“Alla’s calling again,” Victoria glanced sideways at the screen. “I can already feel it—something urgent. Like the cat sneezed and has to be rushed to the vet immediately, preferably through Lobnya.”
She wasn’t even answering anymore. She simply sat at the kitchen table with a cup of morning coffee, wearing an old T-shirt stained with bleach—apparently the latest fashion for thirty-year-old wives who had somehow been accepted into the family solely as a means of transportation.
The phone kept vibrating.
Vitaly came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his head. He always dried his hair like an old lady, and it irritated her.
“Why aren’t you answering?” he asked mildly, glancing at the screen. “Maybe it’s something important.”
“If Alla wanted to talk, she wouldn’t start with ‘Where are you?’” Victoria leaned back in her chair. “She has two modes: ‘I need something’ and ‘You owe me.’”
“Well, you’re home,” he shrugged. “You’re not at work.”
“Thanks for reminding me. I thought we were married, not running a dispatch service.”
The word “work” had always been questionable in their household.
Victoria really did work remotely as an editor, with a flexible schedule where she was essentially her own boss, but that didn’t mean she never got tired. Her exhaustion was simply invisible now.
“So are you going to drive her or not?” Vitaly clearly wanted to avoid getting directly involved.
“No,” she said simply. “I bought the car for myself, not for Alla or your mother. And definitely not so I could crawl through traffic with her cat because it’s ‘looking somehow strange.’”
“Oh, here we go again,” he sighed, as though she weren’t defending her personal boundaries but complaining about the smell of his socks.
He went into the other room and shut the door—not loudly, but loudly enough to make a point.
A minute and a half later, Alla texted:
“You’re unbelievable! Mom is sick and you’re sitting there drinking coffee! I’ll come myself. I’ll tell Vitaly everything.”
Victoria muted the phone and stared out the window.
It was raining outside—steady and lazy, as though the rain itself had nowhere to hurry.
Victoria wasn’t hurrying anymore either.
When she had first bought the car, everything had been different.
She had thought it meant freedom. She could drive out to the lake, visit her parents in Tula, or stop by the market to buy cherry jam without changing buses three times.
Less than a year later, she was driving Tamara Ivanovna to the market “for some proper radishes” and then waiting an hour and a half outside her house because:
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I also need to stop at the pharmacy and visit my friend over on Mozhaika.”
“What did you expect?” Tamara Ivanovna would say condescendingly. “Family means sharing. Your car, your time. I used to have a Zhiguli myself, and the whole family rode in it.”
“Yes, but you drove your husband around, not your aunt’s neighbor,” Victoria would joke.
“Well, you only have one husband so far, but there are plenty of relatives. We’re all family.”
Family.
Her car. Her gasoline. Her time.
Yet somehow all of it belonged to “everyone.”
Victoria caught herself thinking that she was afraid of getting pregnant—not because she didn’t want a child, but because she already knew exactly what would happen afterward.
The stroller, formula, doctor’s appointments—it would all be her.
Only her.
Once, she suggested that Vitaly get a driver’s license.
Purely hypothetically.
“Nah, I don’t need one,” he waved her off. “Why would I? You drive. Why do we need two drivers?”
“What if I break my leg?”
“Don’t make me laugh. You don’t even wear heels.”
Hard to argue with that logic.
In the middle of spring, Tamara Ivanovna bought a country house somewhere near Tver.
For a price consisting mostly of zeros and dreams about potatoes.
“We’re going to spend the whole summer there now!” she announced happily, as though Victoria had also been planning to plant garlic in July.
“Who is ‘we’?” Victoria asked without looking away from her laptop.
“Well… you, me, Alla. Vitaly doesn’t drive, and we’re not going to take a bus. You understand that. You get behind the wheel and—poof!—you’re out in the countryside. We’re family.”
“And the fact that I have a job doesn’t matter?”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” her mother-in-law waved dismissively. “You work from home, so you can take your laptop with you. Nature, fresh air—you’ll probably write even better there. Just make sure the chickens don’t sit on the keyboard!”
Victoria said nothing.
She looked at her car and almost felt sorry for it.
It stood in the courtyard with a faded pineapple air freshener hanging from the mirror—a symbol of freedom that had never quite happened.
Once again, she drove Tamara Ivanovna to the country house, along with a cage, several jackets, some half-dead little tree, and Alla, who smelled of perfume like a teenager’s idea of an adult mistress.
“Over here, Vika,” her mother-in-law commanded. “Not there! There are potholes! Listen, do you even know how to brake?”
