“I don’t give a damn about your bad leg,” her husband growled. “My mom is coming—set the table, or we’re getting divorced.”
Svetlana left the treatment room and headed toward the staff office. The October day had been hectic—the line in the hallway hadn’t thinned since morning. Patients came one after another: some for injections, some for dressing changes, others simply for a certificate. Working as a paramedic required attentiveness and patience—something Svetlana had long since gotten used to.
She was carrying a tray of used instruments when her foot suddenly slid forward. The floor in the corridor was wet—the cleaner had just mopped the linoleum but hadn’t put up a warning sign. Svetlana tried to keep her balance, but the tray slipped from her hands and her body crashed onto the hard surface. A sharp pain shot through her right knee.
“Sveta!” her colleague Irina rushed out of the neighboring office and ran to help. “Are you okay?”
Svetlana tried to get up, but her leg wouldn’t obey. The pain intensified, a wave of heat rolling down her leg.
“I can’t stand up,” she breathed.
Irina helped her to her feet, supporting her with a shoulder, and guided Svetlana to the traumatologist’s office. The doctor, Oleg Mikhailovich, examined her knee, felt around it, and asked her to bend her leg. Svetlana winced—every movement sent pain through her.
“The ligaments are damaged,” the traumatologist concluded. “Possibly even a partial tear. You need rest, ice for the first day, and then we’ll put on a stabilizing bandage. And most important—no нагрузка, no strain. Minimal movement only. You can walk, but carefully—no sudden motions and no heavy lifting.”
“Oleg Mikhailovich, how long can’t I work?”
“At least two weeks. Better three. Ligaments are serious business. If you don’t treat it properly now, you’ll suffer for the rest of your life.”
Svetlana sighed. Sick leave at the worst possible moment. There was plenty to do at home, and her husband Artyom wasn’t someone she could really count on for help. But she had no choice.
The doctor issued her a sick-leave note, wrapped her knee in a tight bandage, and warned her again:
“Sveta, I’m serious. Rest—only rest. Otherwise you’ll end up seeing a surgeon.”
Svetlana made her way home slowly. Every step was difficult. Her leg ached; her knee was swollen. She called a taxi, even though she usually walked—the clinic was only ten minutes from home.
Artyom came back from work late in the evening. He saw his wife on the couch with her bandaged leg propped on a pillow and frowned.
“What happened?”
“I fell at work. Hurt my knee. The doctor said it’s the ligaments. I’m not allowed to put strain on it.”
“For how long?”
“Two to three weeks.”
Her husband whistled.
“Wow. Nice timing.”
“Artyom, I didn’t do it on purpose,” Svetlana tried to get up, but the pain came back with renewed force.
“Just sit. Is there going to be dinner?”
“I didn’t have time. I just got back from work.”
Artyom pressed his lips together and went into the kitchen. A few minutes later he returned with a sandwich and tea.
“Here, eat. I made one for myself too.”
For the first few days he helped, reluctantly but he did: he brought breakfast in the morning, reheated dinner in the evening. But by the third day he started grumbling:
“How long are you going to lie on the couch? Your leg isn’t broken.”
“Artyom, the doctor forbade нагрузка—putting strain on it. Ligaments are serious.”
“Oh, come on. You did this to yourself. Bet you fell on purpose just to sit out on sick leave.”
Svetlana didn’t reply. Arguing with her husband was pointless. Artyom always found a reason to be dissatisfied. She worked too much or too little. The house was messy—or too clean and sterile. She had long since learned to tune out his remarks.
On the fifth day her mother-in-law, Nina Pavlovna, called. Her voice sounded plaintive:
“Svetochka, how are you? Artyom said your leg hurts.”
“Yes, Nina Pavlovna. I injured my ligaments. I’m being treated at home.”
“Poor thing… And is Artyomushka helping you?”
“He’s helping, of course.”
“Oh, I miss him so much,” her mother-in-law sighed. “He hardly calls now. You must be keeping him busy, since you’re sick.”
Svetlana said nothing. Nina Pavlovna continued:
“Maybe I should come over? I’ll help with something. I’ll cook borscht, bake some pies. Artyomushka really loves my pies.”
“Nina Pavlovna, no need to worry. I’ll manage.”
“What are you saying! I’m his mother. I have to help. Maybe I’ll come this weekend?”
“Let’s do it later—when I’m better.”
“All right, dear. But if anything—call. I’m always ready.”
