“Wash my underwear and make lunch—now!” the unemployed husband barked, shoving me out of the room.
Yulia remembered the day Ilya proposed to her. They were standing on the embankment, the wind teasing her hair, and he was holding a little box with a ring, saying he would always be there, that together they would get through any hardship. She believed every word. It seemed to her that beside her stood a dependable man—someone who kept his promises and wasn’t afraid of difficulties.
They had a modest wedding, without unnecessary ceremony. Yulia worked as an economist at a small company; Ilya worked as an engineer at a factory. They had enough money to live on and could even set a little aside. They rented a one-room apartment and saved for a mortgage down payment.
At first, their life was calm—even happy. On weekends they went together to home-improvement stores, choosing wallpaper, faucets, tiles. Ilya assembled a sliding wardrobe in the entryway with his own hands and put up shelves in the kitchen. Yulia painted the bedroom walls and stuck on decorative decals. They made plans: in a year, take out a mortgage; in three years, have a baby; in five, go on a big trip.
“Can you imagine, Yul—we’re doing all this ourselves!” Ilya would say, standing on a step ladder with a drill in his hands. “Our home, our life!”
“I can,” she would smile, handing him screws. “We’ll make it.”
And she truly thought they would. That they were a team. That any problem could be solved if they solved it together.
Everything changed suddenly, as if someone had flipped a switch. On Thursday evening Ilya came home with a dark expression, tossed his jacket onto a chair, and walked into the kitchen in silence. Yulia was making dinner and immediately sensed something was wrong.
“What happened?” she asked cautiously.
“I got fired,” Ilya answered shortly, opening the fridge and pulling out a beer. “Staff cuts. Half the department got the axe.”
“My God…” Yulia wiped her hands on a towel and stepped closer. “But you’re an engineer, a good specialist! You’ll get hired somewhere else without any trouble!”
“To hell with it all,” Ilya waved his hand. “I’m sick of it. I worked like a slave and they threw me out like trash. I’ll sit for a while, rest. Temporarily. Then I’ll look for something better.”
Yulia nodded, trying to support him:
“Of course. Rest. In a couple of weeks you’ll feel lighter, and then you’ll start looking. We’ll get through it.”
At first Ilya really did seem crushed. He slept until noon, wandered around the apartment, watched TV shows. Yulia didn’t push him, understanding that being fired was a serious shock. She got up at seven, got ready for work, left him food in the fridge with a note: “Heat it up in the microwave.” In the evenings she came home tired, cooked dinner, cleaned.
“How are you doing?” she asked. “Maybe we can put your résumé together?”
“Not today, Yul. I’m not ready yet,” Ilya brushed her off. “Give me time.”
A week passed. Then two. Three. Ilya didn’t browse job listings, didn’t update his résumé, didn’t go to interviews. He kept saying he was “resting for now,” that he’d “pull himself together soon,” that “everything has its time.” And then even those explanations stopped—he simply quit looking for work altogether.
A tension settled over the home—thick and suffocating. Ilya spent his days in front of the TV, flipping channels, or lying on the couch with his face buried in his phone. Yulia came home from work to see dirty dishes in the sink, crumbs on the table, clothes strewn everywhere. She cleaned in silence, cooked, did laundry. All the financial responsibilities fell on her shoulders—rent, utilities, groceries, everything.
“Ilyusha, maybe we could at least look at vacancies?” she tried one evening. “I saw lots of openings for engineers on the websites…”
“Leave me alone,” he muttered without taking his eyes off the screen. “I know what I’m doing.”
“But it’s already been two months…”
“So what?” He turned his head toward her, irritation flashing in his eyes. “Now you’re going to control me? Tell me when to work?”
“I’m not telling you—I’m just worried…”
“Don’t you start worrying!” he raised his voice. “Stop nagging! I’ll handle it myself when I decide to! Got it?”
Yulia fell silent. Every attempt to talk ended the same way—irritation, rudeness, accusations. He answered as if the mere suggestion wounded his pride as a man, struck a nerve. And she hadn’t even really been reproaching him—she just wanted to help, support him, nudge him to act.
But Ilya didn’t see that. Or didn’t want to.
Little by little it got worse. The grateful husband who once helped around the house and valued her efforts turned into a man who took everything for granted. Food on the table, clean clothes in the closet, paid bills—now it was all just “normal,” the wife’s duty, something she was simply obligated to do.
“Yul, where are my jeans?” he shouted from the room.
“In the closet, on the shelf,” she replied, washing the dishes after dinner.
“I don’t see them!”
“Ilya, they’re there. Look more carefully.”
“They’re not there! What, you can’t even do the laundry properly?!”