“Only when I sense danger,” Victoria replied sharply, pressing the clutch.
“I hope that wasn’t about me,” Alla smirked, pulling a container of herring from her bag. “Want some, by the way? With garlic.”
“I’m driving. And I have a nose.”
“Oh, how you’ve changed! You used to be so kind. You practically radiated positivity.”
“I also used to know the difference between my own car and a public minibus.”
“So what now? You’re going to turn your nose up at everyone?” Alla turned toward her challengingly. “Maybe you’re already looking for a new husband since you’re so unhappy?”
Victoria slammed on the brakes.
Everything flew around the interior—the container, the bag with the jacket, even Tamara Ivanovna, who nearly choked on a hard candy.
“Vika, what are you doing?!” her mother-in-law cried, pounding herself on the chest. “I have blood pressure!”
“Get out,” Victoria said calmly, without looking at either of them. “Both of you.”
“Is this a joke?” Alla’s eyes widened. “Are you serious?”
“I’ve never been more serious. The bus will be faster. It’s only six stops to the country house.”
They were silent.
Then they got out.
Victoria didn’t even slam the door.
She simply turned the car around and drove home.
Vitaly met her there with a bewildered expression.
“What the hell did you do? Mom already called me. She says she’s going to sue you for a chest injury.”
“Let her. Maybe she can sue for emotional damages too.”
“Are you trying to destroy this family?”
“No, Vitaly. I’m trying to escape from it.”
He stared at her as though he were looking at a stranger.
“You know what?” he suddenly said quietly. “If you’ve decided you’re miserable here, then leave.”
“I already am.”
She packed a bag quickly.
Not because she had planned to leave.
Simply because she understood that if she didn’t leave now, she might never manage to do it later.
Victoria drove to her parents’ house.
On the way, she stopped at a gas station, bought coffee and a pastry, and took a deep breath.
For the first time in a very long while, she felt calm.
Her car stood beside her.
Still old.
But suddenly hers again.
Not her mother-in-law’s.
Not her sister-in-law’s.
Hers.
Victoria stayed with her parents for three weeks.
There was silence. A bath mat nobody left crumpled on the floor. Tea people could drink without scandals or discussions about inheritance.
Everything seemed fine.
But her body had already become accustomed to anxiety, so even peace made her suspicious.
It’s too quiet.
They’ve probably come up with something again.
During the fourth week, Vitaly called.
“We need to talk. No hysterics. Just calmly, like adults.”
“That’s usually what people say right before pulling a knife.”
“Don’t start. Can we meet?”
She agreed.
Curiosity had always been her weakness.
And somewhere deep inside, there was still a flicker of hope.
Maybe he would apologize.
Maybe he had finally come to his senses.
They met at a small café near the station.
Vitaly arrived wearing a new jacket and, for some reason, no wedding ring.
“So you finally took it off?” Victoria smirked.
“It gets in the way,” he shrugged. “I’ve been trying to play guitar.”
“You’ve been playing on my nerves for years, Vitaly.”
He pretended not to hear.
“Listen… Mom, Alla, and I discussed something. A legal matter.”
“That sounds like the beginning of a scam.”
“You know Mom has an apartment. We need to sort out the ownership. While she’s still alive, transfer everything to me and Alla so there won’t be a mess later. And so the taxes are lower.”
“And?”
“And you need to sign a consent form. Just in case. Property division and everything.”
“Wait. You mean that apartment where you were born? Where your grandmother stored pickles on the balcony and kept a carpet on the wall because ‘it makes the room warmer’?”
“Yeah.”
“The one you called ‘the family curse’?”
“I was joking. Actually, it’s our future.”
“Let me get this straight. Your mother wants to transfer the apartment to you while she is alive, healthy, and still perfectly capable of traveling to the country house with a container of herring?”
“Well… basically, yes.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“It’s just…” He coughed. “We need you to agree not to make any claims on it. Through a marital agreement. Mom is worried. What if we get divorced and then you…”
Victoria remained silent.
She stared at him as though he were an unripe apple—technically edible, but mostly sourness and disappointment.
“So you’ve already discussed the possibility of us getting divorced?”
“That’s not what I mean! It’s just… anything can happen. We’re adults.”
“And as an adult, you decided the best idea was to ask your wife to sign a document ensuring that if we divorce, she gets nothing?”
He raised his hands defensively.
“Don’t turn it into a drama. It belongs to Mom! I grew up there.”
“And I apparently grew up in a cabbage patch. Besides, why would I need an apartment when I already have the privilege of sitting behind the wheel and driving all of you around?”
