“Fine, darling, go live with your mother then — since she’s your ‘best woman in the world’!” I said as I opened the door for him.
Ksenia stood at the stove, flipping fried eggs in a pan. The morning was ordinary enough — drizzle outside the window, the smell of coffee in the kitchen, some old song playing on the radio. Artyom sat at the table, scrolling through the news on his phone and glancing at his wife from time to time. Ksenia already knew what was coming. She could tell by the way he pressed his lips together, by the annoyed shake of his head.
“Listen, Mom makes fried eggs completely differently,” Artyom said when Ksenia set a plate in front of him. “Hers turn out fluffier somehow. And the yolk doesn’t run.”
Ksenia poured herself some coffee and sat down across from him. She said nothing. What was there to say? This was the fifth time that week she’d had to hear about how Viktoria Alexandrovna cooked better. Maybe she really did. Ksenia neither knew nor wanted to know.
“What, are you offended?” Artyom looked at his wife over his phone. “I’m just saying. You’d think I can’t even make a comment.”
“No, it’s fine,” Ksenia said, taking a sip of coffee. It was hot, scalding. “Just eat before it gets cold.”
Artyom shrugged and started on breakfast. Ksenia looked out the window at the gray sky and thought that these kinds of conversations hadn’t happened before. Or had they, and she just hadn’t paid attention? Honestly, it was hard to remember exactly when it had started. A year ago? Two? Definitely not right after the wedding.
Lunch passed in the same atmosphere. Ksenia made pasta with chicken and a salad. Artyom sat down, tasted it, and started again.
“You know, Mom was telling me yesterday how she takes care of Dad,” her husband said, twirling spaghetti around his fork. “Thirty years together, can you imagine? And I’ve never once heard my father complain about anything. Mom always knows what he needs. Kirill Petrovich doesn’t even have to lift a finger — Viktoria Alexandrovna has already done everything.”
Ksenia chewed her chicken and nodded. What was she supposed to say to that? Congratulate Viktoria Alexandrovna on thirty years of flawless service? Ksenia worked as an accountant for a construction company. She came home at seven in the evening, exhausted, with a headache from numbers and reports. Cooking, cleaning, laundry — all of it had to be done after work. Artyom rarely helped, mostly sitting at his computer or meeting up with friends.
“Mom says a woman should create comfort in the home,” Artyom went on. “That’s her main duty, right? But all these emancipated women nowadays have forgotten about family values.”
Ksenia put down her fork. Suddenly the salad tasted like nothing.
“Artyom, I work too,” Ksenia said quietly. “Full time. I come home, I cook, I clean. I’m trying.”
“Well, Mom worked too,” Artyom said with a shrug. “And she managed just fine. She never complained.”
Ksenia got up from the table and started clearing the dishes. Her hands were trembling slightly, but Artyom didn’t notice. He had already gone into the other room and turned on the television. Ksenia washed the plates and thought about how tired she was. Not even from work. From the constant comparisons, from the feeling that she was never good enough. That somewhere out there was this standard embodied by Viktoria Alexandrovna — and Ksenia would never measure up.
Things didn’t improve in the evening. Artyom walked through the apartment and ran his finger along a shelf in the living room.
“Ksenia, when was the last time you dusted?” he asked, showing her his finger with a grayish film on it. “At my parents’ place it’s always spotless. Mom even cleans the hard-to-reach places.”
Ksenia was sitting on the couch with a book. She hadn’t been able to finish the page for ten minutes, constantly getting distracted.
“I work, Artyom,” Ksenia repeated. “I don’t have as much time as your retired mother does.”
“What does retirement have to do with it?” Artyom frowned. “Mom managed everything even when she was young. It’s a matter of being organized. And of wanting to, in the end. You only think about yourself — that’s the real problem.”
Blood rushed to Ksenia’s face. She snapped the book shut and stood up.
“I only think about myself? Seriously?”
“Well, isn’t it true?” Artyom spread his hands. “You come home from work and it’s always, ‘I’m tired, I can’t, tomorrow.’ Mom never said things like that. Family always came first for her.”
