— Olya, you have to understand—we’re not strangers. Stasik wouldn’t approve if he found out you’re treating us like this, Anna Petrovna’s voice—oily and syrup-slow—filled the whole kitchen. She sat at the table Olya had polished to a shine just an hour earlier and acted as if she’d been the one to choose the furniture and the wall color. Her gaze slid over the glossy cabinet fronts, the new coffee machine, the orchid on the windowsill—predatory, appraising.
Beside her, perched on the edge of a chair, was Lena. At twenty-five she looked like a teenager offended by the whole world. She sniffled and worried the hem of a cheap blouse, putting on a show of universal grief and life’s injustice. She wasn’t looking at Olya, but off to the side, at the perfectly clean floor, as if calculating how many pairs of expensive shoes you could buy if you sold that laminate.
— My boots have completely fallen apart, she squeaked, lifting tear-bright eyes to Olya, full of hopeful pleading. Winter’s coming. And my pay’s been delayed… again. I don’t even have enough for a transit pass—I have to walk across the whole city.
Olya took a deep breath and let it out slowly, not taking her eyes off the laptop monitor. She worked from home, and this sudden visit—under the pretext of “we just stopped by to check on you, since you’re here alone”—had knocked her off balance. She didn’t turn around. She kept staring at the lines of code, as if they could generate a protective force field against the sticky, viscous self-pity her guests were radiating.
— Lena, I already told you last week. And the week before. I can’t give you money, she said evenly, without raising her voice. Every word was measured. Stas and I keep separate finances. I spend my money on our shared needs—on this apartment and on myself. Stas’s salary goes to his projects and to helping you. He knows.
Anna Petrovna made a sound in her throat, like a strangled cluck. She dragged her chair closer to the table; her heavy body loomed over Olya. She smelled of mothballs and cheap perfume, a mixture that made headaches bloom. She wasn’t used to being contradicted—especially not so calmly and logically.
— What do you mean, “separate”? she hissed, leaning right to Olya’s ear. Her breath was stale. Is he your husband or what? Family is one common pot, Olyenka. It’s always been that way. And you’re hoarding like a rat while my son busts his back a thousand miles away! He’s always helped us, and what are you doing now—making up your own rules?
Olya slowly closed the laptop. The plastic click sounded deafening in the sudden silence. At last she turned and looked her mother-in-law straight in the face—calmly, without a trace of fear.
— Anna Petrovna, let’s make this clear once and for all. The fact that Stas helps you from his own money is his personal decision and his responsibility. I’ve never interfered and I’m not going to. But my money is my money. I work no less than he does—sometimes even more—and I don’t consider myself obligated to support a grown, able-bodied woman, she shifted her gaze to Lena, who immediately shrank under it, and her mother.
Lena whimpered, but this time silently, just sucking in air through her nose. Anna Petrovna flushed dark red, her face blotching. She’d expected anything—excuses, pleading, a screaming match. But this cold, businesslike tone, as if Olya were discussing a quarterly report, drove her mad.
— How dare you— she started, but Olya cut her off, raising a hand, palm up.
— I’ve said everything. Coffee? Or should I call you a taxi? I think the conversation is over. I need to work—my project deadlines are on fire.
She stood and went to the coffee machine, deliberately turning her back to them. Behind her she heard Anna Petrovna’s heavy snorting and Lena’s quiet crying. She knew this wasn’t the end. It was only a declaration of war. A couple minutes later came shuffling—they stood up.
— We won’t let this go, Anna Petrovna threw over her shoulder from the hallway, her voice dripping with venom. Stas will find out how you treat his family. He’ll show you what “separate finances” really means!
Olya didn’t turn around as she pressed the espresso button. She listened to them putting on their shoes, the clatter of keys, the front door opening and closing. She didn’t hear a slam, but she felt all the air leave the apartment with them. Evening was ahead. And a call from Stas. She knew it.
Evening wrapped the apartment in a dense, velvety cocoon. Olya took a shower, washing off the sticky aftertaste of the morning visit, and changed into a simple home outfit. In the kitchen, in the silence broken only by the ticking wall clock, she reheated dinner and poured herself a glass of red wine—not to relax, but more as a ritual, an assertion of her right to peace in her own home. She sat at the table—the same one where his mother and sister had sat hours earlier—and took the first sip. The tannic bite pleasantly burned her throat. In that moment, she felt in control—mistress of the situation, mistress of her life.
And at that exact second, the phone screen lying on the counter lit up.
“Stas.”
Olya stared at the name for a few moments, letting the ringtone cut through the silence. She knew this would happen. She was ready. She picked up, swiped, raised it to her ear—without saying a word.
— Hi, his voice was brisk—too brisk. The sound of machinery in the background said he was calling right from the job site. How are you there? Everything okay?
— Everything’s fine, she answered evenly, looking at her dinner, nearly cold now.
— Listen, he paused briefly, as if choosing words, but it still came out awkward and blunt. Olya, Mom called—complaining. She’s really upset. Says you practically kicked them out. What happened over there?
