Elena had received her apartment from her parents when they moved in with her grandmother to care for her. It wasn’t some stroke of luck; that was simply how things had worked out. Elena had done a little renovation herself: put up wallpaper, painted the kitchen, and bought decent plumbing fixtures. The apartment was small but tidy, and it belonged entirely to her.
Maxim moved in right after the wedding. He had no place of his own; he had lived with his mother and sister in the family apartment on the other side of town. They had agreed before the wedding, without any argument, that they would live at Elena’s. Maxim was pleased. His commute was shorter, the home was already set up, and Elena knew how to take care of everything. For the first few months, things were fine.
At first, Vera Matveyevna visited about twice a month, on a Saturday or Sunday, bringing pies or a prepared meal. Oksana, Maxim’s younger sister, came less often, sometimes with their mother and sometimes alone. Elena welcomed them readily enough: she made tea, chatted, and saw them out. They were ordinary guests.
That lasted about three months.
Then something shifted, quietly and gradually, the way it does when people grow used to something and begin taking it for granted. Vera Matveyevna started coming more often. Once a week, then whenever it suited her. Eventually, she stopped giving any warning at all and simply rang the intercom.
Maxim would open the door, hug his mother, say, “Come in, Mom,” and go back to whatever he had been doing.
And Elena would go to the kitchen.
The first time, it seemed to happen naturally. Vera Matveyevna arrived on a Thursday evening, just as Elena was about to make herself an omelet because she hadn’t had a proper lunch. In the hallway, Maxim said his mother was hungry after a long journey. Elena glanced toward the refrigerator and made an omelet for three.
Vera Matveyevna ate while talking about how expensive groceries had become. Then she left.
Elena washed the dishes.
The second time, Oksana came by herself on a Sunday. It was around noon, and Elena had only just got up. It was her day off, and she didn’t want to rush. Maxim let his sister in, sat her down in the kitchen, and put something on for her to watch on his laptop. Then he came into Elena’s room.
“Ksyusha’s here. Could you make something to eat?”
“I’ve only just got up,” Elena said.
“Just something simple.”
Elena got up and went to the kitchen. She fried some eggs, sliced bread, and made tea. Oksana ate, offered a brief thank-you, and turned her attention back to the laptop.
Elena washed the dishes.
She couldn’t have said exactly when it became a habit. It wasn’t her habit; it was theirs. At some point, Vera Matveyevna or Oksana arriving simply meant that Elena went to the kitchen. No one discussed it or asked her. That was just how things worked.
Vera Matveyevna made herself comfortable in someone else’s apartment. By spring, she knew where the spoons and tea were kept and which burner heated up fastest. Sometimes she opened the refrigerator herself to see what was inside. Sometimes she told Elena that she was running low on butter and needed to buy more. Sometimes she remarked that the soup could use a little more salt.
Meanwhile, Maxim sat in the living room or bedroom and heard none of it—or pretended not to.
One Friday, Elena came home from work late and tired. Vera Matveyevna’s shoes were in the hallway. Elena took off her own shoes and went into the kitchen. Vera Matveyevna was sitting at the table, with Maxim opposite her. There was nothing on the stove.
“Oh, Lena’s home,” her mother-in-law said. “We were just wondering what to have for dinner.”
“I’ve only just got back from work,” Elena replied.
“Well, that’s good. Maxim says you make excellent borscht.”
Elena looked at her husband. He was looking at his phone.
That Friday, she made borscht. She sliced bread and took out the sour cream. Then she cleared the table and washed the dishes.
Vera Matveyevna left after nine, full and satisfied.
Afterward, Elena went into the room where Maxim was watching something on his tablet.
“Maxim, I need to tell you something.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Don’t just say ‘mm-hmm.’ Look at me.”
He put the tablet aside.
“I got home at seven thirty, exhausted. Instead of resting, I spent two hours making borscht for someone who could have eaten at home or at least warned us she was coming.”
“Mom’s visit was spontaneous.”
“I understand that. But it doesn’t mean I have to go straight to the stove.”
“She’s my mother,” Maxim said.
