Vera dropped her bag on the hallway floor and froze when a disgruntled voice called out from the other room:
«Finally! We’ve been waiting since lunch!»
Anatoly Ivanovich’s tone made it sound like she was late on purpose. Vera glanced at the clock—half past nine. Her meeting had dragged on until seven, then she spent half an hour stuck in traffic on Kutuzovsky and made a quick stop at Pyaterochka. Her feet were throbbing, and a dull ache pulsed in her head.
She walked into the kitchen and stopped. A pile of dirty dishes overflowed in the sink. Her good pot sat on the stove, coated in some dried, orange mess. Apple cores, empty snack wrappers, and tea stains were scattered all over the table. The air stank of fried food and something sour.
“Anatoly Ivanovich, I had a crazy day at work today,” Vera sighed, setting her bag of groceries on the edge of the table.
“So what?” grumbled Galina Petrovna, her mother-in-law, appearing in the doorway with a displeased look. “You could have let us know you wouldn’t be home on time.”
Masha, Igor’s twelve-year-old niece, was sprawled out on the sofa in front of the TV. She stared at the screen, shoving chips into her mouth and dropping crumbs all over the upholstery.
Vera closed her eyes and stood still for a few seconds, trying to calm herself.
***
She met Igor five years ago at the gym. He forgot his water bottle, so she shared hers. He was cheerful, easy to talk to, always making plans. He’d come from a remote village near Irkutsk, where his parents ran a small grocery kiosk. He was the first in his family to be accepted to a university in Moscow.
They got married quickly—just a year later. The wedding was a simple celebration in a café on the outskirts, about thirty people, no frills. Igor’s parents didn’t come. He explained it was because they couldn’t afford the tickets, and taking vacation in the middle of summer was impossible. Two days later, they called briefly to congratulate them.
“They just don’t know how to express their feelings,” Igor said. “Don’t take it too personally.”
Vera didn’t take it personally. She understood that every family is different, and she was ready to work on building their relationship.
Her parents gave them an apartment as a gift. They announced it a week before the wedding. Her father, Valery Sergeevich, was a man of few words, but when he spoke, he meant it.
“Your mother and I bought you an apartment,” he told her at dinner. “One bedroom, thirty-five square meters, in Yuzhnoye Butovo. It’s in Vera’s name. All the paperwork will be ready before the wedding. It’s not fancy, but it’s yours. No more renting.”
Vera was speechless. Her mother looked at her with a smile. Vera rushed to hug them both, barely holding back tears. Igor thanked them, shook her father’s hand firmly, and kissed her mother on the cheek. He was completely sincere, filled with gratitude.
That night, Vera was absolutely happy.
The first year passed calmly. Work, weekends together, and the occasional phone call with Igor’s distant relatives.
Then, in August, Galina Petrovna called and announced:
“Your father and I have decided to come visit. We’ll stay about five days. We haven’t been to Moscow in ages, and we miss Igor. We’ll bring Masha too—she should see the capital.”
Vera was taken aback. The apartment was small, just one room. But turning down her husband’s parents would be awkward—they’d never visited before.
“Of course, you should come,” she said.
Igor hugged her:
“Thank you. They won’t stay long, I promise.”
She did her best to prepare. Bought new sheets, stocked up on groceries, baked a charlotte pie. Igor said his parents would arrive Saturday by lunchtime.
But when the door opened, there were three people on the threshold.
“This is Masha,” said Anatoly Ivanovich, nodding at the sullen girl in a stretched-out t-shirt. “My sister asked us to bring her—said she should see the world.”
Masha buried herself in her phone and didn’t even say hello.
Vera was momentarily confused, but quickly pulled herself together:
“Come in, come in! Hi Masha, I’m Vera.”
The girl mumbled something in reply.
In just a few hours, our tiny one-bedroom transformed into a crowded hostel. Anatoly Ivanovich immediately claimed the sofa and turned on the TV. Galina Petrovna wandered around the apartment, taking everything in and commenting:
«It’s a bit cramped here. But hey, at least it’s Moscow.»
Vera set the table, trying her best to ignore the remarks.