Svetlana hung up and closed her eyes. A visit from her mother-in-law was always a trial. Nina Pavlovna loved to control, give advice, criticize. Every time she came, Artyom became irritable and nitpicky afterward.
Two days later her mother-in-law called again. This time her voice was more decisive:
“Svetlana, I’m coming after all. Artyom says you’ve been eating who-knows-what. My son needs proper food.”
“Nina Pavlovna, I’m cooking. I just can’t stand at the stove for long.”
“That’s exactly why I’ll help. I’ll come on Saturday. Tell Artyomushka.”
Svetlana tried to object, but her mother-in-law had already said goodbye and hung up. Svetlana looked at her bandaged leg. Her knee still hurt. The doctor had warned that strain could lead to complications. But how could she explain that to Nina Pavlovna?
That evening Svetlana told her husband about the call.
“Artyom, your mom wants to come on Saturday. But I won’t be able to cook—my leg still hurts.”
“So what? Let her come.”
“But she expects the table to be set. And I physically can’t stand for long.”
“So your mother is a problem now?” Artyom turned to his wife. “Are you serious?”
“That’s not what I meant. Just ask her to postpone the visit.”
“No. Mom’s coming. And you’ll make at least something. It’s not that hard.”
Svetlana pressed her lips together. Pointless. Artyom always took his mother’s side.
On Thursday evening Nina Pavlovna called Artyom. Svetlana only heard half the conversation, but it was enough:
“Yes, Mom, I’m waiting. Of course, come. Sveta will cook. Don’t worry.”
After the call, her husband came into the room.
“Mom’s coming tomorrow. By lunchtime. Make something decent.”
“Artyom, I told you—”
“Stop whining! I get it, your leg hurts. But you can stand at the stove for half an hour.”
Svetlana turned to the window. Outside, a drizzle was falling. The sky was covered with gray clouds.
On Friday morning she tried to get up and walk around the apartment. Her leg still ached, but a little less. Svetlana slowly made it to the kitchen, leaning on the wall. She sat down on a chair and checked the fridge. Not much food: eggs, cheese, bread, a few vegetables. Artyom hadn’t bothered to go to the store.
She took out the eggs and decided to boil them. Then she sliced bread, cheese, and tomatoes. She only had enough strength for the simplest things. Borscht or a roast was beyond what she could manage. Her leg throbbed; every movement was hard.
By evening there were boiled eggs on the table, sliced cheese with bread, and a cucumber-and-tomato salad. Svetlana brewed tea and returned to the couch. She was completely spent.
Artyom came home from work at eight. He went into the kitchen and looked at the table. His face darkened.
“What is this?”
“I cooked what I could,” Svetlana answered wearily.
“Eggs? Bread? Are you serious?”
“Artyom, I can’t do more. My leg hurts. I could barely stand.”
“I don’t give a damn about your bad leg!” her husband barked. “My mom is coming tomorrow, and you set the table like a beggar! What is she supposed to think?!”
Svetlana sat on the couch. Her knee ached again.
“I did everything I could.”
“Not enough!” Artyom stepped closer. “Tomorrow morning you’ll go to the store and buy everything properly. Meat, potatoes, vegetables. And you’ll cook lunch. Like you’re supposed to.”
“Artyom, I won’t be able to…”
“Set the table, or we’re getting divorced!” he threw over his shoulder and left the room, slamming the door.
Svetlana remained sitting on the couch. Everything inside her went cold. Divorce. Not a new threat, but each time it cut her to the bone. She knew Artyom wasn’t joking. For him, his mother had always mattered more. Every time he had to choose between his wife and his mother, the choice fell on Nina Pavlovna.
That night Svetlana barely slept. Her leg hurt, and thoughts spun in her head. Tomorrow her mother-in-law would arrive. She expected a set table, fresh borscht, pies. And Svetlana could barely stand on her feet. How was she supposed to cook? How was she supposed to carry heavy shopping bags from the store?…
In the morning, she got up early. Her leg was even more swollen—yesterday’s strain hadn’t gone unnoticed. Svetlana rewrapped her knee, pulled on sweatpants, and dressed slowly. Artyom was asleep, with no intention of helping.
She took her bag and left the apartment. The store was two blocks away. Normally she would get there in five minutes. Now it took twenty. Every step sent pain shooting through her; her leg kept giving way.
At the store, Svetlana loaded up on groceries: chicken, potatoes, carrots, onions, sour cream. She grabbed flour and yeast too—maybe she could manage dough for pies. The bags came out heavy. She tried to carry both, but after a few steps she realized she wouldn’t make it. She had to call a taxi.
