“Wait a second. Where did you put the salt?”
Arina turned away from the stove.
Vasilisa Yuryevna stood in the kitchen doorway in a quilted housecoat, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She was staring at the saucepan as though something illegal were simmering inside it.
“In the soup. Where else would I put it?”
“How much?”
“I don’t know… a pinch. The usual amount.”
“Your usual amount, perhaps. In this house, we season food differently.” Her mother-in-law walked over and peered into the pot. “Vsevolod has hated bland food since childhood. You should remember that from now on.”
Arina said nothing. She simply stirred the soup.
It was Tuesday evening. A light drizzle tapped against the windows, and the clock showed half past seven. She had come home from work barely an hour earlier. She had not even properly unpacked her handbag before finding herself at the stove, because Vasilisa Yuryevna had greeted her in the hallway with the words:
“Finally. We’re starving.”
We.
As though Vsevolod were incapable of reheating a cutlet for himself.
That was probably when it all began.
No. Actually, it had started earlier.
It had begun with the supposedly brilliant idea of moving in “for just a couple of months.”
Arina and Vsevolod had been married for three years, and throughout those three years, they had shared one dream: owning an apartment.
Not another rented place where the landlady threatened to raise the rent every six months, but a home of their own. A place where they would have their own keys and could hammer a nail into the wall without asking anyone’s permission.
They had sacrificed a great deal for that dream.
Arina worked as an accountant for a construction company, while Vsevolod was a manager at a car dealership. Their salaries were decent, but not high enough to save quickly. Nearly half their income went straight into savings.
They did not travel. They did not replace their phones every year. Arina even cut her husband’s hair with electric clippers so they would not have to spend money at a barbershop.
They had a spreadsheet on their phones showing how much they had saved and how much remained before they reached their goal. Every month, the number grew a little larger, and seeing it always made them feel hopeful.
“You know what?” Vsevolod said one evening while studying the spreadsheet. “We could speed this up.”
“How?”
“We could move in with Mom for a while. We’d stop paying rent, and that would make a huge difference. In six months, maybe a year at most, we’d have enough for our own place.”
Arina hesitated.
Living with her mother-in-law was not nearly as pleasant as admiring numbers on a screen.
“Seva, I’m not sure. We’ve only just learned how to live comfortably together.”
“Oh, come on. Mom is wonderful. You know her. She’ll help us, give us advice, and things will be easier. We only have to put up with it for six months, and then we’ll have a home of our own.”
Arina did know Vasilisa Yuryevna.
She was an impressive woman in her early sixties, a former department head at some design institute. She was accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed. At family celebrations, she was warm and welcoming. She laid beautiful tables, fussed over her guests, and seemed perfectly pleasant.
But visiting someone for a few hours was one thing.
Living under the same roof was another.
Arina sensed that instinctively, even though she could not put the feeling into words.
“All right,” she finally agreed. “Six months. For the apartment. But the moment things become unbearable, we move out. Agreed?”
“Agreed!” Vsevolod kissed her, delighted. “You’ll see. Everything will be great.”
They moved in at the beginning of autumn.
Vasilisa Yuryevna welcomed them at the door of her three-bedroom apartment with open arms.
“My children! At last! Come in, come in. I’ve prepared the brightest room for you. Arinushka, give me those bags. Don’t carry anything heavy.”
For the first few days, everything really was fine.
Her mother-in-law bustled around them, served them food, asked about their jobs, and advised Arina where to buy the best groceries in the neighborhood.
Arina relaxed.
Perhaps she had worried for nothing.
Perhaps six months really would pass before she knew it.
How naive she had been.
The first cracks appeared within a week, disguised as concern.
“Arinushka, don’t stack the plates that way. Put them in neat piles like this. Everything in my cupboards has its proper place, so no one has to search for anything.”
“All right, Vasilisa Yuryevna.”
“And this blue towel is for drying hands. You used the white one, but that one is for faces.”
“I understand. Sorry.”
They were small things.
Arina reminded herself that she was living in someone else’s home. When you entered another person’s house, you respected their rules.
So she did not argue.
She tried to remember which towel was used for what, how the plates should be stacked, and in what order the jars of rice, flour, and grains had to stand.
Her mother-in-law praised her.
“There, you see? Clever girl. You learn quickly.”
Vsevolod was overjoyed.
They were not paying rent, his mother was pleased, and his wife was not complaining. What more could a man want?
“See?” he whispered to Arina one evening. “I told you everything would work out. Look how quickly our savings are growing.”
