— What, excuse me?! I’m supposed to slave away at your parents’ dacha? And why exactly? You’re their son, so go weed the garden there yourself—

ДЕТИ

— Olya, get ready, we’re going to the dacha for the weekend!
Stas’s voice, cheerful and exaggeratedly happy, burst into the kitchen along with him. Olya, stirring the sauté for the soup in the pan, turned around. A sincere, anticipatory smile bloomed on her face. The workweek had been tough, and the prospect of leaving the stuffy city for cool greenery felt like a true salvation. In her imagination, an idyllic picture immediately appeared: the creak of old swings under an apple tree, smoke from the grill, ice-cold lemonade in a sweating pitcher.

— Oh, great! Finally! Will we make shashlik? I’ll marinate the chicken in kefir, just like you like. And we’ll lounge in the hammock—I just downloaded a new book. Maybe we should invite the kids over on Saturday?

She spoke quickly, excitedly, already mentally making a grocery list. The aroma of frying onions and carrots mixed with the scent of her perfect weekend plans. Stas came over, looked over her shoulder into the pan, and grimaced.

— What shashlik? What are you talking about? We’re going to work.

Olya’s smile froze and then slowly slid off her face, as if erased by an eraser. She turned to her husband, her whole body expressing confusion.

— What do you mean, work?

— Literally, — he replied matter-of-factly, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of water. — My parents decided to stay home in the heat, with the air conditioning and all that. But we have to go. We need to weed the potatoes. Six sotkas [about 600 m²]. And hill up the tomatoes in the greenhouse. They’ve gotten totally overgrown.

He said this with such disarming simplicity, as if discussing a trip to the movies. As if weeding six sotkas of potatoes under the scorching July sun was the natural and only way to spend a weekend. He took a big sip of water, not noticing how his wife’s expression changed.

— Wait, I don’t get it, — Olya crossed her arms. — Your parents don’t want to go because it’s hot, but we have to go and work in the same heat? Where’s the logic?

— Well, who else is going to go? — Stas genuinely looked surprised, closing the fridge door. He looked at her like she’d asked the dumbest question in the world. — Everything will go to waste. The harvest will be ruined. Mom will worry. Besides, it’s family business. You’re the daughter-in-law; you should help.

The last phrase fell into the cozy semi-darkness of the kitchen like a stone into still water. The spoon Olya still held in her hand clinked quietly as it fell on the countertop. She slowly turned to her husband, and her gaze changed from relaxed and dreamy to sharp and prickly. For a few seconds, she just looked at him, letting the absurdity of what he said fully sink into her mind.

— What, excuse me?! I’m supposed to slave away at your parents’ dacha? And why exactly? You’re their son, so you go weed everything and help them!

Her voice didn’t rise into a scream; it sounded low and harsh, each word separated from the next like a whip crack. Stas choked on his water in surprise. He expected pleading, complaints, tantrums, but not such a direct and furious refusal.

— How are you talking? — he immediately flared up, setting the bottle on the table. — These are my parents! They’re asking us for help!

— They’re not asking “us,” Stas. They’re dumping their work on you, and you, in turn, are trying to dump half of it on me! I married you, not six sotkas of your potatoes! I don’t even remember a single vow about hilling tomatoes to please your mother!

— That’s disrespect! You don’t respect my family!

— I respect your parents! — Olya cut him off, stepping toward him. Her eyes darkened with anger. — But you, who tries to turn his wife into a slave, I stopped respecting a long time ago. So grab the hoe and gloves and get to the plantation. Alone. And I’ll think over the weekend whether I need a husband-slaveowner. You can tell your parents their son is coming. And their daughter-in-law is busy reevaluating family values.

Without waiting for an answer, she abruptly turned and left the kitchen. Stas remained standing in the middle of the room, stunned and flushed with anger. Moments later, the sound from the bedroom grew louder and louder — an aggressive, vibrating bass of heavy music filled the room, cutting him off from Olya and any further conversation.

The music stopped as abruptly as it started. In the ensuing silence, the usually unnoticed sound of the refrigerator turned into an intrusive, monotonous hum. Stas, who had been sitting at the kitchen table staring at one spot the entire time, twitched. He heard the bedroom door handle click. He straightened, ready for a new round. He wasn’t going to back down.

Olya entered the kitchen calmly, even deliberately slowly. She didn’t look his way, walked to the stove where the sauté was cooling alone in the pan, and turned off the hood. Her movements were measured and economical, as if she were alone in the apartment.

— Well, did you listen enough? Concert’s over? — Stas asked, trying to make his voice sound mocking, not as he felt — furious and confused.

— Concert? — she finally turned to him. There was not a trace of a smile on her face. — Stas, this was not a concert. It was the soundtrack to my thoughts. And, you know, I came to some conclusions.

She sat at the table opposite him, looking him straight in the eyes. No aggression, only cold, detached statements.

— Have you completely lost it? What conclusions? Because I asked you to help your parents? Any normal wife would be glad to be useful to her husband’s family, but you’re making a circus!