At home, Svetlana unloaded the groceries onto the table and sat down on a chair. Her leg burned like fire. Her knee had swollen so much the bandage was digging into her skin. She took it off and looked at the joint. A bruise was spreading; the skin was stretched tight. She needed to apply ice, but there was no time.
Artyom came out of the bedroom at ten.
“So, did you buy everything?”
“Yes.”
“Good. When will lunch be ready?”
“I’ll try by one.”
“Try hard. Mom will be here at two.”
He washed up, got dressed, and left. He said he’d meet his mother at the bus station.
Svetlana was alone. She took out the chicken and started cutting it up. Her hands trembled with exhaustion. Then she peeled the vegetables and set the broth to boil. She sat on a chair with her injured leg stretched out. She stood at the stove for five minutes—then sat down again. Her strength was draining away.
She didn’t make the dough for pies. She didn’t have it in her. Svetlana decided to make do with store-bought bread. She cooked borscht and fried potatoes with chicken. By two o’clock, three dishes and tea were on the table.
She returned to the couch. Her leg throbbed; the pain had become unbearable. Svetlana closed her eyes, trying to breathe evenly.
At two o’clock the door opened. Artyom and Nina Pavlovna came in. Her mother-in-law carried a large bag with packages of treats sticking out.
“Svetochka!” Nina Pavlovna exclaimed. “How are you? Artyomushka said you’re doing terribly.”
“Hello, Nina Pavlovna. I’m fine, thank you.”
“Well, that’s good. I brought homemade cookies and jam. Artyom loves my jam.”
Her mother-in-law went into the kitchen. Artyom took off his jacket and hung it up. Nina Pavlovna looked over the table; a faint disappointment crossed her face.
“Svetlana, where are the pies? I thought you’d bake some.”
“Nina Pavlovna, I couldn’t. My leg hurts—I could barely stand.”
“Oh, right, the leg… Well, never mind. Next time. Sit down, let’s have lunch.”
Artyom poured himself a bowl of borscht, tasted it, and grimaced.
“Not enough salt.”
Svetlana said nothing. Nina Pavlovna tasted it too.
“Yes, Artyomushka is right. But it’s fine—tolerable. You tried, Svetochka.”
Lunch passed in tense silence. Her mother-in-law talked about the neighbors, the news in the village, the weather. Artyom listened, nodded, sometimes added a comment. Svetlana sat quietly, trying not to show how much it hurt.
After lunch, Nina Pavlovna looked around the apartment.
“Svetlana, why is it dusty in here? Those shelves haven’t been wiped in ages.”
“Nina Pavlovna, I’m on sick leave. I can’t clean.”
“Well, you still have to do something. Artyom shouldn’t be living in dust.”
She took a rag and started wiping the shelves herself. Svetlana sat on the couch, feeling exhaustion and irritation rising inside her.
That evening, when her mother-in-law finally left, Artyom said:
“See? Mom tried. Helped with the cleaning. And you just sit there.”
Svetlana didn’t answer. She closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep. Her leg hurt so badly she felt like screaming.
The next morning she could barely get out of bed. Her knee was even more swollen; the skin was tight and red. Svetlana grabbed her phone, called the clinic, and asked for Oleg Mikhailovich to call her back.
The traumatologist called an hour later.
“Sveta, what happened?”
“Oleg Mikhailovich, it’s worse. Yesterday I cooked and went to the store. Now my knee is burning.”
“I told you—no нагрузка, no strain!” the doctor’s voice turned strict. “Come in tomorrow so I can examine it. If it doesn’t improve, I’ll admit you to the hospital. Ligaments are no joke.”
Svetlana hung up. Inpatient care. A hospital. And at home—her husband, who was already unhappy.
That evening Artyom came back from work gloomier than a storm cloud.
“Sveta, Mom called. She said she wants to come again next weekend. I hope you’ll be better by then.”
“Artyom, I’m seeing the doctor tomorrow. They might put me in the hospital.”
“What?! Why?!”
“My leg isn’t healing. I overloaded my knee.”
“Of course you did! Now you’re going to the hospital too! And who’s going to clean the house? Who’s going to cook?”
Svetlana looked at him. There wasn’t a drop of concern in Artyom’s eyes—only irritation.
“Artyom… do you even worry about me at all?”
“I do. But it’s your own fault. You should’ve been more careful.”
Svetlana turned toward the window. She didn’t want to talk anymore.