She stood up.
“Listen,” he said quickly, “don’t make any rash decisions. Mom is even willing to give you some money for signing it. She’s a reasonable person.”
“A reasonable person doesn’t divide property while both the wife and the mother are still alive. Good luck, Vitaly. And tell Alla I’m not signing anything anymore—especially if it’s longer than three pages and the word ‘deed of gift’ appears more often than ‘hello.’”
Three days later, Tamara Ivanovna rang Victoria’s doorbell.
Unexpectedly.
No call.
No warning.
She stood there with a handbag and a jacket, looking extremely serious.
“Vika, darling, can we talk?”
“Mom,” Victoria greeted her with a frozen smile, “how did you manage to get here without me driving you? On a broomstick?”
“You immediately start with the sarcasm. I’m here on business. May I come in?”
“Come in. But take off your shoes and surrender your controlling interest at the door.”
They went into the kitchen.
Tamara Ivanovna looked around the room the way a tax inspector might—coldly and appraisingly.
“Listen, I’m not here to accuse you of anything. You simply have to understand. I’m not young anymore. I need to settle everything while I’m alive. Vitaly and Alla are my children. You are not.”
“Thank you for clarifying. I was beginning to hope you might adopt me.”
“Don’t be sarcastic. You’re an intelligent woman. Sign the paper and move on with your life. Why do you need that apartment?”
“Why is it so important to you that I have absolutely no connection to it?”
“Vitaly and I will decide what to do with it. Maybe Alla will live there.”
“Alla? The one who eats herring in my car?”
“She is my daughter. She is a decent girl.”
“She’s decent on the level of ‘borrow your shampoo and live at a friend’s place for two weeks without feeling ashamed.’”
Tamara Ivanovna slammed her hand on the table.
“That’s enough, Victoria! Do you think you’re special? Half the women in this district are just like you! But there is only one apartment, and it is not yours!”
“And you think you’re Mother of the Year? You’ve spent your entire life moving your children around like chess pieces. Alla is your queen. Vitaly is your bishop. I’m the pawn. But you forgot something—pawns can reach the other side of the board too. And then they can become whatever they want.”
Her mother-in-law went pale.
She picked up her handbag.
And left without saying a word.
Victoria sat down at the computer.
Her hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
From anger.
From helplessness.
She called a lawyer she knew.
“Lena, tell me something. If my mother-in-law wants to transfer her apartment to her children, do I have any legal right to stop her?”
“If it isn’t marital property, no. But you do have the right to understand how ownership shares would be treated in a divorce if they try to tie that apartment into the property settlement.”
“They’re already trying. And they want me to sign a waiver.”
“Don’t do it. And you’d be better off sorting everything out in advance. Think about how to protect yourself.”
“I think I already have an idea…”
A week later, she asked Vitaly to meet her at a notary’s office.
He arrived looking like a schoolboy summoned to the principal.
“What is this?”
“An agreement. We’re getting divorced. Your apartment stays yours. My car stays mine. Fair and simple.”
“Wait. Are you serious?”
“I’ve never been more serious. I’m tired of being nobody in your family.”
“But we…”
“There is no ‘we.’ You are your mother’s son. I’m a woman who wants to live her own life and stop being someone everyone rides around on—literally.”
He looked confused.
Then he picked up the pen.
And signed.
“Is that all?”
“No. One last thing. A selfie.”
“What?”
“A selfie in front of the notary’s office. You can show Alla. You’ve got my signature now. Let her deliver her own herring.”
Victoria stepped outside.
It was spring.
The air smelled of wet asphalt and the future.
She walked slowly down the sidewalk—for once in no hurry.
Then she stopped, pulled out her car keys, and smiled at the thought:
Maybe I should drive south.
Or just go to Tula.
Without my mother-in-law.
Without Alla.
Without bishops or pawns.
Simply somewhere nobody is waiting for me with a trunk full of other people’s problems.
Three months passed.
Three months of silence in which Victoria finally learned to breathe again.
There were no calls from Alla saying, “Where are you? I urgently need to go to OBI,” and no messages from Vitaly saying, “Mom’s worried. Maybe you could come over.”
Victoria found a job with a small logistics company.
She worked remotely, drank coffee, and for the first time in ten years didn’t feel like a piece of furniture.
Sometimes she remembered the past, but without anger.
More like a bad stretch of road.
It had shaken her, made her sick, but she had made it through.