Yulia dried her hands, went into the room, and pulled the jeans from that very shelf—the one he hadn’t even bothered to check. Ilya snatched them without saying thank you and dropped back in front of the TV.
Four months passed. Yulia felt exhaustion building inside her—not physical, but something deeper, soul-draining. She worked, carried the entire household and all the expenses, while he simply existed beside her like a passenger who sat down and waited to be taken to the right stop.
One evening, gathering all her resolve, Yulia sat down next to him on the couch:
“Ilyusha, we need to talk seriously.”
“About what?” He didn’t look away from the television.
“About work. Could you at least look for some temporary job? Any job. As a courier, a mover, a security guard—until you find something in your field. It’s hard for me alone…”
Ilya sharply muted the TV and turned to her. His face twisted.
“Stop nagging! I’ll decide everything myself! What, you don’t believe me?!”
“I do, but…”
“No ‘buts’! I’m a man—I know what I’m doing! And you just sit there and stay out of it with your advice! Got it?!”
“Ilya, I just want…”
“Enough!” he snapped, jumping up from the couch. “I’m sick of this! Like I’m some kid! That’s it—conversation’s over!”
He stormed into the room, slamming the door loudly. Yulia remained sitting on the couch, feeling her chest tighten…
After that, there were no more conversations about work. Ilya settled completely into living at her expense, without even pretending he was going to change anything. He kept assuring himself—and her—that these were “temporary difficulties,” that “things would get better soon,” that “they just needed to wait a little.” But there was nothing left to wait for—temporary difficulties had turned into a way of life.
Yulia began to notice that her husband wasn’t just unemployed—he had stopped doing anything around the house, too. Before, he would at least wash the dishes sometimes or take out the trash. Now he would get up after midday, eat what she had cooked the night before, watch TV until she came home, and then demand dinner.
And over time, rudeness was added to the laziness—something that hadn’t existed at all before. Ilya began speaking to her in a completely different way—not like a husband to his wife, but like a master to a servant. He started demanding instead of asking, as if Yulia owed him everything by default.
“Why is the tea cold?” he would snap, taking a sip from his mug.
“I brewed it an hour ago—you just didn’t drink it…”
“Then make fresh tea!”
“Ilya, you can do it yourself…”
“Me?” he stared at her in outrage. “Are you a wife or what? Go make it!”
Yulia went to the kitchen in silence and brewed a new pot of tea. Arguing was pointless—he would start yelling anyway.
That evening she was especially exhausted. There had been an audit at work; she had spent the whole day buried in documents and hadn’t even managed to eat lunch. She got home around eight, took off her heels in the hallway, and dropped her bag onto the floor. All she wanted was to collapse on the couch and close her eyes.
But Ilya was already stretched out on the couch, watching something on his phone. He didn’t even lift his head when she walked in.
“Hi,” Yulia said wearily.
“Wash my underwear and make lunch—now,” he grunted without looking up from the screen.
Yulia froze. Not “hi.” Not “how was your day.” Not “are you tired?” Just a demand. Crude, insolent—like an order barked at a soldier.
“Ilya, I just got home… maybe you could heat something up yourself? There’s yesterday’s soup in the fridge…”
He finally looked up from his phone, irritation on his face.
“I said make lunch. Are you deaf?”
“But I’m really tired…”
“And why should I care?” He stood up from the couch and stepped toward her. “You’re a wife—your duty is to cook! Or is that too hard to understand?”
“Ilya, are you even serious? You’ve been home all day—you could’ve done it yourself…”
“Shut up!” He grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her roughly out of the room into the hallway. “Go to the kitchen and do what you were told! Now!”
The door slammed in her face. Yulia stood in the hallway, breathing heavily, staring at the closed door. Something inside her clicked—not anger, not hurt, but a clear, cold understanding.
Talking doesn’t matter anymore.
She wasn’t going to yell, she wasn’t going to cry, she wasn’t going to prove anything. She simply acted.
Yulia went into the kitchen, picked up her phone, and dialed her brother.
“Pasha, are you home?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah—what is it?” her brother immediately caught the tension in her voice. “Did something happen?”
“Come over. Now. I need help.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
While her brother was on his way, Yulia methodically gathered documents: her passport, the marriage certificate, the apartment lease—everything was in her folder. She checked the bank cards—the account was joint, but only she ever put money into it. Ilya had never even held the salary card the money came to. He didn’t have cash either.
Exactly thirty-five minutes later, the doorbell rang. Yulia opened it and Pavel stood on the threshold—tall, broad-shouldered, with a firm, set face.
“What are we doing?” he asked curtly.
“Throwing him out,” Yulia answered just as curtly.
The two of them went into the room. Ilya was sitting on the same couch and didn’t even turn around when he heard footsteps.