The next day Oleg Mikhailovich examined her knee and shook his head.
“Svetlana, you overloaded it. See—the swelling has increased, inflammation has started. You need injections and physiotherapy. I’m extending your sick leave for another two weeks. And I’m asking you—no strain at all.”
“Okay,” Svetlana answered quietly.
The doctor prescribed medication and procedures. Svetlana bought everything she needed at the pharmacy and returned home. Artyom met the news of the extended sick leave with obvious displeasure.
“Two weeks?! Sveta, that’s too much!”
“Artyom, the doctor said if I don’t treat it properly now, there’ll be complications.”
“Oh, come on. Doctors always play it safe. Get up and walk. That’ll make it heal faster.”
Svetlana said nothing. Explaining was pointless.
Three days later Nina Pavlovna called again.
“Artyomushka, I’m coming on Sunday. I already bought a ticket. Tell Sveta to cook.”
That evening Artyom passed the information to his wife.
“Mom’s coming on Sunday. Can you cook?”
Svetlana looked at him for a long moment.
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“I can’t stand at the stove. The doctor forbade me to put strain on my leg. Ask your mom to postpone the visit.”
“No. Mom already bought the ticket. That means you’ll cook.”
“Artyom, I physically can’t.”
“Sveta, enough!” her husband raised his voice. “Mom is coming, and I don’t want her to see an empty table! Set the table properly!”
Svetlana slowly stood up from the couch. She leaned on the crutch she’d picked up at the clinic the day before. Her leg still hurt, but now Svetlana didn’t care. Something inside her had changed—like the lights had been switched off, leaving only cold emptiness.
“Fine, Artyom. I’ll set the table.”
Her husband nodded with satisfaction and went off to watch TV.
On Sunday morning, Svetlana got up early. She slowly made her way to the kitchen, leaning on her crutch. She opened the refrigerator. Took out an empty plate. And placed it in the middle of the table.
Artyom came out of the bedroom at ten. He saw the plate and froze.
“What’s this?”
“The table is set,” Svetlana replied calmly.
“Are you messing with me?!”
“No. You told me to set the table. There you go—the table is set. Serve the food yourself if you actually care.”
Artyom’s face turned red.
“Sveta! My mother will be here any minute! What will she think?!”
“I don’t know. Ask her.”
“Have you lost it?!” he stepped toward her.
Svetlana turned around and slowly walked into the room. Artyom shouted something after her, but she didn’t look back. She closed the door, lay down on the bed, and propped her injured leg up on a pillow.
Two hours later, the doorbell rang. Nina Pavlovna walked in with a wide smile, but it slid off her face the moment she saw the empty table.
“Artyomushka, where’s lunch?”
“Mom… I’m sorry. Sveta refused to cook.”
“Refused?!” Nina Pavlovna marched into the room where Svetlana was lying down. “Sveta! What kind of disgrace is this?!”
Svetlana looked at her calmly.
“Nina Pavlovna, the doctor forbade me to put any strain on my leg. I can’t cook.”
“Well you should have come up with something! At least sandwiches!”
“Artyom is a grown man. He can come up with something himself.”
Nina Pavlovna spun around and left. Svetlana could hear her mother-in-law speaking indignantly to her son in the kitchen.
“Artyom! She’s gotten completely out of hand! You need to put her in her place!”
“Mom, I tried. She won’t listen.”
“This can’t go on! You’re the man! The head of the family!”
Artyom came back into the room. His face was twisted with rage.
“Sveta, I can’t live like this! You don’t respect me! You don’t respect my mother! That’s it! Enough!”
“Okay,” Svetlana said evenly.
“What do you mean, okay?!”
“If you can’t live like this—then don’t.”
Artyom froze. He hadn’t expected that answer. Nina Pavlovna stood in the doorway, eyes wide.
“Sveta! Do you understand what you’re saying?!”
“I do, Nina Pavlovna. I understand perfectly.”
Artyom turned, went to the entryway, and started packing his things. Nina Pavlovna fussed beside him, whispering something. Twenty minutes later, he came out with a bag.
“I’m leaving. Going to my mother’s. Maybe someone there will actually appreciate me.”
“Have a safe trip,” Svetlana said, not getting up from the bed.
Artyom slammed the door. Nina Pavlovna ran after her son without saying goodbye.
Silence. Svetlana lay there, staring at the ceiling. Inside was emptiness—but not the kind that hurts. The kind that sets you free.