“Exactly. She’s your mother,” Elena replied. “I’m her daughter-in-law, not her cook.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m stating a fact. Every time Vera Matveyevna or Oksana comes over, I cook, serve the food, and clean up. They don’t help. You don’t help. I do it all myself.”
“Well, you’re the hostess.”
Elena was quiet for a few seconds.
“Being the hostess isn’t a job. It doesn’t mean I have to wait on your relatives every time they decide to drop by.”
“All right, I understand.” Maxim picked up his tablet again. “I’ll tell Mom to come earlier.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Lena, what do you want me to do? Tell my mother not to visit?”
“I want you to let me know in advance. And I don’t want to be expected to cook for everyone who walks through the door.”
“No one’s making you.”
“Maxim, then who does the cooking?”
He didn’t answer.
Nothing changed after that conversation. Vera Matveyevna kept visiting, sometimes with an hour’s warning but more often with none. Oksana showed up on weekends and sometimes stayed until evening. Both women sat down at the table and waited. It seemed so natural to them that they apparently never gave it a thought.
Elena did.
One Saturday, Vera Matveyevna and Oksana arrived together. Elena had been planning to go to the market. She’d wanted to buy seedlings for the pots on her balcony, and spring was in full swing. The intercom rang. Maxim opened the door and turned to his wife.
“Mom and Ksyusha are here.”
“I can see that,” Elena said. “I was going to the market.”
“You can go later.”
“Why later?”
“Well, they’re here.”
Elena put her bag back on the shelf and went silently into the kitchen.
Vera Matveyevna took off her jacket and looked around.
“What are we having for lunch today?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” Elena said.
“Borscht would be nice. Or potatoes and meat patties. Maxim loves meat patties.”
“I know,” Elena replied.
Oksana went into the living room and stretched out on the sofa. She wasn’t going to sleep; she was just making herself comfortable as though she were at home.
Elena stood by the window. Outside was spring, the market, and the seedlings she would not be buying that day.
Then she took some meat out of the refrigerator and started making patties.
Several more weeks passed before her next conversation with Maxim. Elena brought up the subject a few times, briefly and without making a scene. Each time, Maxim listened, agreed that something should change, and changed nothing. Once he said he would call his mother and ask her to give them notice before visiting. He never called. Or perhaps he did, and Vera Matveyevna took it as a suggestion rather than a rule.
In the autumn, Elena fell ill. It was only a cold, but she had a temperature of 38.2°C, body aches, and a headache. On Wednesday, she took sick leave and went to bed. Before leaving for work that morning, Maxim looked in on her and told her to hang in there. He brought her some pills and a glass of water. She appreciated that.
Around lunchtime, Elena dozed off. The intercom woke her.
Then she heard voices in the hallway. Vera Matveyevna’s voice was loud and cheerful: “Maxim, I brought a pie, so I thought I’d stop by.”
And Maxim’s voice: “Of course, Mom. Come in.”
Elena lay there staring at the ceiling.
Five minutes later, Maxim looked into the room.
“How are you, Lena?”
“I have a fever,” she said.
“Mom’s here. Could you at least get up and put the kettle on?”
Elena slowly turned her head and looked at him.
“Are you serious?”
“Well, Mom’s here. It would be awkward to…”
“Maxim. My temperature is thirty-eight degrees.”
“It’s just a matter of switching on the kettle…”
“No,” Elena said.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, then left.
From the kitchen came Vera Matveyevna’s voice: “Maxim, put the kettle on.” Cups clinked together.
Elena closed her eyes.
She lay there for about twenty minutes. Her head throbbed, and her throat felt like sandpaper. On the other side of the wall, the others talked. Vera Matveyevna was telling a story about the neighbors, Oksana occasionally added something, and Maxim laughed.
Then her mother-in-law raised her voice toward the hallway.
“Lena, how are you doing in there? Come on, get up. We’ll have a chat and then be on our way. Besides, we ought to have something hot to eat.”
Elena opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling.
Oksana appeared in the doorway. She looked curious, though not particularly concerned.
“Lena, Mom wants to know if you have any soup, or at least something else. We’d make it ourselves, but we don’t know where anything is.”