Olya was silent. She listened, trying to catch even a note of doubt, a hint of wanting to understand. There was nothing—only the tired condescension of a boss settling a petty squabble among subordinates.
— Stas, your mother and sister came to shake me down for money. That’s the short version, she said, setting her glass down. The wine suddenly tasted sour.
In the receiver came an irritated exhale. He clearly didn’t want details. He needed a quick, simple solution so he could get back to work and his relatives would stop blowing up his phone.
— Olya, don’t start. What money? What are you making up? People just needed help. Give them something—what, are you stingy? Give them half your salary and let them calm down. I’ll come back and we’ll deal with it.
The words “we’ll deal with it” landed like a sentence. Like a statement that the final decision was always his, and her opinion was only an annoying obstacle. And in that moment something inside Olya—a thin thread of patience stretched to breaking point by years of those “we’ll deal with it”—snapped with a dry crack. She didn’t scream. Her voice, on the contrary, grew quieter, acquiring a terrifying metallic firmness.
— Half. Of my. Salary, she said, syllable by syllable, each one ringing with cold fury. Are you serious right now? Do you even hear what you’re saying?
— And what did I say that’s so wrong? he started to rev up; the fake cheer in his voice disappeared. That’s my family—I help them!
And that was when it burst out of her.
— I don’t owe your mother or your sister anything! So they can stop dreaming and keep their hands out of my pocket! I’m not giving them a single kopeck! Let them go get jobs instead of begging from me while you’re off on business trips!
She spoke fast, punching every word, and felt an invisible weight slide off her shoulders with each sentence.
— Have you lost your mind, Stas? Trying to control my money? Ordering me who I’m supposed to hand over what I earned with my own back?
— Stop it! That’s my family! I won’t let you talk about them like that! he shouted from the other end.
— Your family is me! her voice broke—not from tears, but from rage. And if you still haven’t understood that—if to you I’m just a wallet that, on your command, is supposed to feed your two lazy relatives—then by the time you get back you might find you don’t have a family anymore. And you can support your mommy and your little sister until the end of their days. Alone.
And she hit end call. Without waiting for an answer. The phone in her hand felt ice-cold. Silence returned to the apartment, but it was a different silence now—not peaceful, but ringing, filled with a choice that had been made. Dinner was ruined beyond saving. Then again, she no longer had an appetite.
She hung up. The frantic roar in her ears left over from her own shouting slowly faded, giving way to the apartment’s primal quiet. Olya didn’t move. She just stared at the dark phone screen in her hand. Less than five seconds passed before it lit up again. The vibration against the countertop was sharp, predatory, and the glowing name “Stas” looked like a brazen invasion of the space she’d just fought for. She didn’t answer. She simply dismissed the call.
He called again. And again. And again—persistent as a woodpecker hammering an ancient oak. On the seventh call, Olya picked up and, without answering, switched the phone to silent. Now the screen merely lit up, flashing like a mute reproach. She watched the silent light show with detached curiosity. It looked like agony—agony of his power over her, which, right now, in those soundless flashes, was breathing its last.
When the calls stopped, the messages started. First, confusion: “What are you doing? Pick up.” Then an order: “I said pick up immediately!” Next came accusations and manipulation: “You decided to throw a fit over nothing? Mom’s an elderly person—she has a bad heart.” And finally, open threats: “I’m coming back, and we’re going to have a very serious talk. You’ll regret this circus.” Olya read them all. She didn’t clear the notifications; she let them pile up on the lock screen, turning into a digital monument to his powerless fury. She felt nothing—no fear, no guilt—only cold, crystalline clarity.
Half an hour later, a new contact lit up: “Anna Petrovna.” Olya smirked at the screen. Plan B. Stas, failing to break through her defenses, had predictably deployed heavy artillery. She ignored the call. Then another. Then “Lena” flashed on the screen. Apparently, they’d decided to attack together, from two flanks. Olya set the phone at the other end of the table, face down.
She stood and went to the window, reflexively looking out into the courtyard. A streetlamp carved a bench near the entrance out of the darkness. And on it, hunched against the evening chill and their own indignation, sat the two of them—Anna Petrovna and Lena. They weren’t looking around. They were staring up at Olya’s third-floor windows. It was a siege—primitive, pathetic, and therefore no less revealing. They didn’t try to come up, didn’t ring the intercom. They just sat and waited—waiting for her to break, to peek out, to call them up, to surrender.
Olya looked down at them from above, and in that moment understood: the bridges were burned for good. This was no longer about money. Not about boots, not about “help.” It was a battle for territory—for the right to consider this home theirs. For the right to breathe in it freely, without bending to someone else’s desires and expectations. She watched the two dark figures who embodied everything that had suffocated her in recent years, and felt nothing toward them except cold disgust. They were strangers—absolutely, irrevocably strangers.