“Ilya, pack your things,” Yulia said calmly.
He turned his head and saw Pavel. His eyebrows shot up.
“What is this—some kind of circus?”
“No circus. You’re moving out. Today.”
Ilya laughed.
“Have you lost your mind? This is my apartment!”
“No,” Pavel pulled a folder of papers from his pocket and showed the lease. “This is an apartment my sister rents. In her name. With her money. You lived here because you were her husband. But since you’re behaving like a complete jerk, those rights are over.”
“You can’t kick me out!” Ilya sprang up from the couch. “I’m registered here!”
“No, you’re not,” Yulia replied. “Your registration is still at your old place—where your mother lives. Check it if you don’t believe me.”
Ilya grabbed his phone, scrolled quickly, and his face darkened. It was true—he had never changed his registration after the wedding.
“I’m her husband! I have rights!”
“You had rights while you acted like a human being,” Pavel said, nodding toward the suitcase he had brought. “Now pack your things. You can do it yourself, or we can help.”
“I’m not going anywhere!” Ilya shouted. “This is illegal! I’ll call the police!”
“Call them,” Pavel replied evenly, pulling out his phone. “Or should I call? We’ll explain the situation to the local officer. I think he’ll understand who’s in the right here.”
Ilya paced around the room, trying to find arguments, but no words came. Pavel calmly started packing his things—folding clothes into the suitcase, lining up shoes next to it.
“You… you’ll regret this!” Ilya forced out at last. “I’ll come back! I’ll show you!”
“You won’t,” Yulia stepped closer and looked him in the eyes. “The lease is in my name. I’m changing the locks tomorrow. I’m taking your keys now. And if you try to show up here—I’ll call the police for trespassing.”
“Yulya, come on…” Ilya’s voice suddenly turned ingratiating. “We’re family… we had a fight, so what? It happens…”
“No, it doesn’t,” she shook her head. “You lived off me for five months. You didn’t look for work. You insulted me. You treated me like a servant. That isn’t a family. That’s parasitism.”
Pavel set the packed suitcase by the door and turned to Ilya.
“Keys on the table. Now.”
Ilya hesitated, but when her brother stepped closer, he hurriedly dropped the keyring onto the coffee table.
“Good. Now get out.”
“My mother will find out! She’ll make you pay!”
“Let her find out,” Yulia said calmly. “I don’t care.”
Pavel opened the door, took the suitcase, and carried it out to the stairwell. Ilya stood in the middle of the room, bewildered and furious at the same time.
“Move,” Pavel threw over his shoulder.
“I… I’m calling a lawyer right now! You’ll answer for this!”
“Call.”
Ilya slowly headed for the exit, turning back as he went, muttering about injustice. Pavel walked him to the stairs, made sure he went down, then returned to the apartment.
Yulia stood by the window, watching Ilya leave the building with the suitcase, looking around and pulling out his phone. She felt neither pity nor relief—only emptiness.
“Thank you, Pash,” she said softly.
“Any time. Want me to stay the night?”
“No. I’ll handle it. Really.”
Her brother put an arm around her shoulders.
“Yul, you did the right thing. Guys like that don’t change. He would’ve ridden on your back his whole life.”
She nodded.
The next morning Yulia’s phone started blowing up with calls. First Ilya—ten times in a row. Then his mother—screaming hysterically into the phone that her daughter-in-law was shameless, that she had thrown her husband out onto the street, that it was disgraceful, that she would sue.
Yulia listened in silence, then said calmly:
“Your son didn’t work for five months and lived off me. He insulted me and treated me like a servant. If you think I should have tolerated that—that’s your right. But I don’t owe explanations to you or to him anymore.”
And she ended the call. Blocked her mother-in-law’s number, then Ilya’s number.
A week later a message came from mutual friends— Ilya was spreading rumors that Yulia had gone crazy, that she threw him out for no reason, that he had always been a good husband. Yulia didn’t explain anything. The people who knew them well understood everything anyway.
She changed the locks, just as she promised. She changed her phone number. A month later she filed for divorce—Ilya didn’t even come to the registry office hearing; he sent a representative. There was nothing to divide—the apartment was rented, they had acquired no shared property. The marriage was dissolved quickly.
Yulia returned to her normal life. She worked, came home, cooked only for herself. Gradually, the feeling of freedom returned to her—the same freedom she had lost over those months of living with a parasite.
There was nowhere to go back to. The keys were with her, the apartment was hers, and the feeling that had once held them together—love, faith, hope—had dissolved along with his last shout, when he shoved her out of the room. That was when she understood: it was over. And now, sitting in the quiet of her own apartment, sipping tea and looking out the window, Yulia regretted nothing.