The savings really were growing much faster.
That thought comforted Arina.
She clung to it the way a passenger grips a rail on a shaking bus.
Six months.
Only six months.
Then they would have their own apartment, and all of this would fade like a bad dream.
But the rules multiplied.
What had started as gentle advice gradually hardened into expectations and commands.
“Arina, are you cooking tonight?” her mother-in-law would ask, though it no longer sounded like a question. “Make cutlets. Grind the meat yourself because store-bought mince is disgusting. And don’t fry them. Steam them. It’s healthier for Vsevolod.”
“Vasilisa Yuryevna, I’ve just come home from work. Couldn’t we make something simpler?”
“They can eat simple food in other homes. A proper family needs proper meals. When I was your age, I worked, washed clothes for three people, and prepared a three-course dinner every day. You’re young and healthy.”
“I washed for three people” was one of Vasilisa Yuryevna’s favorite phrases.
She had only one child, Vsevolod, but each time she retold the story of her younger years, her hardships grew more heroic. Compared with her legendary achievements, every complaint Arina made sounded childish and selfish.
So Arina changed clothes after work and stood at the stove, even though her legs ached from sitting at a computer all day and then traveling home in a crowded subway train.
Vsevolod ate the cutlets and praised them enthusiastically.
Vasilisa Yuryevna took one bite and pursed her lips.
“A little dry. Never mind. You’ll do better next time.”
Then came the laundry.
One Saturday, Vasilisa Yuryevna carried an enormous pile of clothes toward the washing machine—blouses, skirts, and several delicate, lacy garments.
“Arinushka, are you doing laundry today? Put mine in as well. Wash the blouses on the delicate cycle, but this beige one must be washed by hand. The color runs.”
Arina stared uncertainly at the heap of another woman’s clothing.
“I… all right. But washing it by hand…”
“How difficult can it be? You’re doing laundry anyway. The machine only has to run once.” Her mother-in-law was already walking away when she called over her shoulder, “And don’t forget, the beige one must be washed by hand! Iron everything afterward, too. I have a clinic appointment tomorrow, and I need to look presentable.”
That was the first time Arina felt truly offended.
This was not advice about kitchen organization or household rules.
Her mother-in-law had simply handed her a pile of personal clothing and expected her to wash it. By hand. And iron it afterward.
As though it were perfectly normal.
As though it were naturally Arina’s responsibility.
“Vasilisa Yuryevna, wouldn’t you prefer to wash your things yourself? I still have my own laundry to do.”
“Oh, is it really so difficult for you? You’re washing clothes anyway.”
Then she left.
Arina stood over a basin in the bathroom, rubbing the beige blouse between her hands.
The water was lukewarm and smelled strongly of detergent. Her hands grew red and sore. Through the wall, she could hear the television droning while Vasilisa Yuryevna watched a talk show.
One thought circled endlessly in Arina’s head.
I did not get married for this.
I am an educated adult woman. I prepare financial reports involving millions, and now I am standing here washing my mother-in-law’s underwear by hand.
How did this happen?
But Arina forced the thought away.
Six months.
The apartment.
She had to endure it.
Except the six months never seemed to end, while her workload continued to grow.
Every morning and every evening, Vasilisa Yuryevna summoned the servant she had discovered inside Arina.
In the morning:
“I need that blouse ironed. I’m visiting someone today.”
In the evening:
“Go to the pharmacy. I need my tablets. Pick up some bread while you’re there.”
On weekends, there was always a complete cleaning, performed according to her mother-in-law’s system.
First the dust.
Then the floors.
Windows every other week.
Curtains removed and washed before every holiday.
“Arina, did you wipe the top shelves? No? Dust gathers up there. Bring the stepladder.”
“Arina, did you water the plants? They need a schedule. You cannot simply water them whenever you remember.”
“Arina, why didn’t you take the rubbish out this morning? I asked you. Now it will smell all day.”
Every step was monitored.
Every action required an explanation.
Whenever Arina did something her own way, there was an immediate investigation.
“What is this? Why is the frying pan sitting like that? I showed you. The handle must face the wall.”
“What difference does it make, Vasilisa Yuryevna?”
“It makes a great difference! There is order in my home. If you don’t like it, no one is forcing you to stay.”
If you don’t like it, no one is forcing you to stay.
Her mother-in-law delivered the phrase casually, but it always struck its target.
Because something was forcing Arina to stay.
The savings spreadsheet on her phone.
The dream of owning an apartment.
