“You know what, darling? Mom’s right. You’re a freeloader—go get a job!” Ilya barked at his stunned wife, slamming the table so hard a spoon at the edge jumped.
Svetlana froze. She had no idea what to say. A hot mash of hurt, anger, and bewilderment boiled in her head.
Freeloader.
She was the one who paid the mortgage, the water, electricity, gas—she even covered Ilya’s mobile plan from the interest on her savings. The one who lived for her husband, did the laundry, cooked, waited on him, made the home cozy and clean.
Before marriage, Sveta had dreamed of being a full-time homemaker; by thirty-three she’d saved a solid sum, dropped everything, and put a big X through her future career. She decided to live for herself.
And Ilya—seven years younger than Svetlana—had married this successful woman more out of self-interest than love.
It seemed that this time he’d exploded and forgotten something very important. For example, whose place his beloved mother, Irina Arnoldovna, was so comfortably occupying. And whose apartment they were, pardon the expression, sitting in at all while Ilya was “going through a rough patch.”
“Alright, darling,” Sveta said.
“So I’m a freeloader, am I,” she repeated slowly.
Ilya, feeling the cold draft from the stairwell at his back, gave an uncertain shrug.
“Well, what else would you call it? We don’t have much money. You’re home all the time, and I’m the one working.”
“So it’s not enough for you.”
Sveta tilted her head and looked him in the eye.
Looks like the boy wants to play head of the family, she thought.
Out loud she said, “Fine, Ilyusha, you’ll have more money. Just wait.”
Pivoting on her heel, she pulled her phone from her pocket and, unhurriedly, called a taxi.
“Where are you going?” Ilya asked, trying to stop her, already sensing she had something in mind.
“For money. For money,” Svetlana said calmly, and slammed the door.
In the taxi, Svetlana sat tapping her nails nervously against her phone.
Freeloader. So I’m the one feeding you two, maintaining that spare apartment I picked up cheap by chance and then handed over to my mother-in-law, fulfilling her dream of moving to the city in her old age. And now I get to listen to her endless complaints about hemorrhoids, sciatica, and the bad weather.
And on top of that—“Go get a job.”
“Sure, I’ll just run to the nearest real-estate agency,” she tossed to the driver. “You’ll wait there.”
Ten minutes later, Sveta, wearing a tight little smile and wasting no time, stepped into an office with the sign “Your Home.” It was on the way to her second apartment—the very one where, out of the goodness of her heart, her mother-in-law had temporarily settled.
“I urgently need tenants,” she told the girl at the front desk. “Urgently, preferably students—cat’s fine too. The main thing is they pay at least a couple months up front.”
“Please go to office five,” the girl chirped, pasting on a standard-issue white-toothed smile. “Igor handles tenant placements. You can tell him everything.”
Though inside, she probably didn’t think much of Sveta—too brisk, too businesslike.
Realtor Igor, having learned what the client needed, started asking detailed questions, then filled out forms based on her answers.
“You know, I have a couple of young guys—sounds like exactly what you want. I think your offer will suit them. We just need you to sign a cooperation agreement.”
“Fine. Let’s do it.”
Svetlana signed the rental agreement briskly, barely glancing at it.
“So they’ll come tomorrow?” she confirmed.
“Yes, of course, I think so. In any case, by your conditions there’ll already be tenants in your apartment by tomorrow.”
He gave her an encouraging smile. “At the very least, I’ll do my utmost.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Svetlana wasn’t in the mood for a long chat. Ilya’s words were still boiling inside her.
Half an hour later she was at the door of her apartment. Naturally, it was her mother-in-law who answered—wearing an old village robe of blue with white flowers, curlers in her hair.
“Sveta, why didn’t you call ahead? Did something happen? You don’t look like yourself at all.” Sensing trouble with a woman’s intuition, Irina Arnoldovna added, “I’ve just put on some borscht. Wait a bit—you can have dinner with me.”
Svetlana cut her off in a tone that brooked no argument. “Please get your things together—your time living here is up,” the daughter-in-law said.
Her mother-in-law blinked, then flapped her hands, completely at a loss for how to react.