She picked up her phone and called a lawyer she knew through work. She booked a consultation for Wednesday. Her leg still hurt, but it was bearable.
On Wednesday, Svetlana met with the lawyer. She told her everything. She showed medical records, the traumatologist’s report, the sick-leave certificate. The lawyer listened and nodded.
“File for divorce. Grounds: the marriage cannot continue. Attach your medical documents—they’ll confirm your husband didn’t provide help during a difficult situation.”
“Can he refuse to come to court?”
“He can. But the court will dissolve the marriage even without him present. It’s a standard procedure.”
Svetlana prepared all the paperwork. A week later, the claim was submitted to court. Two weeks after that, the summons reached Artyom. He called that evening.
“Sveta, what are you doing?! Divorce?!”
“Yes, Artyom. Divorce.”
“But I didn’t mean it seriously! I was just angry!”
“And I do mean it seriously. You said you couldn’t live like this. I helped you solve the problem.”
“Sveta, let’s talk like normal people. I’ll come home—we’ll discuss everything.”
“No. The lawyer filed everything. I’ll see you in court.”
“Sveta!”
She ended the call. Artyom called several more times, but Svetlana didn’t answer.
Nina Pavlovna tried too. She left voice messages:
“Svetochka, what are you doing! Artyom is sorry! He’s a good boy—he’s just tired!”
Svetlana deleted the messages without listening to the end.
The court hearing was scheduled for early December. Artyom came with his mother. Nina Pavlovna sat beside him, holding her son’s hand. Svetlana came alone, on a crutch. Her leg hadn’t fully healed yet, but it no longer hurt as badly.
The judge heard both sides. Artyom tried to explain that he had simply been stressed, that he didn’t want a divorce. Svetlana calmly described her injury and how her husband had refused to help, demanded she cook despite the doctor’s ban. She presented her medical records.
The judge reviewed the documents and asked a few questions. Then she announced the decision: the marriage was dissolved. There was no jointly acquired property; the parties had no claims against each other.
Artyom left the courtroom pale. Nina Pavlovna was crying, hugging her son. Svetlana walked past them without looking their way.
Outside, she stopped and breathed in the cold December air.
Freedom. At last.
A month later, Svetlana returned to work. Her leg had healed; the doctor allowed full нагрузка again. Her colleagues welcomed her warmly, asking about her health and how she was doing. Irina quietly asked:
“Sveta… and your husband? Did he help?”
“We got divorced,” Svetlana said briefly.
“Oh… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine. It’s better this way.”
Irina nodded and didn’t ask any more questions.
Svetlana returned to her normal life—work, home, occasional meetups with friends. The apartment became quieter, calmer. No one demanded she set the table, cook borscht, or greet her mother-in-law with open arms.
Artyom tried to reach out a couple more times. He texted, asked to meet, to talk. Svetlana didn’t respond. The past stayed in the past. She had no desire to go back.
One spring day, when leaves were already unfolding on the trees outside, Svetlana ran into Artyom at the store. Her ex-husband was pushing a cart full of groceries. He looked tired, older.
“Hi, Sveta,” Artyom greeted her uncertainly.
“Hello.”
“How’s your leg?”
“Healed. Thanks.”
Artyom hesitated, as if he wanted to say something, but fell silent. Svetlana nodded and walked past. She didn’t look back.
At home, she brewed tea and sat by the window. She remembered that autumn—her injured leg, the empty plate on the table. The moment she decided to put an end to it. She didn’t regret it once.
Life settled. At work, Svetlana met a man—a general practitioner named Mikhail. Calm, attentive, someone who knew how to listen. Their relationship developed slowly, without rushing. Mikhail didn’t demand the impossible, didn’t issue ultimatums, didn’t threaten divorce.
When Svetlana told him about her ex-husband, Mikhail simply hugged her and said:
“I’m glad you left. People like that don’t change.”
“I know.”
“And I’m glad you’re here now. With me.”
Svetlana smiled. For the first time in a long while, it was a genuine smile.
Artyom stayed living with his mother. Nina Pavlovna controlled his every step—cooking, cleaning, criticizing. He tried dating, but nothing worked out. His mother always found faults in every new woman.
And Svetlana lived her own life. Without crutches, without pain, without threats—with someone who valued and respected her. And it was the best decision she had ever made.
That empty plate on the table became a symbol. A symbol of the moment you have to draw a line. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s scary. Because living in constant stress and humiliation isn’t life—it’s mere existence.
And Svetlana chose life.