And Vsevolod, with his constant pleas to be patient.
Vsevolod was the most painful part of the entire situation.
Because he saw everything.
He could not possibly have failed to notice.
He saw his wife come home from work and immediately start cooking.
He saw basins filled with his mother’s laundry in the bathroom.
He saw Arina standing at the ironing board at eleven at night, dark circles beneath her eyes, pressing his mother’s blouses.
And he did nothing.
“Seva,” Arina said one night as they lay in darkness in the room Vasilisa Yuryevna had called “the brightest in the apartment.” “I’m struggling.”
“With what?”
“With everything. I feel like a servant here. Your mother loads me with work from morning until night. Cooking, washing, cleaning—it all falls on me, and everything must be done according to her rules. I’m exhausted.”
Vsevolod shifted beneath the blanket and sighed.
“Oh, Arina. She only wants what is best. She wants the home to be kept properly.”
“The home is kept properly because of my hands, Seva. I work just as much as you do, and then I come home and do another full shift.”
“Can’t you be patient a little longer? We’re almost there. Just a bit more, and we’ll have our apartment. I don’t want to fight with Mom over… you know, household nonsense.”
Household nonsense.
That was what he called it.
Not “my wife has been turned into a servant.”
Just household nonsense.
“And what happens if I can’t tolerate it anymore?”
“You can.” Vsevolod turned onto his other side. “You’re strong. Go to sleep. We have to get up early tomorrow.”
That was all.
The conversation was over.
Arina lay awake, staring at the ceiling while the shadows of passing cars crawled across it.
For the first time, a clear thought entered her mind:
He will never protect me.
He will always choose his mother.
The thought was unpleasant, almost frightening, and she pushed it away.
But it left something behind.
And after that conversation, everything became worse rather than better.
It was as though Vsevolod had casually told his mother that his wife had complained, and Vasilisa Yuryevna had decided to remind Arina who was in charge.
“Arinushka,” her mother-in-law said sweetly the following evening. “Change the sheets on my bed. I’ve taken out fresh linen. Stretch the bottom sheet properly because I can’t sleep if it wrinkles.”
Arina froze, still holding a plate.
“You want me to make your bed?”
“Yes. Is that difficult? You’re young and your back still bends. It’s hard for me to lean down.”
Making another adult woman’s bed.
Fluffing her pillow.
Stretching the sheet until there was not a single crease, so her mother-in-law could sleep comfortably.
This was no longer about housework.
It was about establishing who was a person in that home and who existed to serve.
Arina made the bed.
Silently, with her lips pressed tightly together, she smoothed every wrinkle.
Vasilisa Yuryevna came in to inspect it. She sat on the edge and ran her hand over the sheet.
“There. That’s much better. You see? You can do things properly when you make an effort.”
And at that moment, Arina understood something important.
Giving in did not solve anything.
Every request she fulfilled did not close the matter. It opened the door to another demand.
If you washed something once, you would be expected to wash it forever.
If you ironed one blouse, ironing became your duty.
If you made the bed today, tomorrow they would ask for something else.
The more you did, the more they demanded, because by obeying once, you had shown them that they were allowed to demand.
After that came complete control.
Vasilisa Yuryevna began planning Arina’s day like a factory supervisor organizing a shift.
“Today, after work, you’ll stop at the store. Here’s the list. When you come home, make vegetable stew. Everything you need is in the refrigerator. Then finish the ironing because the basket is full again. And wash the hallway floor. People have tracked dirt everywhere.”
“I won’t have time to do all of that.”
“You will if you don’t sit around. When I was your age—”
“I know. You washed clothes for three people.”
Her mother-in-law narrowed her eyes.
She had heard something new in Arina’s voice.
Defiance.
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that. You’re living in another person’s home, yet you think you can show attitude.”
Another person’s home.
Again.
That phrase was the weapon Vasilisa Yuryevna used whenever Arina tried to object.
You are living in someone else’s home, so you must endure, remain silent, and obey.
Arina continued to obey.
But the patience she had possessed at the beginning was gone.
Inside her, something heavy and dense was collecting, like scale at the bottom of an old kettle.
On the subway home, she noticed that her mood darkened not because of work, but because she knew what awaited her behind that apartment door.
The place had stopped feeling like home.
It had become a second workplace, where she began another shift every evening.
Only the savings spreadsheet offered comfort.
They were getting close.
Just a little more.
Arina looked at the numbers and forced herself to think:
This is why I am doing it.
For my own walls.
I can endure a little longer.