“What do you mean ‘up’? You yourself said, ‘Stay as long as you want.’ Have you forgotten? I even bought a wardrobe for my things. And what happened, anyway? What’s gotten into you?”
Sveta nodded sweetly. “I remember what I said. But, you see, your son Ilya is having a tough time right now. So tough he’s in despair. Money isn’t enough for him, and today he even raised his voice at me. So, Irina Arnoldovna, please pack up—this apartment is going up for rent starting tomorrow. You’ll have to forgive me.”
Without wasting time, she began stuffing the stunned woman’s things into the first garbage bags she laid hands on.
Fifteen minutes later, a man with tools—summoned by Svetlana while she was still in the taxi—appeared at the door. He was from a company that did small, fast repairs.
“I’m the locksmith. You called?” he asked.
“Yes, of course—come in,” Sveta said, throwing the door wide.
Irina Arnoldovna, still in shock, could only gasp.
“Sveta, what on earth are you doing?”
“I’m taking care of my family’s future,” Svetlana replied without a trace of irony. “It’s all for increasing our income.”
Meanwhile, the locksmith cheerfully drilled away, changing the locks.
Sniffling in confusion, Irina Arnoldovna pleaded, “Sweet Svetočka, what about me? Think about it. I’ve gotten used to it here. And there’s my borscht on the stove, and my begonia.”
“It’s fine,” Sveta said briskly. “You can take the pot with you, and the begonia will take just as well in the village.”
The mother-in-law was clearly at a loss for words.
“Don’t worry. There’s a car waiting by the entrance. The driver will take you to your village—with the begonias, and even your borscht.”
When Sveta got home, Ilya was sitting on the couch with a sour face. His mother had already called and told him everything.
“So where were you?” he muttered darkly.
Svetlana matter-of-factly took off her coat and tossed her bag onto a chair.
“Looking for money, my dear—and I found it. Starting tomorrow, the apartment your mother was living in is being rented out. That’s my decision.
“And since, as you say, we’re short on money, we’ll live modestly. You’ll walk to work, and instead of café lunches you’ll take containers from home and coffee in a thermos, because we are going to economize.
“And no beer in the evenings or other entertainments. As for food—mostly porridge and a few vegetables. That’s how it’ll be until your finances get back to normal.”
Ilya half-rose in outrage at the new rules. “Sveta, are you out of your mind? Did you throw my mother out? Where is she?”
“Calm down. Your mother is on her way home. Her things are somewhere between the city limits and the village cultural center.”
Ilya gulped for air like a fish tossed onto the shore. “So you really did kick my mother out.”
“No. I simply optimized our expenses and increased our income.”
“You’re a monster, Sveta. That’s my mother. She’s an elderly woman.”
“Nothing terrible will happen,” Sveta said sweetly. “Country air is good for the health. The local nurse once told her herself: ‘Hoe potatoes three times a day and all your ailments will vanish.’”
Ilya sank back onto the couch, feeling the ground slip from under his feet.
Meanwhile, by the taxi stuffed with belongings, a drama of its own was unfolding.
Irina Arnoldovna was calling every relative she had. She had no desire whatsoever to return to the village.
“Lyuba, hello, it’s me. Listen, take me in, would you?”
“What do you mean, ‘a two-room place for three people’? That’s hell already.”
“Well, fine. Alya, hi, dear. Could I stay with you for a week?”
“What do you mean you’re flying to Turkey? I love the sea too.”
She moaned, lamented, fumed—while the taxi driver couldn’t have cared less. His day’s work was already paid for, and he preferred standing still to driving anywhere.
And Irina Arnoldovna looked as if she’d survived a small apocalypse.
After another half hour on the phone, she finally headed to the village.
Ilya, for his part, couldn’t forgive Svetlana for what he called a cruel act.
And after a week of living on nothing but porridge, he too quietly disappeared—leaving Svetlana with just one question:
“Why?”
“So you wouldn’t get on my nerves,” Svetlana replied.
Now she looked at him not with love, but with contempt. Turns out she’d simply grown tired of him.
She might be alone now, but her nerves were much calmer—and no one called her a freeloader anymore.
