Larisa didn’t wait for Andrei’s reply.
“I’m moving out today,” she said, placing a neat envelope on the table. Inside was a copy of the rental agreement, the new keys, and a note: I tried. You didn’t.
Tamara Ivanovna stomped into the kitchen, her slippers slapping the floor in protest. “What’s this? Leaving to go shopping again?”
Larisa turned calmly. “No. I’m leaving for good.”
“What nonsense are you spouting now?” the older woman scoffed. “You’re not going anywhere. Andrei won’t let you.”
“She’s bluffing,” Andrei added quickly, though his voice had lost its usual certainty.
“No, I’m not,” Larisa replied. “You had three months to stand by me, Andrei. Three months to ask your mother to back off, to say ‘thank you’ once, to defend me just once.”
Tamara’s face flushed with fury. “You ungrateful—”
“Ungrateful?” Larisa stepped closer, her voice cold as marble. “I gave up my peace, my time, and my sanity to make this house a home. I cooked, cleaned, smiled, nodded—even as you insulted me in front of guests. I’m not a servant. And I will not be bullied anymore.”
Andrei reached out, as if to stop her. “Larisa, please. Don’t make a scene.”
“Oh, no,” she whispered, eyes burning. “The real scene hasn’t even started yet.”
She picked up her suitcase—already packed and waiting in the hallway—and stepped out the door without another word.
Two Weeks Later…
Larisa’s new apartment was quiet, sun-drenched, and smelled faintly of vanilla candles and freedom. She brewed her own coffee, played her favorite music, and taught online lectures without anyone yelling from the kitchen.
Andrei called once. Then twice. Then a dozen times.
She didn’t answer.
Finally, a knock came at her new door. She opened it, expecting a package—but found Andrei, looking disheveled and unsure.
“Can we talk?” he asked, eyes searching hers.
Larisa leaned against the frame, arms crossed.
“I’m listening.”
His voice cracked. “Mom… she’s impossible without you. I—I didn’t realize how much you did. I miss you. Come home. Please.”
She tilted her head. “Home? You mean your home? Because this”—she gestured behind her—“this is mine.”
He swallowed hard. “I’ll tell her to move out. I’ll make it right.”
Larisa studied him quietly. “That ship has sailed, Andrei. I loved you. But I won’t live where I’m treated like furniture.”
She didn’t slam the door.
But she did close it.
Softly. Firmly.
And behind it, she smiled—for the first time in months.