”
“You couldn’t handle hardship!” he snapped. “You abandoned us when it got hard! Selfish!”
Darya looked at her ex-husband without any emotion.
“You know, I really couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle you using me. I couldn’t handle you dumping all your responsibilities on me. I couldn’t handle living like a servant in someone else’s apartment.”
“Mom needed help!”
“Your mom. Your responsibility.” Darya stood up. “I don’t regret my decision, Igor. On the contrary—I’m grateful to myself for stopping in time.”
The waiting month passed quickly. Igor stopped trying to make up—apparently he realized it was useless. They came to the registry office together and signed the divorce papers. There was nothing to divide: Darya’s apartment was hers, Valentina Petrovna’s apartment was hers, and they had no shared purchases or children.
When she walked out of the registry office building, Darya took a deep breath of fresh air. She was free. Free from manipulation, from someone else’s obligations, from endless work for two.
Igor stood nearby for a moment, staring grimly at the asphalt, then turned and went to his car without saying goodbye.
Darya returned to her one-bedroom apartment, brewed some tea, and sat by the window. Life was starting over. No one would call her in the middle of the night anymore, demanding she change sheets, bathe someone, feed someone. She belonged to herself again.
A month after the divorce, Darya met up with a friend who shared news about Igor. It turned out he’d hired a caregiver for Valentina Petrovna—a paid, professional one. He was paying her forty thousand rubles a month.
“Can you imagine?” her friend laughed. “He finally realized he can’t manage on his own. He tried to save money on you—and now he’s paying a stranger.”
Darya smiled. So it finally sank in: caring for a sick person is hard work—work that either a family member does, or that should be paid for properly.
And Darya went back to her life. Work, meeting friends, hobbies, travel. No obligations to anyone, no guilt for not wanting to pour herself into someone else’s problems.
Darya didn’t regret the divorce for a second. She saved herself—her life, her dignity. And it was the best investment she had ever made.