Ksenia went into the bedroom and shut the door. She sat down on the bed and buried her head in her hands. She wanted to scream, but what was the point? Artyom wouldn’t understand anyway. To him, his mother was the model of perfection, an unattainable ideal. And his wife was just a failed copy who was always doing something wrong.
The following days changed nothing. Artyom found new reasons for comparison. The lunch was too salty, the bathroom not clean enough, Ksenia spent too long talking to her friend on the phone. And every time — the same old song about Viktoria Alexandrovna.
“Mom never wastes that much time on conversations,” Artyom would say. “She’s always busy doing something useful.”
“Mom knows how to plan a budget — she always has money for everything necessary,” her husband added when Ksenia asked to buy a new frying pan.
“Mom cooks so well that Dad always asks for seconds,” Artyom would say, leaving his dinner unfinished.
Ksenia kept quiet. She endured it. Because she loved her husband. Or thought she did. It was hard now to tell where love ended and habit began. They had been together for five years, three of them married. Artyom hadn’t been like this before. Or maybe he just hadn’t shown it.
His birthday was approaching. Artyom was turning forty-two. Ksenia decided to throw him a real celebration. Maybe it would help. Maybe he would see how hard she tried and finally stop comparing her to his mother.
A week before the birthday, the criticism reached its peak. Artyom nitpicked every little thing. The towel was hanging on the wrong hook. The tea was brewed too strong. The wrong toothpaste had been bought. Ksenia listened to it all and clenched her teeth. Just a little longer. She only had to hold on a bit more.
“Mom always keeps things in order,” Artyom began again one evening over dinner. “Every item in her house has its place. Dad says he could find anything blindfolded.”
“Artyom, enough,” Ksenia snapped. “I’m tired of hearing about your mother.”
“What did I say now?” Her husband looked at her with genuine surprise. “I’m just giving you an example. You should learn from her.”
“There’s nothing I need to learn,” Ksenia said, getting up from the table. “I’m doing everything I can.”
“There you go again, getting aggressive right away,” Artyom said, shaking his head. “A normal person would listen to advice and think about it. But you go straight on the attack.”
Ksenia went into the bedroom so she wouldn’t say too much. His birthday was coming soon. She just had to get through it. After that, things would get better.
On the day of his birthday, Ksenia got up at six in the morning. Artyom was still asleep, and she tiptoed into the kitchen. There was so much to get done. She had to make salads, roast the meat, bake a cake. The guests were due at seven in the evening. There was enough time, but she was nervous anyway.
By lunchtime, there were three kinds of salad in the kitchen, the meat was roasting in the oven, and layers for the cake were cooling on the table. Ksenia decorated the apartment with balloons — blue and white, Artyom’s favorite colors. Her husband came out of the bedroom around two in the afternoon, yawning and stretching.
“Happy birthday,” Ksenia said, hugging him and kissing him on the cheek.
“Thanks,” Artyom said, looking around the apartment. “Wow, you’ve already decorated everything?”
“Yeah, I wanted to surprise you,” Ksenia smiled. “What do you think? … Ksenia stood at the stove, turning the fried eggs in the pan. The morning had started out ordinary enough — a light drizzle tapped against the window, the kitchen smelled of coffee, and some old song was playing on the radio. Artyom sat at the table, scrolling through the news on his phone and glancing at his wife from time to time. Ksenia already knew what was coming. She could tell by the way her husband pressed his lips together and shook his head with quiet disapproval.
“Listen, Mom makes fried eggs completely differently,” Artyom said when Ksenia set the plate in front of him. “Hers come out fluffier somehow. And the yolk doesn’t run.”
Ksenia poured herself some coffee and sat down across from him. She said nothing. What was there to say? This was the fifth time in a week she had heard about how Viktoria Aleksandrovna cooked better. Maybe she really did. Ksenia neither knew nor wanted to know.
“What, are you offended?” Artyom looked at his wife over the top of his phone. “I’m just saying. You’d think I’m not even allowed to make a comment.”