Everything could have turned out differently if I hadn’t woken up in time…
And it was during one of those peaceful moments that the phone rang.
At first, it was just an unfamiliar number.
Then it rang again.
Then came a text:
“This is Tamara Ivanovna. It’s very important. Urgent. Alla is in trouble.”
Alla had troubles the way I had email subscriptions—most of them completely unnecessary, but somehow difficult to get rid of.
Still, Victoria called.
Not because she was worried.
Because she wanted to hear what else they had managed to ruin without her.
“Hello,” her mother-in-law’s voice sounded hoarse. “Vika… I don’t know how to say this.”
“With words, preferably. And slowly, so I don’t choke on my coffee.”
“Alla took out a loan. She used the apartment as collateral. The one we transferred to her and Vitaly. Now the bank is taking us to court. We could lose our home.”
“We? Sorry, who exactly are you identifying yourself with now?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… ‘we’ means me and my slippers. You have yourself, Alla, and her priceless ideas.”
“Victoria, this is not the time for sarcasm! The hearing is in two weeks. We can’t find the money. And you earn well…”
“One moment. You called me because you want me to… give you money?”
“Well… you used to be part of the family. We have a shared past. Shared obligations.”
“I also have a shared past with my first serious acne breakout, but I’m not inviting that back either.”
Silence.
Then, weakly:
“Vika, you’re not vindictive…”
“Tamara Ivanovna, I’m not vindictive. I simply learn from experience. And when people throw me away, I don’t ask for change—I leave. And I also remember perfectly well how you shouted that I was ‘not one of yours’ and that I ‘had no rights.’ So here’s the good news: I really don’t have any rights to your apartment. And even less desire to help.”
“But Vitaly… he’s involved too. His share could go to the bank.”
“Then he can ride his guitar to court and play the judge a tragic ballad.”
“You’re heartless, Victoria. We’re family!”
“You told me I was nobody to you.”
“You destroyed our family!”
“Me? You traded it away for a country house and jars of pickles. I simply left the game.”
The next day, Vitaly called her.
“You could just help. One time.”
“One time? And when you and Alla tried to erase me financially through a notary, was that also ‘one time’?”
“We were wrong. But now this is serious. We could be evicted.”
“Wonderful. Take Alla by the hand and go live in ‘our future,’ as you once called it.”
“Vik, you’re taking revenge. But you loved me once.”
“I did. Until I understood that ‘love’ in your family is just cheap wrapping around selfish interests. You never even tried to understand how I felt. You just kept sliding papers across the table and saying, ‘Sign this.’”
“I thought you’d understand. For the sake of the family…”
“For the sake of family, Vitaly, people sacrifice sleep, nerves, and money. I was sacrificing myself. I’m done.”
“So you’re not going to help?”
“Helping is when someone is drowning and you reach out your hand. You people jump into the swamp yourselves while dragging the furniture in after you.”
“Then that’s it.”
“Yes. Exactly. That’s it.”
He hung up.
A week later, she got a call…
From television.
“Victoria Yuryevna, we’re filming a program about family conflicts involving inheritance. One of the participants is your former husband. Would you like to give your side of the story?”
She laughed.
“Is this a joke?”
“No. We wouldn’t show you on camera. Just your voice.”
“Do you know I wasn’t merely his wife? I was also the family’s free taxi. And they tried to financially erase me through a lawyer as though I were a line item on a receipt.”
“That is precisely why we would like—”
“No, thank you. If I’m going to be the heroine of a drama, it won’t be because your producers asked me to. I prefer silence.”
On the day of the court hearing, Victoria made herself tea, turned on a TV series, and went nowhere.
It no longer concerned her which apartment was being sold, who the court granted an extension to, or who had become the latest victim in that family.
That evening, she opened her email.
There was a message from the notary:
“The apartment on Petrovskaya Street has been sold. The debt has been transferred to a third party. The new owner will take possession beginning in July.”
And a second message from Alla:
“You destroyed our lives. You could have saved us. God will judge you.”
Victoria raised an eyebrow.
She replied briefly:
“I haven’t met God. But I have seen a court. I hope it was strict.”
Then she closed her laptop and sat back in her armchair.
Rain was falling outside.
This time, it seemed almost comforting.
No anxiety.
No shouting.
No requests.
Only the rain—and the feeling that everything was finally exactly where it belonged.
Victoria had understood the most important thing:
Sometimes, to become free, it isn’t enough simply to leave a family.
You also have to stop being the person who carries everything for everyone else.
Even when that “family” deserves the biggest quotation marks imaginable.