The breaking point came on a Sunday.
It should have been a day off, but Arina no longer had days off.
That morning, she washed the dishes after breakfast. Then Vasilisa Yuryevna handed her the usual list of tasks.
Arina went shopping, cooked lunch, and washed the floors in two rooms.
By evening, she was barely able to stand.
She sat down in the kitchen for a few minutes with a cup of tea, hoping to rest her aching back.
Her mother-in-law walked in.
“Why are you sitting around? I told you this morning to take down the living-room curtains and wash them. Guests are coming on Wednesday. Everything must shine.”
“I’ve been on my feet all day, Vasilisa Yuryevna. Could I wash the curtains tomorrow?”
“You work tomorrow. You have time today.” Her mother-in-law planted her hands on her hips. “Why are you moving as though you’re half-dead? At your age, I flew around the house. And you sit here drinking tea.”
“I’m tired,” Arina said quietly but firmly. “I’m a person. I work too, you know. I come home and immediately start working again. Every day. I’m not made of metal.”
“Oh, listen to her. She’s not made of metal.” Vasilisa Yuryevna raised her voice. “Who feeds you here? Who gives you a roof over your head without charging you? You could at least show your gratitude by doing some work. Have you no conscience at all?”
Hearing the raised voices, Vsevolod came out of the other room.
Arina turned toward him like a drowning person reaching for a rope.
Just this once.
Surely he would defend her now.
“Seva, talk to your mother. I really can’t continue like this. This isn’t helping anymore. It’s slavery.”
Vsevolod looked at his mother.
Then he looked at his wife.
And Arina saw him make his choice.
“Arina, why are you starting a scene? Mom is right. We live in her home, so you should help. That’s normal. A good wife respects her husband’s mother and does what she is asked. All you ever do is complain.”
Heat rushed into Arina’s face, releasing everything she had held inside for months.
Her hands clenched into fists.
So this was the truth.
It was not merely that his mother was forcing her.
Her husband believed this was how things should be.
He thought her purpose was to serve them.
A good wife, in his eyes, was simply a convenient servant for his mother.
“So I’m obligated,” Arina said slowly, rising from the chair. “I’m obligated to wash, iron, clean, make her bed, and live according to a daily list. You genuinely think that’s normal?”
“What’s wrong with it? Everyone lives like this. Mom is older. You should listen to her.”
Something inside Arina finally broke.
She did not scream.
She spoke quietly, through clenched teeth, but the force of her words seemed to drench both of them in icy water.
“I married you. I did not apply for a job as your mother’s personal caretaker.”
Silence fell over the kitchen.
Vasilisa Yuryevna gasped dramatically and clutched her chest.
Vsevolod stared at his wife as though she had uttered something obscene.
“How dare you speak to my mother that way?”
“How am I supposed to speak to her?” Arina no longer held herself back. “She has turned me into a servant. And you—you helped her do it. Not once, do you hear me, not once did you defend me. I told you I couldn’t breathe here, and you told me to be patient. I asked for help, and you chose your mother. Every single time, you chose your mother.”
“Because she is right!” Vsevolod shouted, red patches spreading across his face. “You don’t know how to be a proper wife! Another woman would be grateful that her mother-in-law was teaching her how to run a household, but you create scandals. A good daughter-in-law would carry her husband’s mother in her arms instead of arguing with her!”
“Carry her in my arms,” Arina repeated.
Then she became calm.
Completely calm.
It was as though something inside her had burned out and gone dark.
“I understand now. You don’t need a wife, Seva. You need someone to serve your entire family. Someone who cooks, washes, irons, makes beds, and then thanks you for the privilege. You need a convenient person. But I am not convenient. I’m alive.”
“Arina, what nonsense are you saying?” Vasilisa Yuryevna interrupted. “I welcomed you like my own daughter, and this is how you repay me?”
“Like your own daughter?” Arina turned toward her. “You don’t force your own family to wash your underwear by hand. You don’t hand them a list of chores every morning. You did not welcome me as a daughter, Vasilisa Yuryevna. You welcomed me as an unpaid housekeeper who was expected to feel grateful for the honor.”
Her mother-in-law struggled for words, but Arina was no longer listening.
She walked into the bedroom—the supposedly brightest room—and pulled a suitcase from beneath the bed.
The same suitcase she had brought with her in autumn, full of hope and dreams of owning an apartment.
Vsevolod rushed in after her.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
“Packing for where? Have you lost your mind? What about the apartment? We’ve nearly saved enough! Are you going to throw everything away?”