— Exactly. “Asked.” You didn’t ask, Stas, you presented me with a fait accompli. You didn’t ask about my plans, my wishes, or how I felt. You simply decided for me that I must sacrifice my only days off for your parents’ garden, who don’t want to deal with it themselves. That’s not a request. That’s an order.

She spoke evenly, emotionlessly, and because of that her words cut even deeper. Stas felt anger boiling inside him again.

— What nonsense are you talking? What sacrifice? It’s just help! Family is supposed to help each other! Or is family for you just restaurants on Saturdays and vacations twice a year?

— For me, family is a partnership, Stas. It’s when two people respect each other. When they consider each other’s opinions and desires. What you’re offering is not a partnership. It’s exploitation. You don’t see me as a wife, you see me as a free add-on to yourself. A function. Today the function “daughter-in-law” must weed the potatoes. Tomorrow the function “wife” must cook a three-course dinner because your friends are coming. But what the “function” herself wants doesn’t matter to anyone.

He looked at her and felt like he was seeing her for the first time. Not his cheerful, easy-going Olya, but some strange, tough woman dissecting their life with a cold scalpel of logic.

— My father, — he muttered, — would never let his mother talk to him like that.

— Your father, Stas, carries your mother’s bags from the store, fixes the kitchen faucet himself, and never once told her she “must.” He respects her. And you’re trying to hide behind his authority to justify your own consumer attitude. So don’t drag your father into this. This conversation is about us. About you and me. And what you consider normal.

She stood, went to the sink, and turned on the tap to fill a glass of water. Stas watched her straight back and tense shoulders. He realized he was losing. His usual arguments weren’t working. He couldn’t push her with authority, couldn’t soften her, couldn’t accuse her. She deflected all his attacks with icy calm.

He stood and began pacing the kitchen, from wall to wall, like a caged beast. He felt powerless, and that infuriated him most of all. He stopped and looked at her.

— So what now? What did you decide, thinker?

Olya finished her water, set the glass down, and turned to him.

— I decided I’m not going. That’s not up for discussion. Also, I decided I need to think very carefully about how we live. Whether you want a “function” or if you actually want a wife.

She walked past him and headed to the room. Stas was left alone in the kitchen. The air smelled of cooled food and unspoken insults. He stood in silence for several seconds, then took out his phone. His fingers quickly flew over the screen. Olya, passing the doorway, stopped for a moment. She couldn’t see the screen but knew exactly whose name he was looking for in contacts. He was calling for backup.

Stas didn’t argue. He took the phone, went to the living room, and sat on the couch, deliberately turning his back to the kitchen where Olya remained. She didn’t go to the bedroom. She stood by the countertop, leaning on it with her hip, and listened. She knew what was about to happen and wanted to hear it with her own ears, unfiltered and without assumptions. She needed this last, decisive shot at the remnants of their marriage.

— Mom, hi, — he began in the tone of a hurt child denied candy. The voice that five minutes ago had tried to show masculine anger was now plaintive and high-pitched. — No, we’re not okay. Not okay at all. Olya… she refuses to go to the dacha.

Olya closed her eyes, mentally noting every word. He didn’t say: “We argued.” He didn’t say: “We had a misunderstanding.” He immediately, from the first sentence, marked the enemy and his victim position.

— Yes, flat out. I explained everything to her, like we agreed. That you’ll rest and we’ll come and help… No, she doesn’t want to listen. She yells it’s not her problem… — He made a theatrical pause, taking a deep breath for the next dose of lies. — She says you’re dumping everything on us on purpose. Imagine? That it’s slave labor, and I’m a slave owner.

He spoke while Olya stood feeling something inside her harden. It was no longer indignation. It was cold, almost surgical observation of betrayal unfolding. He wasn’t just complaining. He was slandering. He deliberately twisted her words, making her seem crazy and disrespectful, to gain support from the “heavy artillery.” He wasn’t seeking compromise with his wife; he was building a coalition against her.

— I told her, “These are my parents; you need to show respect.” And she… Well, it got like this… Yes, exactly that. Completely out of control. What to do, I don’t know… Okay, mom. Yes, waiting.

He hung up. Silence hung in the apartment again, but now it was different. It was charged, like the air before a storm. Stas didn’t turn around. He stayed sitting on the couch staring at the dark TV screen, his posture showing stubborn expectation. He was waiting for his rescuers, his army that would come and help him break his rebellious wife’s resistance.

Olya calmly, without any unnecessary movement, cleared the table, washed the pan and the glass. She acted methodically, like performing a well-known ritual. Every gesture filled with icy calm. She didn’t intend to hide. She wasn’t going to leave. If they wanted war, they would get it. Right here, in this kitchen that an hour ago was their shared territory, now turned battlefield.

About forty minutes passed. Forty minutes of absolute silence, interrupted only by the ticking of the wall clock. They didn’t say a word to each other. They simply existed in the same space like two strangers, fatefully locked in one room. Then came a sharp, demanding doorbell.

Stas jumped up like on command and hurried to the hallway. Olya stayed in the kitchen, straightening her back. She heard hurried lock clicks, door creaks, and excited voices.