“In the refrigerator,” Elena said.
“Yes, but it would be better if you did it. You know where everything is.”
Elena slowly sat up. Her head swam a little, noticeably enough. Her temperature had been 38.2 that morning. She looked at Oksana.
“I’m sick.”
“We understand,” Oksana said. “But Mom’s here. Come out and say hello.”
Elena stood up, put on her slippers, and went to the kitchen.
Maxim was sitting at the table with his phone. Vera Matveyevna stood by the window, looking at the balcony.
“Oh, you’re up,” her mother-in-law said. “Good girl. Make us something hot. Oksana and I haven’t had a bite to eat since morning.”
Elena stopped in the middle of the kitchen.
“Maxim,” she said.
He looked up.
“Can’t you make something yourself?”
“Lena, I’m not much of a cook…”
“Can you fry an egg?”
“Well…”
“Can you boil pasta?”
“Actually, that’s the hostess’s job,” Vera Matveyevna put in calmly, without malice, as though stating a fact. “We understand you’re ill, dear. But you’re the hostess, Lena. This is your home.”
“Yes,” Elena said. “It is.”
“Then make something. We won’t be here long.”
Something clicked inside Elena. Quietly, but for good.
“Vera Matveyevna, I have a fever.” Elena’s voice was hoarse but steady. “I’m on sick leave, and I’ve been in bed for two days. I’m not cooking.”
Her mother-in-law looked at her with mild surprise.
“Well, people still need to eat.”
“They do. There are eggs and sausage in the refrigerator. The stove works. The dishes are in the cupboard.”
“Lena.” Maxim lowered his phone.
“What?”
“Don’t be rude to Mom.”
“I’m not being rude. I’m explaining the situation.”
“Mom came to visit. That’s normal…”
“Maxim.” Elena looked directly at him. “I’m in bed with a fever. Your mother and sister showed up without calling and want a hot lunch. And you’re sitting there looking at your phone, expecting me to get up and make it. Do you hear how that sounds?”
“You’ve always cooked!”
“When I was well. Today I’m not.”
“Maxim,” Vera Matveyevna said, shaking her head, “your wife doesn’t know how to receive guests at all. This isn’t right. I came to see my son, and she…”
“Vera Matveyevna,” Elena interrupted, “this isn’t a cafeteria. It’s my apartment. I don’t have to feed you every time you decide to come over.”
“What?” Her mother-in-law straightened up. “Is that how you speak to your husband’s mother?”
“It’s how I speak to someone who arrives unannounced while I’m sick and demands lunch.”
“Maxim!” Vera Matveyevna turned to her son. “Do you hear this?”
“Listen,” he said after a pause, “stop making a scene. Mom and Ksyusha are here. Make something decent to eat, and then we can talk calmly.”
That was when Elena finally said what she had been thinking for a long time. She didn’t shout or lose her temper. She simply said it aloud, plainly.
“Maxim, I’ve cooked for your relatives every time they’ve visited for a year and a half. I’ve washed their dishes and cleaned up after them. In all that time, neither of them has helped me once, asked if I needed help, or offered to do anything herself. Today I’m sick in bed, and they’ve come over again. And once again, you expect me to get up and set the table. I’m not a servant in my own home. I won’t set the table for them anymore.”
The kitchen fell silent.
Oksana stood in the doorway; she had come to listen. Vera Matveyevna stared at Elena like someone who had just been insulted for no reason.
“You…” her mother-in-law began.
“Vera Matveyevna,” Elena interrupted, “please leave. Both of you. I’m ill, and I need to lie down.”
“Are you throwing us out?” Vera Matveyevna threw up her hands. “Maxim, do you hear her?”
“Lena, stop.” Maxim stood up. “You can’t throw my mother out.”
“I can. This is my apartment.”
“It’s our home!”
“No.” Elena looked at her husband. “The apartment is in my name. You know that.”
“Yes, I know. You never let me forget it!”
“Because it matters, including now. Vera Matveyevna, Oksana, please leave.”
“You have no shame!” Vera Matveyevna raised her voice. “I came to see my son, and here you are giving orders! You think you’re better than us.”