“No, it’s fine,” Ksenia said, taking a sip of coffee. Hot, scalding. “Go on, eat before it gets cold.”
Artyom shrugged and started on his breakfast. Ksenia looked out at the gray sky and thought that conversations like this hadn’t happened before. Or had they, and she simply hadn’t paid attention? Honestly, it was hard to remember exactly when it started. A year ago? Two? Certainly not right after the wedding.
Lunch passed in much the same atmosphere. Ksenia made pasta with chicken and a salad. Artyom sat down at the table, took a bite, and started again.
“You know, Mom was telling me yesterday how she takes care of Dad,” he said, winding spaghetti around his fork. “Thirty years together, can you imagine? And I’ve never once heard Father complain about anything. Mom always knows what he needs. Kirill Petrovich doesn’t even lift a finger — Viktoria Aleksandrovna has already done everything.”
Ksenia chewed her chicken and nodded. What was she supposed to say to that? Congratulate Viktoria Aleksandrovna on thirty years of flawless service? Ksenia worked as an accountant at a construction company and came home at seven in the evening exhausted, with a headache from numbers and reports. Cooking, cleaning, laundry — all of that had to be done after work. Artyom rarely helped; he usually sat at his computer or went out with friends.
“Mom says a woman should create comfort in the home,” Artyom went on. “That’s her main purpose, right? But nowadays all these emancipated ladies have forgotten about family values.”
Ksenia put down her fork. Suddenly the salad tasted bland.
“Artyom, I work too,” Ksenia said quietly. “Full time. I come home, cook, clean. I’m trying.”
“Well, Mom worked too,” Artyom said with a shrug. “And she managed just fine. She never complained.”
Ksenia got up from the table and began clearing the dishes. Her hands were trembling slightly, but Artyom didn’t notice. He had already gone into the other room and turned on the television. Ksenia washed the plates and thought about how tired she was. Not even from work, really. From these constant comparisons, from the feeling that she was never good enough. That somewhere there was a perfect standard in the form of Viktoria Aleksandrovna, and she would never measure up to it.
That evening the situation did not improve. Artyom walked through the apartment and ran his finger along a shelf in the living room.
“Ksenia, when was the last time you dusted?” he asked, showing her his finger with a grayish film on it. “At my parents’ place it’s always spotless. Mom even cleans the hard-to-reach places.”
Ksenia sat on the couch with a book. She had been unable to finish the same page for ten minutes, constantly distracted.
“I work, Artyom,” Ksenia repeated. “I don’t have as much time as your retired mother does.”
“What does retirement have to do with it?” Artyom frowned. “Mom managed everything even when she was young. It’s a matter of being organized. And of wanting to, in the end. You only think about yourself — that’s the problem.”
Blood rushed to Ksenia’s face. She snapped the book shut and stood up.
“I only think about myself? Seriously?”
“Well, isn’t it true?” Artyom spread his hands. “You come home from work and immediately it’s ‘I’m tired, I can’t, tomorrow.’ Mom never said things like that. Family always came first for her.”
Ksenia went into the bedroom and closed the door. She sat on the bed and buried her head in her hands. She wanted to scream, but what was the point? Artyom still wouldn’t understand. To him, his mother was the model of perfection, an unattainable ideal. And his wife was merely a failed copy who was always doing something wrong.
Nothing changed over the following days. Artyom kept finding new reasons for comparison. The lunch was too salty, the bathroom not clean enough, Ksenia spent too long talking to her friend on the phone. And every single time — the same old song about Viktoria Aleksandrovna.
“Mom never wastes this much time on conversations,” Artyom would say. “She’s always busy doing something useful.”
“Mom knows how to plan a budget; she always has money for everything necessary,” he added when Ksenia asked to buy a new frying pan.
“Mom cooks so well that Father always asks for seconds,” Artyom would say while leaving his dinner unfinished.
Ksenia stayed silent. She endured it. Because she loved her husband. Or thought she did. Now it was hard to tell where love ended and habit began. They had been together for five years, three of them married. Artyom hadn’t always been like this. Or maybe he simply hadn’t shown it before.