— Mom, dad, come in…

In the kitchen doorway appeared Svetlana Igorevna, Stas’s mother. Her face was stern, lips pressed in extreme disapproval. Behind her, like a shadow, followed Anatoly Petrovich, a massive man with a heavy, judging look. They didn’t come to reconcile. They came to judge.

— Hello, Olya, — Svetlana Igorevna threw out, not even looking at her. Her entire demeanor said the greeting was no more than an annoying formality. She stepped to the kitchen center and fixed her gaze on her son. — Stasik, well, tell us, what happened here? What nonsense did she cause again?

Anatoly Petrovich silently stood next to his wife, arms crossed over his broad chest, looking at Olya as if she were some unpleasant insect. Feeling the parental power behind him, Stas immediately regained lost confidence.

— Well, dad, mom… I say, we have to go to the dacha, help out. And she screamed. That we’re selling her into slavery, that she doesn’t respect you, and anyway, it’s not her problem.

Svetlana Igorevna slowly turned her head to Olya. Her look was full of righteous anger.

— So we’re nobody to you now? So our help when you were doing the renovations was taken for granted? And when we needed help, we immediately became slave owners? I always knew you were selfish, but to this extent…

The three of them stood forming a solid, monolithic front. Son and his parents. And Olya stood opposite, alone. And she clearly understood that all words were already said over the phone. Now there would be no dialogue. Now a showy chastisement would begin.

Olya slowly surveyed all three. Svetlana Igorevna with her offended virtue face. Anatoly Petrovich, a massive statue full of silent condemnation. And Stas, her husband, hiding behind their broad backs like a naughty schoolboy behind the vice principal. She didn’t try to justify herself. Instead, she gave a slight smirk with just the corners of her lips.

— Help with the renovations, Svetlana Igorevna? — her voice was calm and strangely even, without the slightest sign of agitation. — Let’s be honest. That was not help. That was an investment. You weren’t investing in our family, but in your son’s comfort. You chose the wallpaper, decided the kitchen set color, and I silently agreed just so as not to spoil relations. You didn’t help us. You were setting up a branch of your apartment for your boy. So don’t try to charge me now for your designer ambitions.

Svetlana Igorevna was taken aback by such a response. She opened her mouth to deliver another round of reproaches but found nothing to say. It was so unexpected and spot-on.

Then Anatoly Petrovich joined the conversation. His voice was low and thick, like stale syrup.

— In a normal family, the wife listens to her husband. And respects his parents. That’s the foundation of foundations. But you, I see, decided to set your own rules.

He didn’t threaten. He delivered a verdict. But Olya didn’t even look his way. Her gaze was fixed on Stas.

— Exactly, Anatoly Petrovich. In a normal family. Where there is a husband. And I don’t think I have one — she stepped forward, closing the distance between herself and this united trio. — I have an adult boy who, at the first problem, the first disagreement, runs to complain to mommy. Who cannot solve an issue with his own woman but calls in parental special forces. You’re not a husband, Stas. You’re a son. You’re still their son, and I’m just an appendage to you that for some reason refuses to follow orders from the main headquarters.

She spoke directly to his face, ignoring his parents as if they weren’t even in the room. Stas flushed. Being accused of immaturity in front of his father was the worst humiliation.

— Will you shut up or not?! — he roared, completely losing control. — You will do as I say! I’m the man here! We’re going to the dacha, and you will weed those potatoes, got it?!

— No, — Olya simply replied. The short word sounded in the overheated kitchen air like a whip crack.

Stas looked at his father, seeking support, then at his mother. Their faces showed unwavering determination. They expected action from him, the last decisive blow. And he, urged on by their silent pressure and his own helplessness, delivered it.

— Then pack your things and get out! — he shouted, pointing a finger down the hallway. — I need a wife, not a smart impostor who will teach my parents how to live!

He said it. Let it out. And froze, waiting for her reaction. He expected screams, accusations, anything.

But Olya didn’t scream. She looked at him with a long, examining gaze, as if she saw his true essence stripped of all masks. In her eyes, there was no anger or offense. Only cold, impartial understanding. She nodded to herself, to her thoughts. The final point was set. And he placed it himself.

Without a word more, she turned away. Passed by them, stunned by their own “victory.” In the hallway, she took her purse and car keys from the shelf. She didn’t pack or explain anything. That would be redundant. He said it all himself.

She opened the front door. On the threshold, she turned for a second and looked at them. Three frozen figures in the center of her now former kitchen. The winners. Svetlana Igorevna with a belatedly frightened expression. Anatoly Petrovich, still frowning but no longer so confident. And Stas, her husband, on whose face slowly, like an emerging photo image, reflected the realization of what he had just done.

— I’ll let you know when I file for divorce and property division. I’ll come for my things when you and your “support group” aren’t home.

Olya left and quietly closed the door behind her. The lock click sounded deafeningly loud in the empty apartment. They were left alone. Alone with their righteousness, their six sotkas of potatoes, and the deafening emptiness that just swallowed their family…

Advertisements