It was Friday, half past seven in the evening, and Alexandra had been standing at the stove for the third hour in a row.
First, the soup—Galina Artyomovna wanted borscht because Yegor liked borscht, and Yegor was nine years old, and for some reason his opinion in this apartment had become more important than the opinions of the adults. Then came the cutlets—Lyubov wouldn’t eat borscht made with beef, only pork, and apparently cutlets were absolutely necessary with borscht. Then it turned out they had run out of bread, so Alexandra hurried down to the shop on the ground floor and came back with a loaf, which Galina Artyomovna immediately put into the breadbox without saying thank you.
Yevgeny was lying in the room that he and Alexandra shared with Yegor three nights a week, when Yegor stayed with his father. On the other days, Alexandra and her husband slept on the sofa bed in the living room because the bedrooms were occupied—Galina Artyomovna had one, and Lyubov and Yegor had the other.
The living room was shared.
Everything was shared.
“Sasha, is the borscht ready?” Lyubov shouted from the hallway.
“Almost,” Alexandra answered.
“Does the bread still need slicing?”
“Please slice it yourself.”
There was a pause.
Then the sound of the television came from the room.
Alexandra looked at the knife lying beside the loaf and took a deep breath.
They had moved there four months earlier, at the beginning of November, when Yevgeny had already been unemployed for two months and paying rent on their apartment was becoming increasingly difficult. Alexandra worked in the accounting department of a small construction company and earned fifty-eight thousand rubles a month. And when one of two salaries suddenly disappears, an ordinary life can very quickly become strained.
“Temporarily,” Yevgeny had said at the time. “Until I find something. Mom’s been offering for ages. She has three rooms. There’s enough space.”
“Enough space refers to square footage,” Alexandra had said carefully. “What about everything else?”
“Mom’s fine. And Lyubka’s all right too. You’ll get along.”
Alexandra wasn’t convinced, but they were running out of money, so she agreed.
Galina Artyomovna welcomed them normally. She set the table, served pies, and showed Alexandra where everything was kept. Lyubov smiled, and Yegor ran off to show them his Lego.
For the first few days, everything seemed bearable.
Then it started.
Not suddenly, not from one particular incident. Gradually, like water that first drips, then flows, and then becomes impossible to stop.
During the second week, Galina Artyomovna casually said, “Sasha, could you make dinner today? My back hurts.”
Alexandra made dinner.
During the third week, it became, “Sasha, could you wash Lyuba’s things together with yours? She hasn’t had time to get to them.”
Alexandra did the laundry.
By the end of the month, the list had somehow expanded by itself to include cleaning the entire apartment, scrubbing the shared bathroom, grocery shopping, and cooking three meals a day for five people, because Yegor ate lunch at one, Lyubov had her break at half past one, and Galina Artyomovna didn’t eat after six.
Yevgeny watched all of this from the sofa.
Not maliciously.
He simply did nothing.
He watched the news, scrolled through his phone, occasionally went to job interviews, and came home looking like a man who had once again been unlucky.
“Yevgeny,” Alexandra would say in the evening, “you could at least wash the dishes.”
“I’m tired today.”
“Tired from what?”
“Well… it was a hard day.”
Alexandra wouldn’t continue.
Trying to explain that a job interview took an hour and that afterward he was perfectly capable of washing dishes seemed pointless. Yevgeny didn’t hear arguments like that. He didn’t exactly reject them. It was as though they simply never reached him.
One evening, Alexandra came into the kitchen after work and found the sink full of dishes.
They were from lunch, which meant they had been sitting there for about six hours.
There were bread crumbs scattered across the table, and beside them stood Lyubov’s glass with dried juice stuck to the inside.
“Galina Artyomovna,” Alexandra said, appearing in the doorway of her mother-in-law’s room, “who had lunch today?”
“Everyone,” Galina Artyomovna replied without looking away from the television. “Why?”
“The dishes haven’t been washed.”
“Well, wash them. You’re going to be in the kitchen anyway.”
Alexandra went back to the kitchen.
She stood in front of the sink for a second.
Then she picked up the sponge and started washing.
She knew it was wrong.
She knew she should have gone back and said something different.
But she didn’t.
Because she was afraid of causing a scandal.
Because they were living there for free.
Because afterward Yevgeny would say that she didn’t know how to get along with his family.
That feeling—that anything she said would somehow be turned against her—stayed with Alexandra constantly.