Her husband’s birthday was approaching. Artyom was turning forty-two. Ksenia decided to throw a real celebration. Maybe it would help. Maybe her husband would finally see how hard she tried and stop comparing her to his mother.
A week before the birthday, the criticism reached its peak. Artyom picked at every little thing. The towel hung on the wrong hook. The tea was brewed too strong. She had bought the wrong toothpaste. Ksenia listened to it all and clenched her teeth. Just a little longer. Just endure a little more.
“Mom always keeps everything in order,” Artyom began once again over dinner. “Every single thing in her house has its own place. Father says he could find anything with his eyes closed.”
“Artyom, enough,” Ksenia finally snapped. “I’m tired of hearing about your mother.”
“What did I say that was so wrong?” Artyom looked at his wife with genuine surprise. “I’m just giving you an example. You should learn from her.”
“There’s nothing I need to learn,” Ksenia said, rising from the table. “I’m doing everything I can.”
“There you go again, straight to aggression,” Artyom said, shaking his head. “A normal person would listen to advice and think about it. But you go straight on the attack.”
Ksenia left for the bedroom so she wouldn’t say too much. The birthday was almost here. She just had to hold out. After that, everything would get better.
On the day of the birthday, Ksenia got up at six in the morning. Artyom was still asleep, and she tiptoed into the kitchen. There was so much to do. She had to prepare salads, roast meat, make a cake. The guests were due at seven in the evening. There was enough time, but she was still nervous.
By lunchtime, three kinds of salad stood on the kitchen counter, meat was roasting in the oven, and cake layers were cooling on the table. Ksenia decorated the apartment with blue and white balloons — Artyom’s favorite colors. Her husband came out of the bedroom around two in the afternoon, yawning and stretching.
“Happy birthday,” Ksenia said, hugging him and kissing him on the cheek.
“Thanks,” Artyom said, looking around the apartment. “Wow, you decorated everything already?”
“Yeah, I wanted it to be a surprise,” Ksenia smiled. “What do you think?”
“It’s okay,” Artyom shrugged. “Mom usually hangs a garland too. But this is fine.”
The smile slipped from Ksenia’s face. Even on his own birthday, he couldn’t simply say thank you. He still had to bring up his mother.
Artyom walked into the kitchen and peered into the pots.
“Mmm, smells good,” he said. “Hope the guests like it.”
Ksenia silently went on assembling the cake. She spread the cream between the layers, trying to do everything neatly. The cake had to turn out beautiful. Perfect. So that Artyom wouldn’t be able to compare it to Viktoria Aleksandrovna’s cakes.
By six in the evening the apartment was ready. The table groaned under the weight of appetizers and hot dishes. The cake stood in the center — three layers, decorated with fresh berries. Ksenia changed into a new dress, did her hair, put on makeup. In the mirror she saw a tired woman with a strained smile.
Artyom’s coworkers arrived first — three guys from work. Then came his childhood friends, his cousin with his wife. The apartment filled with voices, laughter, and music. Artyom was clearly pleased. He accepted congratulations, hugged his friends, joked around. Ksenia moved between the guests carrying trays, refilling drinks, making sure everyone was comfortable.
“Ksenia, you did a great job, everything’s organized so well,” said Maksim, Artyom’s friend from school. “Artyom’s lucky to have a wife like you.”
“Thank you,” Ksenia smiled.
Artyom overheard, came over, and put an arm around her shoulders.
“Yes, she tried,” he agreed. “Though Mom usually makes hot appetizers too, but this is fine.”
Maksim gave an awkward chuckle. Ksenia felt her shoulders tense. Even here, in front of guests, Artyom couldn’t stop making comparisons.
The evening went on. Artyom poured whiskey, told jokes, showed his friends the new television. Ksenia cleared used dishes, carried out empty bottles. No one offered to help. The guests were busy with the birthday man, and Artyom was busy with his stories.
Around ten in the evening it was time for presents. One by one, the guests handed Artyom boxes and gift bags. He unwrapped them, thanked them, made jokes. Ksenia waited for her moment. The main gift was supposed to come last.