She stepped away from the window and calmly went to the bedroom. There she opened her laptop and sank back into work, finding salvation in the logic of code and the clean clarity of tasks from the irrational madness unfolding under her windows. She worked an hour, then two. The phone on the kitchen table lit up periodically, but she no longer noticed.
Closer to midnight, she returned to the kitchen for water. On the phone screen there was one single new message—from Stas. It had arrived half an hour earlier and differed from the previous ones. No yelling, no threats, no pleading—only seven dry, businesslike words that smelled of metal-coldness:
— I’m taking the first morning flight. Wait.
Olya read the message. Then read it again. She didn’t feel anxious. On the contrary, a strange, almost joyful relief washed over her. Good. Let him fly in. This drawn-out war of texts and stakeouts by the entrance had exhausted her. It was time to end it. She turned off the kitchen light, leaving the two figures on the bench alone with their futile expectations, and went to bed. For the first time in a long while, she knew she’d fall asleep quickly and sleep deeply—because tomorrow would bring not fear, but freedom.
The key turned in the lock with a sharp, alien scrape. Olya didn’t flinch. She sat in an armchair in the living room with a book in her hands, but she wasn’t reading it. She was simply waiting, watching the patterns of streetlight spill across the wall. It was the only illumination in the room, casting long, distorted shadows. She heard him come in—heard him drop his bag on the floor with a dull thud, heard him exhale heavily, air thick with airplane fatigue and righteous anger.
Stas appeared in the living-room doorway—disheveled, eyes red from lack of sleep and rage. He hadn’t flown in to make peace. He’d flown in to win, to punish, to put her in her place. He surveyed the dim room, found her with his eyes, and planted his hands on his hips, his whole posture shouting who the boss was here.
— So, had enough games? His voice was hoarse but loud, meant to crush her with authority right away. Decided you can do whatever you feel like? Not answering the phone, insulting my family?
Olya slowly—deliberately—placed a bookmark in the book and closed it. She set the volume on the side table and only then looked up at him. There was no fear in her eyes, no guilt, no retaliatory aggression. Only boundless, all-consuming exhaustion and a cold, detached curiosity—the way an entomologist studies a dead insect.
— Hello, Stas, she said quietly, but her voice filled the room without effort. You didn’t come to talk. You came to start a scandal, to bend me, and to prove the last word is always yours. To make sure I know my place. Am I wrong?
For a moment he was thrown by her bluntness. He’d prepared for yelling, for accusations, for an emotional brawl—his element. Instead, he got a cold analysis of his motives.
— I came to explain that you don’t behave like that! he barked, trying to regain initiative. Mother and sister are sacred! And you—
— Your mother and your sister, she corrected calmly. Exactly. They’re yours. They never were and never became mine, because you didn’t want that. You never built an “us,” Stas. You just moved your things into my place and decided you now had a convenient base from which you could keep taking care of your old family. To you I wasn’t a partner. I was… a functional add-on. Convenient. With a good salary.
Each word fell into the room’s silence like a stone into icy water. Stas opened his mouth to argue, but found nothing to say. He stared at her, and it began to sink in: this wasn’t another fight. This was something else—something final.
— Yesterday you shouted into the phone, “this is my family.” You were absolutely right, she continued in the same flat, lifeless tone. And yesterday I finally understood it. For real. Your family is them—Anna Petrovna, whom you’ve spent your whole life proving you’re a good son to; Lena, whom you pity and drag along, encouraging her infantilism. And me… I was just a resource. You didn’t protect me from them—you tried to solve their problems at my expense so they wouldn’t bother you. And when the resource rebelled, you rushed back not to figure it out, but to fix it.
She slowly stood. Her silhouette was sharply outlined against the window.
— Do you know what your biggest mistake was, Stas? You were sure I wouldn’t go anywhere. That I’d yell and then calm down. That you could come back, shout, maybe even slam a fist on the table, and everything would return to normal. But you didn’t account for one thing. I’m tired. Not since yesterday—since a very, very long time ago. And yesterday I simply stopped trying.
He stared at her, and his anger evaporated, replaced first by confusion and then by a freezing realization. There was nothing in her eyes. Emptiness. She was looking through him.
— I packed your things, she said, nodding toward the hallway, where two of his suitcases and a gym bag stood against the wall. Everything you bought is there. You can go. To your family. You worry about them so much—now you’ll have plenty of time and money to take care of them. Only them. No one will climb into your pocket or get in your way of being the perfect son and brother.
Stas’s gaze flicked from her to the suitcases and back. His face twisted. He wanted to say something—maybe shout, maybe beg—but only a strangled rasp came out. He took a step toward her.
— Don’t come closer, her voice cracked like a whip. It’s over, Stas. You got what you wanted. Now they’re your responsibility. Alone.
He froze in the middle of the room, in a cold, чужая apartment that yesterday had been his home. He looked at the woman who had been his wife and saw a complete stranger. A person who had handed down a verdict—and already carried it out. And in the deafening silence he finally understood: in chasing the right to provide for his family, he had just lost his own—completely and irrevocably…