She was an outsider there, and she could feel it in the smallest things: the way Galina Artyomovna moved Alexandra’s food to the bottom shelf of the refrigerator; the way Lyubov occupied the bathroom in the morning at exactly the time Alexandra needed to leave for work; the way Yegor complained to his grandmother about everything, and his grandmother always took his side, even when he was simply making noise at eleven at night while Alexandra was trying to sleep on the sofa bed in the living room.
In December, Alexandra got sick.
Just an ordinary cold. A temperature of thirty-eight degrees Celsius and a sore throat.
She took sick leave, stayed in bed, and drank tea.
Around lunchtime, Galina Artyomovna looked into the room.
“Sasha, are you going to cook today?”
“Galina Artyomovna, I have a fever.”
“I understand. It’s just that Yegor will be home from school at one, and he needs to be fed.”
Alexandra pushed herself up on one elbow.
“Is Lyuba home?”
“She is. But she’s working.”
“I usually work too. Today I’m sick.”
“Well, just heat up some soup. It won’t take long.”
Alexandra got out of bed.
She heated the soup.
Then she went back to bed and spent nearly an hour staring at the ceiling.
She didn’t cry.
She simply lay there thinking that this was the day she finally understood exactly what kind of situation she had gotten herself into.
Yevgeny found a job in February.
He announced it over dinner, animated and even proud.
Galina Artyomovna was delighted. Lyubov said, “Well done.” Yegor asked for ice cream to celebrate.
Alexandra said, “That’s good,” and started clearing the plates.
That evening, when she and Yevgeny were alone, she said:
“Can we start looking for an apartment now?”
“Well, not immediately,” Yevgeny replied. “I’m only just starting. I won’t get paid for another month. We’ll stay a little longer.”
“How much longer?”
“A couple of months. Then we’ll save some money and move out.”
Alexandra nodded.
Two months was manageable.
After all, she had already endured four.
March passed.
Then April.
In May, Alexandra asked about the apartment again.
“Listen,” Yevgeny said, scratching his temple, “it’s kind of awkward to move out right now. Mom’s gotten used to having us here. We help her around the house…”
“We?” Alexandra said. “You mean me.”
“Well, you know what I mean. Let’s stay a little longer.”
Alexandra didn’t ask again.
She simply went into the kitchen to wash the dishes after dinner.
By June, she had developed a reflex: she came home from work and immediately put on an apron.
It had happened by itself.
At first it was a habit, and then she stopped even noticing it.
Sometimes she caught herself mentally planning the next day’s menu while riding the bus to the office.
Need to buy potatoes. Yegor didn’t eat any yesterday.
Then she would think:
Why am I thinking about Yegor on the bus?
By then, Lyubov had stopped even pretending that she intended to wash her own plate.
She simply left it on the table and walked away.
Not maliciously.
Just naturally.
As though there were some agreement everyone knew about except Alexandra.
One Sunday morning, Alexandra came into the kitchen and found the sink full of dishes from the previous evening.
Galina Artyomovna had invited a friend over. They had drunk tea and talked.
On the table nearby stood another cup and a fork with dried cake stuck to it.
Alexandra picked up the sponge.
Then she stopped.
She put the sponge back.
She left the kitchen, walked into the living room, and opened her laptop.
She went to a rental-property website and started browsing apartments.
Yevgeny came out half an hour later, yawning.
“Sasha, are we having breakfast?”
“Make it yourself.”
Her husband stopped.
“What?”
“I said make it yourself. The bread’s in the breadbox, the eggs are in the fridge. You’ll manage.”
Yevgeny looked at his wife.
Then at the closed laptop.
Then back at his wife.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” Alexandra said. “I’m just tired.”
“Tired of what? It’s morning.”
That was when she lifted her head from the laptop and looked at her husband.
She looked at him properly.
In a way that made him realize something was about to happen.
“Yevgeny,” Alexandra said, “sit down.”
Her husband sat on the edge of the sofa cautiously, the way people sit when they don’t know what is about to happen but have the feeling it would be better if it didn’t.
“I’m listening,” Yevgeny said.
“We’ve been living here for nine months. During that time, I’ve cooked every day. For five people. I’ve cleaned the whole apartment. Done the laundry, including Lyubov’s and Yegor’s clothes. Gone grocery shopping. Washed everyone’s dishes. Can you explain to me exactly when we agreed that I would be responsible for all of that?”
“Sasha, but you did it yourself…”
“Not by myself. Galina Artyomovna asked me, and I did it. Then she asked again, and I did it again. Then she stopped asking and started simply telling me: do this, do that. And I did it. Because it felt awkward to refuse. Because we live here for free. Because every time, you asked me not to create conflict.”
