Elena Pavlovna slammed the kitchen cabinet door shut, her face twisted in frustration. “Shampoo costing eight hundred rubles?! What is this, golden soap? Do you even understand how much money that is? If you want such luxury—buy it with your own salary!”
Miroslava, still standing at the sink and rinsing the dishes after dinner, which, as usual, no one else had bothered to help with, sighed deeply. “It’s my shampoo, Elena Pavlovna,” she said, her voice weary. She didn’t even bother to turn around, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. “And I bought it with my own money. Mine, if you want to be clear. Not yours.”
Elena Pavlovna scoffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Uh-huh, yours… Yours, huh? And whose apartment are we renting here? Whose furniture? Who pays for the gas? My Sergey! And you live like a queen! Can’t even pick up a rag—it’s all me, me, me!”
“I’m holding a rag right now, notice that?” Miroslava whispered through clenched teeth.
“Don’t be rude! I worked thirty years in school to put up with this kind of rudeness!” Elena Pavlovna’s face flushed with indignation.
“And I’m thirty years old,” Miroslava shot back, her tone sharp. “And just beginning to understand how much unnecessary crap I’ve been tolerating in my life. Thanks for the lesson.”
With a huff, Elena Pavlovna turned on her heel, her steps heavy as she stomped out of the kitchen, leaving behind the lingering scent of “Jasmine” and a simmering resentment that filled the room.
Miroslava stood by the sink, her fingers still submerged in the warm water, but inside, her chest tightened, a sharp, prickly knot forming with every breath. How much longer could she endure this? Six years. Six years of humiliation. Six years since she married Sergey. Six years of living in the same apartment with his mother, who had, over time, made it clear that if she could, she’d regulate every moment of Miroslava’s life, taking notes on every move she made.
When she had first started dating Sergey, he seemed so different—attentive, thoughtful, gentle. He had promised that living with his mother was just temporary, that once they had saved enough money, they would rent their own apartment, then buy one. But a year passed. Then two. Money appeared, but it was never for an apartment—there was always something else to spend it on. A car. A jacket. Kitchen repairs “for mom.” Trips to Sochi, because Elena Pavlovna had “never been.”
And so, Miroslava found herself here—tired, emotionally drained, and far from the life she had imagined when she said “yes” to Sergey.
She grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and sat down at the table. No wine, no cigarette. She didn’t drink or smoke. Though, after especially exhausting evenings with Elena Pavlovna, sometimes she wished she could drown it all in something stronger.
When Sergey came home late, as usual, he brought with him a six-pack of beer and a bag from the local grocery store. He tiptoed into the apartment, trying not to disturb the silence that filled the space like an unwanted guest. His eyes scanned the kitchen, as if hoping for a miracle—a roast chicken, perhaps, or some side dishes magically prepared while he was out.
“Did you have dinner?” he finally asked, his voice muffled by the fridge door he had opened but forgotten to close.
“Yes,” Miroslava replied dryly, continuing to clean the dishes. “Your mom and I quarreled over the appetizer, main course, and compote. Very filling.”
Sergey grimaced but didn’t respond. He closed the fridge and sat down opposite her, cracking open his beer. He sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the situation hanging between them.
“Mir, don’t start again.”
“I’m not starting,” Miroslava said quietly. “I’m finishing, Seryozh. I’m tired. This isn’t life. It’s some eternal committee on educating the daughter-in-law.”
“You know how mom is. She won’t change. You just have to put up with it…”
“Put up with it?” Miroslava’s voice cracked as she held back the tears. “Until I’m forty? Until we have a child, and your mom calls me a ‘freeloader’? Or until I jump out of the window from the third-floor balcony?”
Sergey fell silent again, just like always. No stance. No backbone. He had perfected the art of disappearing at the exact moment he needed to stand up for her. Physically present, yet emotionally absent—just a shadow of the man she once thought she knew.
“Well, if you want, I’ll talk to her…” Sergey mumbled, clearly trying to placate her.
Miroslava’s bitter laugh filled the room. “You? Talk? She’ll put you back in place with one phrase. Your ‘mommy, enough already’ sounds like ‘mommy, pour me some borscht.’ She doesn’t see me as a person. And she sees you—as a man.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“No,” Miroslava’s voice remained steady. “You’re the one giving in. And that’s the whole difference.”
Silence stretched on. The fridge clicked as if deciding who it would side with today—his wife or his mother.
Miroslava stood up slowly. Calmly. Like a woman who no longer had any illusions left.
“Listen carefully, Seryozh,” she said, her voice resolute. “Tomorrow, I’m taking a day off. I’m going to the notary. I got a letter—Grandpa died. He left me an apartment in Sergiev Posad. I don’t believe it yet, but if it’s true, I’m moving. Alone. If you want, you can come. But without mom. Never again.”
“Are you joking?”
“No.” Miroslava stood tall, unwavering. “But if you want, we can have a family evening—me, you, and Elena Pavlovna. Sitting at the notary’s, drinking tea, and dividing the inheritance. This time, I’m the boss. And shampoo will cost exactly as much as I want.”
Sergey stared at her, his face blank. He saw her as he had never seen her before—not just as a home cook or buffer between him and his mother, but as a woman with her own voice, her own plans. A woman who was leaving.
“You’re crazy, Mir! How do you even imagine it?! Moving there, to Posad, alone? By yourself? And me?”
Miroslava sat back, unfazed by his outburst. “You can come with me. But on one condition: Mom doesn’t come. Not for a day. Not ‘to stay while the repairs are done.’ Not ‘she’s just here temporarily.’ Just us. The two of us. Otherwise, I’m going alone.”
Sergey’s voice trembled as he stuttered, “You’re making me choose between my wife and my mother?”