Victoria didn’t answer immediately. Her hands were steady, fingers tightening the zipper of the suitcase with calm precision. She didn’t pack much: a few pairs of clothes, documents, some cash, her grandmother’s locket, and the thin blue book that had gotten her through sleepless nights — “The Art of Living Alone.”
She looked around one last time. The apartment was quiet now, though the hum of the TV still spilled out from the living room, where Artem and Valentina Petrovna had long made their permanent stations — one on the couch, the other in the armchair, ruling their shared kingdom with laziness and complaints.
Artem finally rose when he heard the wheels of the suitcase bump over the hallway rug. His hair was messy, his face unshaven. He hadn’t changed clothes since yesterday. There was a mug in his hand — probably still expecting tea.
“Where are you going with your suitcase? Who’s going to take care of us now?!” he demanded, his voice rising with disbelief, not concern.
That did it.
Victoria turned to face him fully. No tears, no pleading — just the hard-earned stillness of someone who had nothing left to explain.
“I’ve taken care of you for two years. And of your mother for six months. And no one,” she paused, her voice low and steady, “has ever taken care of me.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. She stepped closer, just enough so he could see the faint lines around her eyes, the fatigue in her posture — not the kind that sleep could fix, but the kind worn into the soul.
“Every morning, I wake up before everyone. I go to work, I clean, I cook. I take the insults, the sarcasm, the guilt. And what do I get? A sofa king and his bitter queen.”
“Hey, that’s my mother!” Artem snapped, wounded pride flaring.
“I know,” Victoria said. “And you can keep her. But I’m not staying.”
He reached for her arm, but she stepped back.
“I’m not angry, Artem. I’m tired. Tired of living a life where I’m invisible unless someone needs a meal, a clean shirt, or the bills paid. You say I should be a good housewife, a patient wife, a proper daughter-in-law… But no one ever thought I might want to be a person too.”
She reached into her purse and handed him a folded piece of paper — a receipt for the last paid utilities. Below it, her half of the rent money.
“That’s for this month. After that, you’re on your own.”
She took the handle of the suitcase and rolled it to the door.
“Where will you go?” he asked, his voice quieter now.
“To a friend’s. To a rented room. Anywhere with silence and peace.”
“And what if I change?”
Victoria smiled faintly, though her eyes remained distant.
“Change is something you do for yourself. Not to get someone back.”
She opened the door. Outside, the corridor smelled of cleaning fluid and yesterday’s supper. But to her, it smelled like freedom.
As she stepped into the elevator, Artem didn’t follow. The door closed between them with a quiet, final hiss.
And for the first time in years, Victoria exhaled — not out of frustration, but relief.