– Do you even realize that this is impossible anymore?! – Olya’s voice broke, and her fingers convulsively squeezed the edge of the chair.
– What did I do wrong this time?! – Konstantin grabbed the tabletop, trying to stop his hands from shaking.
– If I keep quiet now, I’ll just explode! – The girl threw the cup into the sink. The slap of porcelain made Nastya, who had looked in the door, instantly retreat.
– Nastyusha, everything is fine, go into the room! – Kostya took a step towards his wife, but she abruptly pulled away.
– Do you want the truth? Your parasitism is over! – Olya, swallowing tears, darted into the hallway. Her gaze fell on her husband’s backpack, hanging next to his jacket. A jerk of lightning – and the contents flew to the floor.
– Have you completely lost your mind?! – The man grabbed her wrist.
— Off the rails? You’re the one living in illusions! — She broke away, pushing him. — For three years I’ve been feeding your dreams! Enough!
A sudden call interrupted the quarrel. On the screen — “Mother-in-law”. Olya irritably turned on the speakerphone:
— Olenka, aren’t you and Kostya arguing? — an anxious voice sounded.
— We’re not arguing, we’re getting a divorce! — the girl hissed. — Take your genius back!
The silence hung so thick that you could hear Nastya sobbing behind the wall. The receiver began to chirp:
— Darling, what happened?
But Olya had already hung up, brushing the treacherous drops from her chin.
—
Before meeting Konstantin, Olya’s life flowed measuredly. Growing up with a grandmother who was a paramedic, she learned from childhood: stability is more important than dreams. An accounting position after university seemed a logical choice, although her soul sometimes yearned for watercolors.
Their romance began with guitar strumming in a student dormitory. Kostya, a charismatic rebel with a guitar behind his back, charmed her with the romance of freedom. “Why do you need these boring reports?” he whispered, hugging her around the waist. “Let’s create an art space! You were born for creativity!”
The first years of marriage resembled a holiday. Even Tatyana Viktorovna’s obsessive care did not irritate: “Kostya is sensitive, don’t overload him with job searches.”
Everything changed with the birth of their daughter. While Olya was on maternity leave, Kostya changed a dozen temporary jobs: photography, editing, music lessons. But by the time Nastya was three, his “creative searches” had been reduced to nightly gaming marathons.
“Olya, the office will kill my personality!” he justified himself when complaints about the lack of money became more frequent.
The girl silently closed mortgage accounts, hid utility bills and believed that one day he would come to his senses. Until that evening.
Conflicts became their daily ritual. Konstantin frowned when Olya rejected another purchase request, and she seethed, seeing how he spent hours in front of the monitor, calling it “searching for inspiration”, while a mountain of unwashed dishes grew on the countertop.
In three years, Kostya tried about a dozen occupations. Sometimes he was outraged by the “slave conditions” of freelancing, sometimes he had conflicts with clients, sometimes he abandoned projects due to a “lack of creativity”. The financial hole had to be patched with Olya’s salary, and he just waved it off:
– Don’t worry, we’ll launch a cool startup and we’ll live well!
–
The tense silence in the apartment was broken by an insistent ringing. Olya, who was waiting for a courier with groceries, opened the door – and froze. Tatyana Viktorovna stood on the threshold in an elegant coat, Sergei Petrovich loomed behind her with a box of homemade pies.
– Let’s discuss everything without emotion, – the mother-in-law adjusted her scarf, pretending to be businesslike, but the trembling in her hands betrayed her excitement.
Kostya went out into the hallway, hunched over, as if trying to become smaller. Father, silently putting the gift on the nightstand, muttered:
– Maybe it’s just a family crisis? It will pass…
– Crisis? – Olya clenched her fists so that her voice would not waver. — For three years I have been running the family budget in the red, and your son considers contributing to the common life beneath his dignity!
Tatyana Viktorovna reached out to Kostya, stroking his shoulder:
— Son, maybe you could stay with us? You will rest, and ideas will come to you…
— That is exactly what I am suggesting! — Olya abruptly pulled down the sleeve of her sweater. — Take him away. I am exhausted.
Sergey Petrovich coughed, turning his gaze to the half-open door of the nursery:
— And Nastyusha? You will not deprive her of her father…
— Father? — the girl smiled bitterly. — He even forgets to take her to kindergarten. I can cope on my own — so at least let her have stability.
The mothers-in-law fidgeted. Kostya, looking down at his sneakers, muttered:
– Mom, let’s go…
Olya leaned against the wall, watching them rummage around with their suitcases. In the nursery, Nastya was quietly playing with cartoons – too used to quarrels to cry.
– You have no right to cut me off from Nastya! – Konstantin stood up abruptly, knocking over a stool.
– You can see each other, but we will no longer stay under the same roof, – Olya crossed her arms over her chest, as if building a barrier. – I’ll file for divorce tomorrow.
The silence thickened, broken only by the muffled sobs of her daughter behind the thin wall.
– Darling, this is temporary anger, – Tatyana Viktorovna wrung her fingers, as if begging for mercy. – One day you’ll look back – and regret the rush.
“I’m alone already,” the girl closed her eyelids, holding back the trembling in her voice. “Every day is a race: work, loans, everyday life. I have nothing to breathe with.”
Silence filled the apartment, thick as syrup. Olya mechanically stroked her daughter’s back, remembering how Kostya swore to “correct” himself before Nastya’s birth, how they laughed at his adventurous plans. Now it seemed like a dream.
An hour later, three boxes with the inscriptions “Books”, “Clothes”, “Miscellaneous” towered by the door. Kostya glanced at Olya, but she turned away, hugging Nastya, who was already sobbing more quietly.
“That’s it,” he pulled the handle of the suitcase. “I’m leaving.”
“Call me if…” Tatyana Viktorovna began, but Olya interrupted:
“I’ll call if there’s a reason.”
The door slammed shut. Olya sank to the floor, leaning against the wall. The mirror opposite reflected a woman with a tear-stained face, but a strange light was burning in her chest – as if she had dropped a heavy backpack.
– Mom, is it true that dad won’t come back? – Nastya buried her forehead in her shoulder.
– He won’t come back, – Olya lifted her daughter, kissing her on the top of her head. – But he will write to you, invite you to visit. Is that what you want?
The girl nodded, clutching the edge of her mother’s sweater in her fist.
The roar of an engine was heard from the street. Olya went to the window, watching Kostya’s parents load boxes into the trunk. He stood to the side, smoking, and in the light of the lantern he seemed a stranger – a person from another life.
– Nastyushka, – Olya took her hand, – let’s cook something tasty. Today we can even have ice cream!
– And then cartoons? – the girl rubbed her eyes, trying to smile.
– Of course! – Olya opened the refrigerator, but suddenly froze, noticing the shards of the mug still lying under the sink. She put on gloves and collected them, as if burying the past.
While Nastya was choosing a movie, Olya glanced around the kitchen. The shelf with Kosteva’s cups was empty, but on the table there was a child’s drawing – a yellow house under a rainbow. We’ll have enough of this, – she thought, turning on the stove.
– Mom, look! – Nastya poked her finger at the screen where cartoon animals were dancing. – They are like you and me!
Olya sat down next to her, hugging her. It was dark outside, but the apartment smelled of scrambled eggs and hope. Even if tomorrow was difficult – today they laughed together, and this became a new beginning.