Lunch was tense. Galina Petrovna kept up with the criticism:
«It’s too salty. And the meat is dry. You probably don’t cook very often?»
«I work all day,» replied Vera as calmly as possible. «But I try my best.»
«Work is good, but don’t forget to feed your husband.»
Igor stayed silent.
That evening, Vera made up the sofa for the guests, while she and Igor slept on an air mattress. Masha settled onto a camp bed. Sleeping was stuffy and uncomfortable.
Vera lay there with her eyes open, thinking she just had to endure it. Only five days.
***
Five days turned into eight. Then ten. Every time Vera cautiously asked about their departure date, the answer was always the same:
«Tickets are expensive—we’re waiting for a discount.»
Igor always nodded and told Vera:
«Just hang in there a little longer. They don’t visit often.»
So she endured. Meanwhile, groceries disappeared from the fridge at lightning speed. Vera kept shopping, cooking, and washing dishes. She’d come home from work to find piles of dirty plates, an empty fridge, and unhappy faces.
«Why the long face?» Igor asked one day, catching her once again standing at the sink.
«I’m tired,» she said quietly. «Maybe you could ask your mom to help out?»
«She’s a guest. Don’t start.»
The TV was on 24/7. Anatoly Ivanovich watched everything possible at full volume. Vera couldn’t focus on work or just sit in peace and quiet.
Masha used her makeup and took clothes from the closet without asking. One day, Vera found her expensive blouse on the floor with a ketchup stain.
«Masha, that’s mine,» Vera said calmly. «You should’ve asked.»
«So what?» the girl didn’t even look up from her screen. «Are you mad about it or something?»
«I’m just asking you to respect other people’s boundaries.»
Masha snorted and left the room.
That night, Vera confided in Igor when they found themselves alone in the bathroom.
«She’s just a kid,» he brushed off. «She doesn’t understand.»
«She’s twelve! She should know better than to take things that aren’t hers.»
«Vera, don’t make a big deal out of it. You can wash the blouse.»
Another week passed. Galina Petrovna and Anatoly Ivanovich grew even more comfortable. Vera’s mother-in-law criticized everything she did: how she dusted, folded towels, or came home late from work.
«Back in the day, women managed it all—house, husband, job,» she said, sitting on the sofa with a sandwich. «And here you are, always complaining.»
But Vera wasn’t complaining. She just did everything that needed to be done, quietly. Still, the exhaustion piled up like snow before an avalanche.
For Igor’s birthday, Vera ordered a cake from a bakery, roasted duck with apples, and made three salads. Galina Petrovna perched on the sofa, offering her advice:
«You didn’t use enough onions. And don’t be shy with the salt.»
Anatoly Ivanovich gave his son a T-shirt. Masha gave nothing. Vera gifted wireless headphones—the ones Igor had dreamed about for ages. He hugged her, kissed her on the forehead, and instantly started setting them up, eyes glued to his phone.
***
By the end of the third week, Vera had stopped keeping count. She was just going through the motions—getting up, going to work, coming back home, cooking, doing dishes, collapsing into bed. By now, Galina Petrovna acted like she owned the place: telling everyone where things should be, moving stuff around, and complaining every single day about how exhausting her walks were.
On Sunday morning, she walked out of the shower wearing Vera’s bathrobe—she hadn’t even asked—and announced:
“Igor, since we’re in Moscow, we need to take advantage of it. I want to buy myself a couple of dresses. You’ll pay for them.”
Vera froze, a cup of coffee in her hands.
“We’re saving up for a holiday,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Where would we get extra money for shopping?”
Galina Petrovna slowly turned to her.
“What did you say?”
“I said we don’t have any extra money.”
“Extra?!” her mother-in-law’s voice shot up. “You, little city upstart, think you can tell me what I’m allowed to ask from my own son?!”
“Galina Petrovna, I’m not an upstart,” Vera stood up. “But I don’t understand why you think you can decide what happens to our money.”
“Because he’s my son! And this is his apartment!”
“This is our apartment,” Vera could feel her anger rising. “You’ve been living with us for three weeks. You’ve been eating the groceries I buy. I cook, I clean the dishes, I tidy up after you. And all the while, you criticize me every single day!”
