Daria stood in the middle of the spacious living room, unable to believe what she was seeing. Her favorite warm sweaters were scattered across the brand-new laminate floor. Maxim, breathing heavily from the effort, was yanking them off the closet shelves and stuffing them mercilessly into cheap checkered bags.
“Maxim, what are you doing?” Daria gasped. “Why are you touching my things?”
Her husband turned around. His face was red, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. He wiped his hands on his jeans and gave his wife a condescending look.
“My mother and sister are moving in tomorrow,” he announced. “This room is the brightest one, south-facing. Mom has trouble walking, she needs sunlight. Oksana and Sonya will take the second bedroom on the ground floor. You and I will move up to the attic. The roof isn’t insulated yet, but it’s fine. We’ll put a heater there.”
Daria opened her mouth, but the words got stuck somewhere in her dry throat.
She had bought this house in the village of Zarechny two weeks ago. For eight years, she had saved every coin. She had worked two shifts as a pharmacist, taken night duties, and denied herself almost everything. While Maxim jumped from one job to another, constantly complaining about “unfair bosses,” Daria saved. Six months earlier, she had sold the little country house she had inherited from her grandfather. The money had been just enough for a solid brick home.
She had registered everything in her own name and surprised Maxim with it. She had hoped that fresh air and a new beginning might breathe life back into their marriage, which had been falling apart for years.
And now he was moving her into a freezing attic.
“Maxim,” Daria said, her voice trembling, though she forced herself to straighten her back. “This is my house. I bought it with my own money and my grandfather’s inheritance. I am not going to squeeze myself into the attic, and I am certainly not letting your relatives live here.”
“Oh, spare me that greedy little speech,” Maxim snapped, kicking the bag with her clothes. “‘My house, my money.’ We’re family! My mother’s landlady raised the rent. They can’t afford it anymore. I called them yesterday and told them to start packing. They already gave the keys back to the landlord. Tomorrow morning, I’m renting a truck and bringing them here. End of discussion. I am the head of the family, and I make the decisions.”
Daria looked at her husband, and it was as if a thick veil had finally fallen from her eyes.
For eight years, she had served this so-called “head of the family.” She bought groceries. She paid the utilities in his tiny thirty-square-meter apartment, the one he had brought her to after their wedding. She endured the endless visits from Zinaida Markovna, who would run her finger along shelves looking for dust and lecture Daria on how to wash her precious son’s socks.
And now this man was standing in her house — a house paid for with her sweat — throwing her belongings out of the closet.
“They are not moving in here,” she said quietly, pronouncing every word with sharp clarity.
“Dasha, shut your mouth,” Maxim said, narrowing his eyes as he stepped toward her. The sharp smell of his cheap cologne filled the air. “You are a wife. Your job is to cook soup and make a home comfortable. Tomorrow by lunchtime, there had better be a hot meal on the table. Mom will be tired from the trip. Now take these bags upstairs.”
He turned away, stomping heavily down the stairs, and went outside to get some air.
Daria crouched beside the checkered bag. The sleeve of her favorite cashmere sweater was sticking out of it helplessly. Something inside her snapped. There were no tears, no hysterics. Only a cold, perfectly clear certainty.
She stood up and walked to the window. Maxim was standing by the fence, laughing loudly into his phone.
“Yes, Mom, everything’s great! The room is huge, sunlight straight through the window. Dasha will cook everything!”
Daria took out her phone. She quickly found the number of the handyman who had installed her washing machine the week before.
“Sergey? Hello. This is Daria from Zarechny, where you connected the appliance. I urgently need the lock changed on my metal front door. And I need the strongest possible bolt for the gate. Right now. I’ll pay triple.”
Ten minutes later, Maxim came back inside.
“All right, I’m going into town,” he said without even looking at her. “I need to buy boxes and rent a Gazelle truck. You clean up here. And hang curtains in Mom’s room. She hates drafts. Expect us tomorrow at two.”
The front door slammed loudly. His old foreign car growled to life.
As soon as the car disappeared around the bend, Daria got to work.
She pulled her own clothes out of Maxim’s bags. Then, without folding anything, she began throwing his belongings into them: his shirts, greasy sweatpants, fishing magazines, razor, cheap cologne. Everything he had managed to bring into the house over the past two days.
The handyman arrived forty minutes later. While the drill roared as he removed the old lock cylinder from the expensive metal door, Daria dragged the bags outside.
The sky over the village darkened quickly. A heavy, lead-gray cloud rolled in. Soon, a fine, unpleasant autumn rain began to fall.
“All done, ma’am,” Sergey said, handing her a set of shiny new keys. The lock was complex, with laser-cut keys. No simple pick would open it. On the gate, a massive bolt and heavy padlock now gleamed.
Daria paid him. Then she carried out the last bag with her husband’s winter boots and placed it right behind the gate, on the wet, dead grass. The rain grew heavier.
She printed a sheet of paper on the printer she had brought with her, slipped it into a thick plastic sleeve, wrapped it in tape so it would not get soaked, and hung it on the outside of the fence.
Then she went back into the house. She turned the key twice.
Click.
She made herself tea, wrapped up in a warm blanket, and sat in the armchair by the window.