“What’s so bad about it?” Yevgeny spread his hands. “Mom’s elderly, Lyubka works…”
“I work too,” Alexandra interrupted. “I get up at seven, commute an hour to work, come home at seven in the evening, and then start cooking dinner. For everyone. And while you were looking for work, you sat at home and didn’t wash the sink even once.”
“Well, I…”
“Yevgeny, I don’t want to hear explanations. I want you to understand something: this is not going to continue. We’re moving out. I’m already looking at places.”
Her husband was silent.
“You’re serious?”
“Completely.”
“But we’ve only just started saving. Another couple of months…”
“You’ve been saying ‘another couple of months’ since February.”
The conversation went nowhere.
Yevgeny got up, went to get some bread, made himself a sandwich, and returned to the television.
Alexandra closed her laptop and went into the kitchen.
She left the dishes in the sink untouched.
It was a small gesture, one nobody else would notice, but it meant something to her.
The next two weeks passed much as before.
Alexandra continued cooking because she couldn’t simply stop eating, and in a shared kitchen it was physically awkward to cook only for herself.
But she stopped washing Lyubov’s dishes.
She stopped scrubbing the floors in the shared rooms.
She bought groceries only for herself and Yevgeny.
At first, Galina Artyomovna said nothing.
She watched.
Then one day she asked:
“Sasha, aren’t you going to cook today?”
“No, Galina Artyomovna,” Alexandra replied. “I can’t today.”
“Why?”
“I’m tired.”
Her mother-in-law pursed her lips and went into the kitchen herself.
Half an hour later, Yevgeny came out and quietly asked:
“Why did you treat Mom like that?”
“I answered her question honestly,” Alexandra said.
“She’s offended.”
“Let her be.”
At the end of October, Galina Artyomovna announced that guests were coming for the November holidays.
A friend, her sister, somebody else—Alexandra stopped listening to the list.
She heard the important part when Yevgeny repeated it to her that evening.
“Mom wants the apartment to be clean. She says everything needs washing—the rooms, the kitchen, the bathroom, the hallway.”
Alexandra looked at her husband.
“And?”
“Well, basically…” Yevgeny didn’t finish the sentence, but his meaning was clear.
“Yevgeny, are you seriously suggesting that I clean an entire three-room apartment by myself before your mother’s guests arrive?”
“Well, she’s asking.”
“And what is Lyubov doing meanwhile?”
“Lyuba’s busy. She has Yegor…”
Something clicked inside Alexandra.
Not loudly.
Quietly, almost inaudibly, like the click of a lock when the key turns all the way.
“No,” Alexandra said.
“No what?”
“No. I’m not cleaning the apartment before your mother’s guests arrive.”
“Sasha…”
“No, Yevgeny.”
Her husband sighed, stood up, and walked toward the door.
Then he turned back.
“She’ll be upset.”
“I’ve been upset for eight months. Nobody seemed concerned about that.”
The next morning, Galina Artyomovna came to Alexandra herself.
She entered the living room, where Alexandra was reading, and stood by the doorframe.
“Alexandra, Zhenya told me that you’re refusing to help with the cleaning.”
“Yes,” Alexandra said without looking up from her book.
“Do you understand that we have welcomed you into our home?”
“I understand.”
“And you can’t even help before the holidays?”
“Galina Artyomovna, I’ve been helping for nine months. Every day. Without days off. Nobody noticed. Now I’ve refused once, and you’ve come to have a conversation with me.”
Her mother-in-law straightened.
“You live here for free.”
“I cooked here for free. I cleaned for free. I did laundry for free. I think I paid my debt a long time ago.”
“This is our apartment!”
“I remember.”
Lyubov came out of the hallway. She had heard the voices and came to see what was happening.
“What happened?”
“Alexandra refuses to help with the cleaning,” Galina Artyomovna said.
“Seriously?” Lyubov crossed her arms. “We feed her, give her a place to live…”
“You don’t feed me,” Alexandra said evenly. “I buy my own groceries. For the last three months, I’ve bought only for myself and Yevgeny. Before that, I bought food for everyone.”
“So what? We still let you live here!”
“Lyubov,” Alexandra closed her book and looked at her sister-in-law, “when was the last time you washed dishes?”
“What?”
“Your own dishes. After yourself. When was the last time?”
Lyubov opened her mouth and then closed it.
“Exactly,” Alexandra said. “I washed them for you. For six months.”
“Enough!” Yevgeny appeared in the doorway. “What’s all this arguing about?”