Galina Petrovna jumped to her feet.
“How dare you talk to your elders like that?!”
“I’m just telling the truth!”
Anatoly Ivanovich put down his newspaper and stood up.
“Young lady, don’t forget yourself,” he said coldly. “This is our son’s apartment. We have the right to live here as long as we wish.”
Vera felt her hands grow cold.
“The apartment is registered under my name,” she said clearly. “My parents bought it for me before the wedding. You don’t have any share in it. And I’m done tolerating disrespect.”
A heavy silence filled the room.
Vera looked at Igor. He stood there, staring silently at the floor.
She grabbed her bag, put on her jacket, and walked out of the apartment.
***
Vera came back late at night. She’d walked all the way to the park, sat on a bench, stopped by a coffee shop, and simply wandered the streets. Her phone stayed silent. Igor hadn’t called.
When she opened the door, the apartment was empty and quiet. There was a note on the table, written in Galina Petrovna’s shaky handwriting:
“We left. Igor is with us. He’ll be thinking about the marriage. You should think too about your behavior.”
Vera slowly sank into a chair. She looked at the empty sofa, the turned off TV, the spotless—clean for the first time in three weeks—sink. Silence wrapped the apartment like a warm blanket.
She expected fear to kick in. She thought loneliness would follow. That she’d regret what she’d said.
But instead, she felt relief.
A deep, almost physical relief. Like finally taking off a heavy backpack she’d carried for so long, she’d forgotten what it was like to walk without it.
Vera stood up and walked around the apartment. She opened the window and let in the fresh air. She crumpled up the note and threw it away. Then she made some tea, sat by the window with her cup, and simply watched the city at night.
All this time, she’d been alone. Alone in spirit. Igor never defended her. He never saw how tired she was. He never noticed how his parents had turned her home into a nightmare, a place where she was always to blame.
She put up with people who never respected her, her work, or her boundaries. She cooked, cleaned, stayed silent—yet somehow, she was always the ‘bad’ one.
Vera looked down at her hands. They had finally stopped trembling.
She no longer wanted to live this way. No more feeling like a servant in her own apartment. No more husband who always took his parents’ side over hers.
The truth was clear to her at last. Sharp and calm.
She finished her tea and got into bed—in her bed, surrounded by silence—and for the first time in a month, fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.
***
Two weeks went by.
Vera settled back into her old routine. Work, yoga, meeting friends. Her apartment became her own space again—clean, quiet, truly hers. She made herself light dinners, watched shows, read books. Igor didn’t call. She didn’t text.
Then on Saturday morning, Anatoly Ivanovich called.
Vera tapped the green button to answer.
«Vera,» he said without so much as a greeting. «We’re coming back the day after tomorrow. Get everything ready, stock up. And this time, behave yourself.»
She was silent for a moment. Then replied calmly,
«There’s no need for you to come back.»
A pause.
«What?!»
«I said: don’t come. The apartment is mine. And I won’t be welcoming you here anymore.»
«You’ve got some nerve! Igor, talk to her!»
There was rustling, then her husband’s voice came over the line:
«Vera, are you starting this again?» he said, sounding tired and annoyed. «Mom’s right. You’ve become selfish. You think you’re above it all, forgotten about family. Only care about yourself!»
Vera listened silently. Those words would have hurt her before. Made her doubt herself. But now, she felt disconnected—as if hearing strangers, words that meant nothing to her.
«You’re selfish,» Igor repeated. «And if you don’t change, I don’t know if we should even stay together anymore.»
«Alright,» Vera replied softly.
«Alright, what?»
«We shouldn’t.»
She hung up the phone. Switched it off. Sat on the couch and stared out the window.
For the first time in a long while, she felt certain. Not angry. Not hurt. Just clear.
The next day, Vera scheduled a meeting with a lawyer and began preparing her divorce papers.
She smiled.
Better to live alone than to have your dignity torn down by those around you. Better to be alone and free, than together and unhappy.
Vera opened her book and started to read. A whole new life lay ahead—her life, peaceful and filled with self-respect.