When all the other presents had been opened, Ksenia stepped forward with a large box. Beautifully wrapped, with a shiny bow. Inside were sneakers — expensive ones, from a famous brand. A month earlier, Artyom had been eyeing them in a store, but they hadn’t had the money then. Ksenia had been saving ever since, putting aside a little from each paycheck.
“This is for you,” Ksenia said, handing him the box.
Artyom took the gift and unwrapped it. The guests applauded when they saw the sneakers.
“Wow, awesome!” Maksim exclaimed. “Ksenia, you really outdid yourself!”
“Yeah, thanks,” Artyom said, looking at the sneakers and then at his wife. His voice sounded strangely strained. “Nice sneakers.”
Ksenia frowned. Something was wrong. Artyom did not look pleased. On the contrary, he set the box aside and gave the guests a tight smile.
“Well then, shall we continue the celebration?” Artyom said loudly.
The guests returned to their conversations, but Ksenia couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone wrong. Artyom remained distant for the rest of the evening. He smiled, talked, but his eyes stayed cold. Ksenia tried to understand what the problem was, but the guests demanded attention.
Around midnight the last guests left. Ksenia closed the door behind them and exhaled with relief. Finally, silence. The apartment looked as though a hurricane had swept through it — empty bottles, dirty dishes, crumbs on the floor. Ksenia began clearing the table, stacking plates in the sink.
“You seem upset,” Ksenia said, glancing back at her husband. “What happened?”
Artyom was sitting on the couch, staring at his phone. He raised his eyes to his wife.
“Nothing special,” he answered coldly. “I just thought the gift would be different.”
“Different?” Ksenia put the plates in the sink. “What kind of different?”
“Well, I hinted about a gaming laptop,” Artyom leaned back against the couch. “Remember? A month ago I showed you the model. I said I wanted to upgrade my computer.”
Ksenia blinked in confusion. A laptop? Artyom had shown her something online, yes, but she hadn’t remembered it. Work, exhaustion, endless chores — where was she supposed to find room in her head for details like that?
“But Artyom, you were staring at these sneakers,” Ksenia began. “In the store, remember? You said they were great.”
“I said that, so what?” Artyom shrugged. “That doesn’t mean I wanted them as a birthday gift. Mom would definitely know what I really needed. She always knows my wishes.”
Something inside Ksenia snapped. As though an invisible thread holding everything together had suddenly broken. A plate slipped from her hands and shattered against the sink. Shards flew in every direction.
“You know what,” Ksenia said, her voice ringing with fury, “I don’t care what your mother would know! I spent the whole day cooking, cleaning, organizing this damned party! I spent my last money on your gift! And once again it’s Mom, Mom, Mom!”
Artyom stood up from the couch and frowned.
“Ksenia, calm down,” he said, trying to take her by the hand, but she jerked away.
“I will not calm down!” Ksenia felt tears rising in her eyes, but forced herself not to cry. “I’m tired! Tired of hearing about your mommy! Tired of never being good enough! No matter what I do — it’s always wrong!”
“I just want you to be better,” Artyom said, folding his arms over his chest. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Mom listened to Father’s remarks too and became a better wife.”
“A better wife,” Ksenia repeated, shaking her head. “You know, Artyom, maybe your mother simply erased herself for Kirill Petrovich. Gave up her own wishes, her own opinions. Became convenient.”
“What the hell are you saying?” Artyom’s face turned red. “How dare you speak about my mother like that?”
“Oh, gladly!” Ksenia stormed into the bedroom and began pulling Artyom’s clothes from the closet. “I’ll say even more! Your mother is a tyrant in a skirt! She crushed your father and turned him into a spineless man! And now you want to do the same thing to me!”
“Are you insane?” Artyom burst into the bedroom. “What tyrant? Mom is a saint! She devoted her whole life to the family!”
“Because she had no other choice!” Ksenia flung one of his shirts onto the bed. “She was born in a different time, when women couldn’t afford to live differently! But I can! And I am not going to turn into a servant!”