“Ask your wife,” Galina Artyomovna said. “She refuses to help and she’s being rude.”
“I’m not being rude,” Alexandra objected. “I’m answering questions.”
“Sasha,” Yevgeny approached her and lowered his voice, “why are you making such a scene? Mom’s asking for one thing. One thing. And you’re turning it into…”
“Yevgeny,” Alexandra interrupted, “this isn’t one thing. It’s nine months of things. And not once—not you, not your mother, not Lyubov—has anyone said thank you to me. Not once has anyone offered to help. Not once has anyone asked whether I was tired. But now, when I say no once, all of you come here to lecture me about someone else’s apartment and about how ungrateful I am.”
“You are ungrateful!” Galina Artyomovna raised her voice. “We accepted you into our family!”
“Am I your servant here?!” Alexandra’s voice broke.
For the first time in all those months.
For the first time after nine months of calm silence.
And she didn’t even try to control it.
“Cooking, washing, cleaning—after all of you, every single one of you?! Is that normal to you?!”
“You are a guest in our home!”
“I am your son’s wife! And for eight months I’ve worked here like an unpaid housekeeper that nobody pays and nobody thanks!”
“Sasha, calm down,” Yevgeny said, stepping toward his wife again.
“Don’t touch me,” Alexandra said. “And don’t tell me to calm down. I am calm. I don’t need to calm down anymore.”
She stood up, went into the room, pulled a suitcase out from under the bed, and opened the wardrobe.
“What are you doing?” Yevgeny appeared in the doorway.
“Packing.”
“Sasha, come on, wait…”
“No.”
“Because of the cleaning?!”
“Because of nine months,” Alexandra said, taking a stack of T-shirts from the shelf. “Because of the day I was sick and your mother came in to ask me to heat soup. Because of Lyubov’s dishes that I washed for six months. Because you saw everything all this time and said nothing. And because just now, when I finally said no, you didn’t stand beside me. You stood beside them.”
Yevgeny didn’t answer.
That was his right—not to answer.
But his silence was an answer.
Galina Artyomovna was shouting something from the hallway about destroying the family, about selfishness, about how wives like Alexandra didn’t exist.
Lyubov occasionally joined in, less loudly but still contributing.
Yevgeny stood in the bedroom doorway and looked at his wife like a man who couldn’t understand what was happening—even though, if he was honest with himself, he understood perfectly well.
Alexandra finished packing the suitcase.
She took the bag containing her documents.
She put on her jacket.
“You can’t just leave like this,” Yevgeny said.
“I already am.”
“Where are you going?”
“To a friend’s. Then I’ll find an apartment.”
“Wait until tomorrow, at least.”
“No, Yevgeny.”
She went into the hallway and put on her boots under the stares of Yevgeny’s entire family.
Galina Artyomovna fell silent.
Not because she had calmed down, but because she finally understood.
This wasn’t a performance.
Alexandra really was leaving.
The door closed behind her.
On the stairwell, Alexandra stopped and leaned her back against the wall.
She waited until her breathing settled.
Then she took out her phone and wrote to her friend:
“Can I stay with you tonight?”
Her friend replied a minute later:
“Of course. Come over.”
Alexandra found a place three days later.
It was small, but it was hers alone, with a separate kitchen and a window facing the courtyard.
She paid the first month’s rent and the deposit and moved her things in.
She put the kettle on.
Poured in some water.
Nobody asked her to make dinner for four people while she was at it.
Yevgeny messaged several times.
First, asking her to come back.
Then offering explanations.
Then came the accusations.
Alexandra read the messages and didn’t respond.
Not because she was angry.
She simply had nothing left to say.
Everything had already been said there in the hallway while she was putting on her boots.
In December, she filed for divorce.
Yevgeny came to sign the papers looking rumpled and tired, with his mother, who stayed downstairs waiting for him.
He signed.
Then walked away without looking back.
After the court hearing, Alexandra went into a café nearby, ordered coffee and a croissant, and sat by the window.
She watched the street.
Someone was walking past carrying a Christmas tree—a small one, apparently bought in a hurry, sticking awkwardly out from under one arm.
Across the street, a string of holiday lights was already hanging in a shop window.
An ordinary December.
An ordinary city.
At home—that was what she had begun calling her little place a long time ago—Alexandra washed her cup.
One cup.
She placed it on the drying rack.
Then she wiped the table.
That was all.
Cleaning up after yourself wasn’t difficult.
It turned out it wasn’t difficult at all.