Arina straightened and looked at her husband.
For the first time in months, she saw him clearly, without illusions.
“You know, Vsevolod, while I was washing clothes, cooking, and bending over backward in this house, I kept telling myself I was doing it for our future apartment. I thought I could endure anything for a home of our own. But now I understand that even if we buy one, nothing will change. You will still choose your mother. She will still give orders. The only difference is that she’ll be doing it in a new apartment. I don’t want a home at that price.”
“You’ll regret this! Where will you go?”
“Anywhere.” Arina zipped the suitcase shut. “Anywhere I’m treated like a woman instead of a servant.”
She paused and added calmly, without anger:
“And you should find some other fool who agrees to live by your rules, wash your clothes by hand, and sleep on a shelf reserved for household staff. I’m no longer suitable for the position.”
Vasilisa Yuryevna paced the hallway, wailing about ingratitude, wasted kindness, and the terrible woman her son had married.
Vsevolod alternated between grabbing Arina’s sleeve and blocking her suitcase. One moment he begged her to stay; the next he accused her of destroying their family and betraying their shared dream.
“You’re ruining our marriage over household chores!” he shouted. “Over a few pieces of laundry!”
“It isn’t about the laundry, Seva.” Arina stopped in the doorway. “I could have survived the laundry. What I cannot survive is knowing that you never once stood beside me.”
The door closed behind her.
Arina walked down the stairs and stepped into the courtyard.
It was late evening, and a light rain was falling, just as it had on the day they moved in.
Back then, she had climbed the stairs carrying hope.
Now she was walking away with a suitcase and a strange, unfamiliar feeling.
It was not grief.
It was not despair.
It felt as though someone had removed a heavy sack from her shoulders—a burden she had carried for six months and had grown so accustomed to that she no longer noticed how deeply it pressed into her.
At first, Arina rented a room from an acquaintance.
Later, she found a small studio apartment.
Financially, life was difficult. The savings had been shared, and dividing the money with Vsevolod through lawyers proved exhausting and complicated.
Eventually, Arina gave up on claiming most of it.
She took back what she could prove she had contributed and let the rest go.
It was worth more than money never to see that apartment, those laundry basins, or those endless chore lists again.
The divorce was completed without much drama.
They had no children, and Arina now considered that a blessing.
Until the very end, Vsevolod alternated between sending her long, accusatory messages and begging her to return.
He promised his mother would change.
He promised they would rent a separate apartment.
He promised everything would be different.
Arina did not believe a single word.
A person revealed his true nature at the moment that mattered most.
When Vsevolod had been forced to choose between his wife and his own comfort, he had chosen comfort.
No promise could erase that.
Gradually, life began to improve.
Not quickly, but genuinely.
Arina threw herself into her job and accepted several freelance accounting assignments. She created another savings spreadsheet on her phone and began saving for an apartment again.
Only this time, it was her goal alone.
No one else had the right to decide that the price of her dream should be washing another person’s underwear.
In the evenings, inside her rented studio, Arina sometimes caught herself marveling at something simple.
She could come home from work and owe nothing to anyone.
She did not have to stand at the stove because someone ordered her to cook.
She did not have to iron another woman’s blouses.
She did not have to explain why the frying pan handle was pointing in the wrong direction.
She could heat up dinner, sit on the sofa with her legs tucked beneath her, and watch whatever she wanted.
That freedom was so ordinary and so simple, yet at first it felt like an unimaginable luxury.
One day, an acquaintance asked whether she regretted leaving.
After all, she and Vsevolod had spent years together. They had shared a dream and had almost saved enough for an apartment. Now all of that had been lost.
Arina thought for a moment before answering.
“You know, I used to believe walls were the most important thing. Four walls of your own, and then everything would be fine. But I learned that you can live in a three-bedroom apartment and be treated like nobody. Or you can rent a tiny studio and still be a human being. I chose the second.”
Her friend nodded, though she did not seem to understand completely.
It did not matter.
Arina no longer needed everyone to understand or approve of her decisions.
At last, she had stopped asking other people for permission to live her own life.
Eventually, she bought her apartment.
It took five years.
She did it alone, without anyone’s help.
It was only a small one-bedroom place on the outskirts of the city, but it belonged entirely to her.
On the day she received the keys, Arina walked through the empty rooms, still carrying the fresh smell of paint, and opened the window.
Then she placed a frying pan on the stove.
She left the handle pointing in whichever direction felt comfortable to her.
Just because she could.