“No one’s asking you to be a servant,” Artyom tried to grab the shirt back, but Ksenia wouldn’t let go. “I just want a normal wife! One who takes care of her husband!”
“I do take care of you!” Ksenia pointed toward the door. “I spent the whole day in the kitchen! I ran around all evening serving your guests! And you can’t even say thank you properly!”
Artyom fell silent. He looked at his wife with confusion, then slowly shook his head.
“If you were more attentive, you would have known what I wanted for my birthday,” he said quietly. “Mom always knows.”
“That’s it,” Ksenia turned to face him. Her blood pounded in her temples, her hands were trembling. “That’s it, darling, go to your mother — after all, she’s your ‘best woman in the world’!”
Artyom stared in disbelief. He opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again.
“What, are you kicking me out?” he asked incredulously. “On my own birthday?”
“Exactly,” Ksenia said, pulling a travel bag out of the closet and starting to pack Artyom’s things into it. “Go live with Viktoria Aleksandrovna. Let her make you perfect breakfasts and wipe the dust for you.”
“Ksenia, you can’t throw me out,” Artyom said, trying to take her by the shoulders, but she stepped aside. “This is our apartment!”
“My apartment,” Ksenia corrected him. “I bought it before the wedding with my own money. You’re only registered here. Legally, you have no rights to this property.”
Artyom’s face fell. He clearly had not expected to hear that.
“But Ksenia, surely you’re not serious?” he asked in a different tone. “Let’s just calm down and talk normally.”
“No,” Ksenia said, zipping the bag and handing it to him. “I am completely serious. I’ve had enough. Enough of hearing about your mother. Enough of feeling like a failure. Enough of having to justify myself over every tiny thing.”
“Ksenia, I love you,” Artyom tried to hug her, but she stepped back.
“You love yourself,” Ksenia replied. “And your mother. In this family, I’m just a service. Free domestic staff who are supposed to guess your wishes.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Artyom lowered his hands. “I really didn’t want to hurt you. It’s just… I wanted you to be more like Mom.”
“Exactly,” Ksenia said, opening the bedroom door and stepping into the hallway. “You don’t want a wife — you want a copy of your mother. But I am not Viktoria Aleksandrovna. I am Ksenia. And if that doesn’t suit you, then you’re free to go.”
Artyom stood in the middle of the hallway with the bag in his hands, not knowing what to do. Ksenia opened the front door and gestured outside.
“Ksenia, where am I supposed to go at this hour?” Artyom asked pitifully. “It’s already past midnight.”
“To your mother’s,” Ksenia answered shortly. “She lives forty minutes away by car. You’ll go there, and she’ll feed you, put you to bed, pat you on the head. Just the way you like it.”
“You’re draining all the blood out of me with your complaints,” Artyom tried to protest. “Normal wives don’t do this.”
“Normal husbands don’t compare their wives to their mothers,” Ksenia shot back. “Go already. I need to clean up after your party.”
Artyom slowly walked to the door. At the threshold he turned around.
“You’ll regret this,” he said. “You’ll be worse off without me.”
“We’ll see,” Ksenia said wearily, leaning against the doorframe. “Now go to Mommy.”
Artyom stepped out onto the landing. Ksenia shut the door and turned the key in the lock. Then she leaned her back against it and slowly slid to the floor. She sat there for several minutes, staring into nothing. Then she got up and went into the kitchen.
Dirty dishes, leftover food, shards of the broken plate. Ksenia began to clean. Mechanically she washed the dishes, packed away leftovers into containers, took out the trash. The work helped her not to think. Not to analyze what had just happened.
By two in the morning the apartment was clean. Ksenia took a shower and went to bed. She stared at the ceiling and tried to understand what she was feeling. Relief? Yes. Fear? That too. Sadness? A little. Self-pity? No, strangely enough, no.
Her phone vibrated. A message from Artyom: “I got to my parents’. Mom is shocked by your behavior. Dad says you’re acting improperly. They think you need to apologize.”
