Anna sat on the edge of the couch as if it were a taut wire. Beneath her was the expensive upholstery she had bought for herself—upholstery that Yelena Mikhailovna had been calling “marketplace tackiness” for three months now. Vasily, on the other hand, lounged comfortably in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, cracking sunflower seeds—despite being far past the age when that was excusable. Thirty-eight years old, a father of two, and still cracking seeds like a ninth-grader in the courtyard.
“Well, Annushka,” Yelena Mikhailovna said with a sly tone, noisily setting a pot of borscht on the table, “Vasya and I talked it over and decided: let’s sell your little car. You work nearby anyway, but Marina needs to get to the clinic somehow. She can’t exactly ride a minibus with a pregnant belly, right?”
“Talked it over,” Anna mocked silently. So I’m just the yard dog here—put on a leash and led wherever they decide.
“Did you ask me?” she replied evenly, her voice cold enough to freeze water, locking eyes with her mother-in-law.
“What’s there to ask?” the older woman sniffed, ladling herself some borscht. “In our family, if someone’s struggling, everyone helps. That’s normal. I raised my son with that principle. But you—you only ever think about yourself…”
Without looking up from his phone, Vasily mumbled,
“Anya, you know Marina’s pregnant, it’s hard for her now… It’s not forever. Once she’s back on her feet, we’ll give it back.”
“Give it back?” Anna suddenly smirked. “Will you put that in writing? Or will it be like that kitchen loan—still in your mom’s possession after five years of ‘just long-term safekeeping’?”
“What kind of person are you?” Yelena Mikhailovna flared up. “I’m not your enemy! I’m your mother! You should be offering help yourself, not sitting here looking like some sulky princess! Everything’s wrong for you, everything’s unfair!”
Anna stood up. No shouting, no drama. Just… done. She’d spent too long pretending not to notice how “lovingly” this family clipped her wings. Without a word, she walked into the bedroom. That’s when the chorus started:
“She’s mad?” her mother-in-law stage-whispered loudly, as if Anna were deaf.
“Anya, seriously?” Vasily called. “Don’t be so harsh. Mom probably didn’t mean it that way…”
“I spoke as a mother!” Yelena Mikhailovna declared. “If she doesn’t understand that, then she’s not one of us. She doesn’t fit in this family.”
A couple of minutes later, Anna came out holding the car documents. She placed them on the table.
“Here’s the deal. The car is mine, registered in my name. The apartment, by the way, I inherited from my grandmother—none of you have any claim to it. That’s my entire ‘contribution’ to your version of family.”
“You’re going to ruin everything over some piece of metal?!” Yelena Mikhailovna cried.
“No—over you,” Anna said with a nod. “Over your endless control, and over your cowardly compliance, Vasya.”
“Anya, wait,” Vasily groaned, holding his head. “We just wanted to help Marina…”
“Then sell your garage with the 2003 Lada,” Anna said with a sharp smile. “You can definitely take taxis—you won’t fall apart.”
Her mother-in-law banged her spoon against her bowl.
“You’re not a wife, you’re a businesswoman. All you think about is property and papers. No heart, no conscience.”
“And you’re nothing but love and compassion?” Anna shot back. “Funny how it’s always at my expense. Astonishing kind of charity you’ve got.”
She left for the bathroom, shutting the door to breathe. Inside, she was trembling—not from fear, but from rage.
A couple of hours later, Vasily came into the bedroom. No sunflower seeds, no phone, no pride.
“Anya… let’s talk.”
“Too late, Vasya. Too late to drink Borjomi after your mom’s sold the kidneys. You didn’t even make a peep when she was discussing how to get rid of my car. What was that?”
“I didn’t want a fight…”
“You never want anything—except peace and quiet. And that ‘quiet’ always means you stay silent while I give up my rights, my property, and my common sense.”
Vasily exhaled heavily.
“Let’s talk tomorrow. Like adults. We’ll sit down, sort it out. Don’t get heated.”
Anna looked him straight in the eye.
“Are you sure you’re still my man, Vasya? Or have you been your mother’s for a long time now?”
He said nothing.
The apartment was silent. Even the pot of borscht had gone cold.
The next morning, Anna woke earlier than usual. Sunlight streamed in through the window—brazenly, as if it knew today was a turning point. Vasily was snoring on the kitchen couch, like nothing had happened. As if he’d just won an argument about curtain colors, not sold her out to his mother.
She poured herself coffee, careful not to clink the cups—not out of respect, but out of principle. Noise was emotion. Today, she was steel.
Enough. They’d get not one more inch of her life.
Yelena Mikhailovna swept into the kitchen—didn’t enter, but flew in—wearing a robe, a hairnet, and a face full of accusations.
“Well, mistress of the apartment,” she sneered, “did you sleep well in your rightful square meters?”
Anna turned to her silently, her gaze so sharp that if Yelena Mikhailovna had been any wiser, she would’ve walked right back out. But no—fools’ bravery is the most destructive kind.
“I’ve been thinking,” the older woman continued, sitting down at the table and reaching for Anna’s cup. “Maybe you just don’t understand how a family works. Back in my day, if a man was struggling, his wife stood behind him like a rock. You’re more like a cemetery notary—counting who gets what.”
“Lovely metaphor,” Anna said calmly, taking her cup back. “Except I’m not at a cemetery—I’m in a marriage. Or I was.”
“Oh, the drama,” her mother-in-law snorted. “Like in a soap opera. Don’t you think you’re overdoing it, Annushka?”
At that moment, Vasily shuffled in, scratching his head, wearing the sweatpants Anna had wanted to throw out two years ago.
“Mom, are you starting again?” he mumbled.
“And you’re silent again?” Anna snapped, turning to him. “No, Vasya—right now. Choose. Right now.”
“Don’t dramatize,” he muttered, trying to sound wise. “We can work this out. Like adults.”
“Then act like one. I’m asking: who are you? My husband, or an extension of your mother’s kitchen?”
Yelena Mikhailovna stood, her voice icy.
“Son, tell me plainly—is she more important to you than your mother? I raised you. Fed you. Married you… to her. And this is how it is?”
Vasily stood there like a donkey at a crossroads, as if choosing between two supermarkets with only one coupon.
Anna stepped closer.
“You know what hurts the most? Not that you don’t defend me. That you defend them. And you stay silent, as if you’re not even part of it—just a spectator. As if this marriage is a TV show, not your life.”
“I didn’t want a war…” he mumbled.
“This isn’t war. It’s an escape. I’m leaving. Actually—you’re leaving.”
“We?”
Anna opened the hall closet, pulled out his bag, tossed in his shirts.
“Five minutes. Or I start throwing things out myself. What matters more—your mom, or this apartment? Leave the keys on the table. And take the borscht—it’s hers. You can taste it.”
Vasily looked at her like a cat staring at a closed fridge—hoping someone might come back and open it.
“Anya…”
“Too late, Vasily. I no longer believe you’ll ever grow up. Forty years old and still under the skirt. I don’t need a son like that. Certainly not a husband.”
Yelena Mikhailovna slammed the bedroom door, then returned with her own bag—stuffed with blood pressure, control, advice, and the eternal line: “In our house, we never did things that way.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were gone. Anna stood by the door like after a fire. It smelled of borscht, but she wanted a cigarette.
She went to the kitchen, took her wineglass from the cupboard, poured herself a drink. Looked out the window. It was raining—just like in the movies.
And suddenly, it was funny. She smiled—first with just the corner of her mouth, then out loud.
“And no—I’m not a cemetery notary. I’m the mistress of my own life. Finally.