“Mom,” Maxim said, trying to calm her.
“Don’t ‘Mom’ me!” she snapped. “Let her explain what kind of wife she is. No proper welcome, no meal, no respect!”
“Respect,” Elena said, “means calling before you come. It means not making a sick person get up and cook. I haven’t seen either of those things in a year and a half.”
Oksana gave a snort from the doorway.
“Lena, you sound like you’re in court.”
“Oksana, I’m asking you to leave too.”
“Maxim!” Vera Matveyevna turned to her son again. “Say something to her!”
Maxim looked at his wife, then at his mother, then back at his wife.
“Lena, apologize to Mom.”
“No.”
“She’s your mother-in-law.”
“I know. I’m asking her to leave, without an apology and without another argument.”
“And what if she won’t?”
“Then you can leave too, and they can go with you.”
The words surprised even Elena. She hadn’t prepared them; they were simply the next logical thought. Maxim stared at her.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“You’re throwing me out of my home?”
“I’m asking you to leave with your mother and sister while I’m ill. When you come back, we’ll talk.”
“About what?”
“About what happens next.”
Vera Matveyevna was already putting on her jacket, wearing the expression of someone who had suffered an undeserved slight and would never forget it. Oksana silently put on hers as well.
“Maxim, let’s go,” his mother said. “Are you coming or not?”
Maxim stood in the hallway for a moment. He looked at Elena. She was leaning against the wall, pale, her cheeks flushed with fever.
“Lena, do you really want me to go?”
“I want you to think about what’s been happening. Whether you go is up to you.”
Maxim picked up his jacket.
“We’ll talk when you’re better.”
“All right.”
The door closed.
Elena went back to her room, lay down, and pulled the blanket up to her chin. The apartment was quiet—truly quiet, without voices or clinking cups.
She slept until evening.
Maxim returned two days later. He called first, something he had never done during the past year and a half. He brought a bag of medicines from the pharmacy and some mandarins. He sat down in the kitchen and asked about her temperature. Elena said it was back to normal.
“I’ve been thinking,” Maxim said after a pause.
“And?”
“Mom says you were rude. I don’t know how to fix all this.”
“Maxim.” Elena held her mug of tea in both hands. “Did you come to make up with me or to tell me your mother is offended?”
“Well, she really is offended.”
“I see.”
“Aren’t you going to call her?”
“No.”
“Lena…”
“Maxim.” Elena put down her mug. “In a year and a half, did you ever tell your mother to call before coming over? Did you ever offer to cook while she was visiting? Did you ever ask me, ‘Lena, are you okay with this?’ You didn’t. Not once.”
“Well, the way things were worked for us…”
“For you. And for them. It didn’t work for me.”
Maxim looked down at the table.
“So what happens now?”
“Now we get divorced.”
There was a pause.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. It’s better this way. You watched this happen for a year and a half and thought it was normal.” Elena spoke without anger, just with tired precision. “When I was sick, you expected me to get up and set the table. Even now, you’ve come here to tell me how hurt your mother feels. You’re talking about her feelings, not what you did wrong.”
“I made mistakes too. I understand that…”
“Maxim, understanding is different from admitting it. Are you admitting it now?”
Silence.
“All right,” he said at last.
“What do you mean, ‘all right’?”
“All right. If that’s what you want.”
A week later, Maxim collected his things. He came alone, without his mother or sister. He packed quietly and carefully. In the hallway, he turned around.
“You’re sure about this?”
“Yes.”
He nodded and left.
The divorce was finalized in March. There was nothing to divide: the apartment belonged to Elena, they had sorted out their belongings, and they had no joint account. Maxim didn’t argue. He signed the papers and walked out without looking back.
Vera Matveyevna never called.
Oksana sent one message saying Elena had destroyed a family over a matter of principle. Elena read it and deleted it.
On Saturdays, she didn’t have to get up early. She could have breakfast whenever she wanted without wondering whether the intercom might suddenly ring.
Sometimes Elena made soup simply because she felt like it. She ate it from her own bowl, without anyone else commenting on how much salt she’d used.
It was a small but unmistakable feeling of freedom.