Ksenia read the message and smirked. Of course Viktoria Aleksandrovna was shocked. Of course Kirill Petrovich thought his daughter-in-law’s behavior was improper. How could it be otherwise? Ksenia had dared to break the established order.
Ksenia blocked Artyom’s number. She put the phone on the nightstand and closed her eyes. Tomorrow would be a new day. The first day of her new life. Without constant comparisons, without criticism, without the feeling of her own inadequacy.
In the morning Ksenia woke to the sound of her phone. Viktoria Aleksandrovna was calling. Ksenia declined the call. A minute later, the phone rang again. And again. Ksenia silenced it and got out of bed.
The kitchen was quiet. Unusually quiet. Ksenia made coffee, took yogurt out of the fridge, and sat by the window looking outside. People were on their way to work, cars were stuck in traffic, somewhere a dog was barking. An ordinary Saturday morning.
Her phone was bursting with messages. Viktoria Aleksandrovna, Kirill Petrovich, even Artyom’s cousin had written. They all demanded explanations, asked her to come to her senses, insisted that she should forgive her husband. Ksenia read the messages and was struck by one thing — why was no one asking how she felt? Why had everyone taken Artyom’s side?
By lunchtime her friend Lena called. Ksenia answered.
“I heard things are bad between you and Artyom,” Lena said without preamble. “His mother has already spread the news everywhere. She says you threw her son out on his birthday.”
“I did,” Ksenia confirmed. “I’d had enough.”
“Ksenia, are you sure?” Lena’s voice was full of doubt. “Maybe you should have just talked?”
“Lena, I’ve been talking for five years,” Ksenia said tiredly. “It’s done no good. He doesn’t hear me. For him, only his mother’s opinion exists.”
“Well, maybe he’ll change?” Lena suggested uncertainly.
“He won’t,” Ksenia said, looking out the window. “And I don’t want to wait until maybe, someday, he sees me as a person rather than as a failed copy of Viktoria Aleksandrovna.”
After speaking to Lena, Ksenia turned off her phone. She needed silence. Time to think. To sort herself out. To understand what came next.
The following days passed in a strange numbness. Ksenia went to work, came home, cooked dinner for herself alone. She didn’t turn her phone back on and ignored the ringing of the doorbell. Artyom came by twice, knocked, begged her to open the door. Ksenia stayed silent and waited for him to leave.
A week later an official letter arrived from a lawyer. Artyom was filing for divorce and demanding a division of property. Ksenia smirked as she read the document. There was nothing to divide — the apartment belonged to her, Artyom had taken the car immediately, and they had no joint savings. They had not signed a prenuptial agreement.
Ksenia hired her own lawyer. The divorce process lasted three months. Artyom tried to prove that he had a right to part of the apartment, but the documents were indisputable. Ksenia had bought the property before the marriage and had paid for the renovations entirely with her own money. The court ruled in Ksenia’s favor.
On the day of the divorce, Ksenia ran into Artyom in the courthouse hallway. Her husband — now ex-husband — looked tired.
“Ksenia, maybe it’s not too late to fix everything?” Artyom asked quietly. “I understand my mistakes now. I’m ready to change.”
Ksenia looked at him for a long moment. Three months earlier, perhaps she would have believed him. Three months earlier, perhaps she would have given him another chance. But now — no.
“It’s too late, Artyom,” Ksenia said calmly. “You won’t change. Viktoria Aleksandrovna is too deeply rooted in your head. And I don’t want to compete with her anymore.”
“But I love you,” Artyom tried.
“You love the convenient version of me,” Ksenia corrected him. “The one who stays quiet and puts up with everything. But I’m not that Ksenia anymore. I’m sorry.”
Ksenia turned and walked away without looking back. Outside, rain was falling, just like on that morning when it had all begun. She lifted her face to the sky and felt the drops land on her skin. Cold, refreshing.
A new life lay ahead. Unknown, a little frightening. But hers. Without other people’s expectations, without constant comparisons. Ksenia walked along the wet asphalt and, for the first time in many years, felt free.
If you want, I can also make it sound more natural like a published English short story instead of a direct translation.