They arrived the next day at exactly two o’clock. The rusty Gazelle truck screeched to a stop. The doors swung open. An icy rain was falling, and the wind bent the apple tree branches.
Maxim jumped out first, pulling up his hood. Behind him, Zinaida Markovna climbed down, wrapped tightly in her puffer coat. Oksana followed, dragging her reluctant daughter along. The driver began unloading wet cardboard boxes from the back of the truck straight onto the asphalt.
“Hey, wife! Come greet us!” Maxim shouted, rushing to the gate.
He grabbed the handle with the confidence of an owner.
Locked.
He pulled out his key and tried to insert it into the lock. The key hit resistance and would not go in.
“What’s going on?” his mother called irritably, shifting from foot to foot in a puddle. “Open up already! My feet are soaked! Sonya is freezing!”
“It’s stuck or something,” Maxim muttered, swearing as he shook the metal so hard the whole fence rattled.
Then his gaze dropped.
By the gate, right on the rain-soaked ground, stood four checkered bags. From one of them, his favorite fishing rod had burst through the zipper. On top of the bags lay a plastic-covered sheet of paper, taped securely in place.
Oksana stepped closer, squinting through the rain, and read aloud:
“Private property. Entry to outsiders is strictly forbidden. The former husband’s belongings are outside the fence. His keys have been deactivated.”
Complete silence fell, broken only by the sound of the pouring rain.
“What?!” Maxim’s face turned dark red. He grabbed the bars of the gate. “Dasha! Dasha, open this immediately! What kind of circus is this?”
Zinaida Markovna gasped and clutched her chest.
“What is happening here?” she screamed so loudly the neighbor’s dogs started barking. “You threw a mother out into the rain? How dare she! This is my son’s house!”
“What house?” Oksana shouted in panic. “Maxim, you said everything was settled! I gave the keys back to my landlord! Where are we supposed to go now? Other people are already living there!”
Daria took a sip of tea. Calmly, she set the cup down. Then she put on a windbreaker and walked out onto the porch. She did not go near the fence. She stopped on the steps, safely beneath the awning.
“Dasha!” Maxim’s voice broke. Water was running down his face; his jacket was soaked through. “Open the gate! Have you lost your mind? We’re standing in the rain! Mom feels sick!”
“Good afternoon, Zinaida Markovna,” Daria said calmly, without the slightest emotion, looking at the soaked, bewildered relatives. “Maxim, I told you yesterday in plain Russian: this is my house. None of you will live here. Especially not after you tried to throw my things out for the sake of your mommy.”
“You… you ungrateful witch!” his mother screamed. “My son lifted you out of poverty! He brought you into his apartment! And you secretly bought a house and threw us into the street?”
“I paid the utilities and repairs in that thirty-square-meter apartment of yours,” Daria replied. Her voice rang like metal. “And I bought this house with my own savings. Maxim, your things are in the bags. If they’re wet, that’s your problem. Load yourselves back into your Gazelle and go back to your one-room apartment.”
“What one-room apartment?” Oksana wailed. “Are the four of us supposed to live on top of each other?”
“That no longer concerns me,” Daria said, turning away. “I’ll file for divorce on Monday. Good luck.”
She went inside and closed the door.
The lock clicked.
For about another hour, shouting continued outside. Zinaida Markovna cursed Daria and her entire bloodline. Oksana sobbed loudly, demanding that her brother solve the problem. Maxim kicked the metal fence with his boots, but the lock held.
Eventually, soaked to the skin, frozen, and miserable, they began throwing the soggy boxes and wet bags back into the truck. The Gazelle drove away, leaving behind only deep tire tracks in the muddy ground.
A week passed.
Daria settled into her home. She bought new armchairs, hung light curtains in the attic, and turned it into a cozy little office. She slept peacefully and easily. No one checked her shelves for dust. No one demanded a hot dinner.
On Wednesday evening, her phone buzzed. Maxim was calling from an unfamiliar number — she had blocked his long ago. Daria answered and turned on the speaker.
“Dasha…” His voice was hoarse and pitiful. “Dasha, please. Let’s talk.”
In the background, Oksana’s hysterical voice shouted, “Get your socks off my couch!” Then a child started crying.
“We have nothing to talk about, Maxim,” Daria said calmly.
“Dasha, I’m begging you…” He sounded close to tears. “We’re losing our minds here. Mom sleeps on a folding bed in the kitchen, Oksana and Sonya are in the room, and I’m on a mattress in the hallway. There’s no air. We wait an hour just to use the bathroom. I go to work exhausted. They nag me day and night. Mom says I should sue you, but the lawyer said the house was bought with inheritance money and I won’t get anything. Dasha… I love you. I made a mistake. Forgive me. I’ll kick them out, I swear! Just let me come home.”
Daria walked to the window. Outside, soft snow was falling quietly, covering the ground with a clean white blanket. The room was warm and peaceful.
“You don’t have a home, Maxim,” she said softly, but mercilessly. “You have thirty square meters with your family. Get used to it.”
She ended the call and added the number to her blacklist.
Ahead of her was an entire life — and for the first time in a very long while, everything was going exactly the way she wanted.
