How much longer, Nastya?” Vitaly grimaced, staring at the macaroni and cheese. “Every day it’s the same. Pasta, buckwheat, pasta again. I’m sick of looking at it.”
Anastasia placed another portion on his plate and gently patted his shoulder.
“Vitalik, just a little longer. Next month my salary will be reviewed.”
Vitaly irritably jerked his shoulder, shaking off her hand.
“You’ve been saying that for six months! And what’s changed? I’m thirty-five and eating like a broke student. Living off your measly salary.”
Anastasia silently returned to the stove. She had no strength left to argue. Her husband had lost his job a year ago, and since then, life had turned into a constant struggle to survive.
“I’m trying to find a proper job,” Vitaly rubbed his temples. “But who needs an economist now? Everywhere wants experience or knowledge of some specific software.”
“Maybe you could take some courses?” Anastasia suggested cautiously, sitting across from him.
“With what money?” he snapped. “Your pennies barely cover groceries.”
Anastasia sighed. She worked as a programmer — just starting out. Her salary was still at entry-level. She studied at night and took freelance work on weekends. But it was never enough.
“At least we’re not renting,” she said softly.
“Yeah, thanks to your parents for these generous forty square meters,” Vitaly sneered. “But you know what? I’m sick of living in poverty. Sick of feeling like a failure.”
A knock at the door cut their conversation short. Anastasia quickly went to answer it.
“Hello, Nastya,” Elena Pavlovna, her mother-in-law, stood at the door with a bag in hand. “Thought I’d check in. Is Vitaly home?”
“Yes, come in,” Anastasia stepped aside.
Elena Pavlovna entered the kitchen, planting a loud kiss on her son’s cheek.
“How are you two?” She glanced at the table. “Pasta again? Nastya, couldn’t you make some borscht for the man? He works, he gets tired.”
“Mom, I’m not working right now,” Vitaly said quietly.
“Well, job hunting is still work,” she waved it off. “And your Nastya? Just sits at the computer all day. What good is that?”
Anastasia clenched her jaw.
“I am working, Elena Pavlovna. I’m just at the entry level.”
“Working, huh,” she mocked. “I’ve seen you ‘working.’ Sitting at home in sweatpants, typing away. Back in my day…”
“Nastya’s a programmer, mom,” Vitaly sighed.
“What kind of programmer if there’s no money in the house?” Elena pursed her lips. “No, Vitalik, I get it, you’re kind. But how long will you put up with this? She’s been promising a real income for a year. Where’s the money? Where’s the result?”
Anastasia turned away, blinking rapidly. Her eyes stung with tears.
“I’m trying,” her voice trembled. “I work twelve hours a day…”
“Hear that, Vitalik? She’s ‘trying,’” Elena mocked again. “And you go hungry. You have an apartment — and for what?”
Tears rolled down Anastasia’s cheeks. Her hands trembled as she set her cup on the table.
“Excuse me,” she whispered and ran out of the kitchen.
“See? Crying again,” her mother-in-law’s triumphant voice followed. “Say the truth and she bawls. Manipulating you, Vitalik.”
Anastasia leaned against the bedroom door, exhausted. How much more could she take? She hadn’t slept in weeks, studying new frameworks. A promotion was due next month. Then everything would change.
But her husband? He hadn’t defended her. Just sat there, silent. Like always. She had begged him to speak to his mother, explain what a programmer’s work entailed. Useless.
She heard Elena again:
“Vitalik, this can’t go on. Look at yourself — you’ve wasted away. And she can’t even cook properly for you!”
Anastasia collapsed on the bed and buried her face in the pillow. She was so, so tired.
She awoke to the insistent ringing of her phone. It was 3 a.m. Groggily, she fumbled for it.
“Yes?” she croaked.
“Nastya,” her mother’s voice trembled. “Your father’s in the hospital. It’s serious.”
Anastasia shot upright.
“What happened?”
“His heart. Come quickly,” her mother’s voice cracked. “We’re at the regional hospital.”
“I’m on my way.”
Vitaly didn’t even stir when she turned on the light and dressed in a rush. She touched his shoulder.
“I’m going to my parents’. Dad’s in the hospital.”
He mumbled something and rolled over.
An hour later, Anastasia was in the hospital corridor. Her mother, pale and hollow-eyed, stared blankly ahead.
“The doctor says he needs surgery,” Irina Sergeyevna whispered, clutching a tissue. “A difficult one. And a long recovery.”
“How much?”
“Three million, at least,” her mother shook her head. “Where would we find that kind of money?”
“We’ll think of something,” Anastasia hugged her. “Let’s go home and talk.”
At her parents’ apartment, they sat in the kitchen, tallying numbers.
“Here’s four hundred thousand,” Irina Sergeyevna handed over a savings book. “Our savings.”
“I have almost nothing in my account,” Anastasia rubbed her forehead. “But maybe I can get a loan.”
“You’re barely making ends meet. What loan?”
Anastasia looked at the clock — 6 a.m. Soon Vitaly would wake up and see she wasn’t home. Not that he’d be worried.
“Mom, I have a solution,” she took a deep breath. “I’ll sell the apartment.”
Irina stared at her.
“What? But that’s your and Vitaly’s home!”
“It’s mine — a gift from you before the marriage. I’ll sell it, pay for Dad’s surgery, and earn enough to buy another one.”
Tears welled in her mother’s eyes.
“We saved fifteen years for that apartment. It was our gift to you.”
“And the best way to thank you is to save Dad’s life,” Anastasia squeezed her hand. “I’ve made up my mind. I’ll call the realtor tomorrow.”
Her mother sobbed.
“You’re my treasure. But what about you and Vitaly?”
Anastasia shrugged. She hadn’t figured that part out yet.
She returned home that evening. Vitaly was watching TV. He hadn’t called once all day.
“Where have you been?” he didn’t even look up.
“Dad was hospitalized last night,” Anastasia sank onto the couch. “He needs urgent surgery.”
“So?”
“I’m selling the apartment.”
Vitaly slowly turned toward her, eyes narrowing.
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely,” Anastasia nodded. “Dad needs expensive treatment. We don’t have the money.”
“So you’re selling our apartment?” Vitaly jumped up.
“My apartment,” she corrected. “It’s premarital property, a gift from my parents.”
“You can’t do this to me!” he shouted. “Where are we supposed to live?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe we’ll rent. Or you can stay with your mom and I’ll stay with mine.”
“Wonderful!” Vitaly grabbed his phone. “I’m calling my mother. She should know what kind of snake I’ve been living with!”
“Vita…”
But he was already yelling into the phone:
“Mom! Can you believe what Nastya’s doing? Selling the apartment to pay for her father’s surgery!”
Anastasia closed her eyes. Another fight had begun.
An hour later, Elena Pavlovna burst in, waving her arms.
“Nastya! Are you insane? Throwing your family onto the street for an old man?”
“Elena Pavlovna, my father is not an old man,” Anastasia replied calmly. “He’s fifty-seven. And he’s my father.”
“And who is your husband to you? You selfish woman! Only thinking about yourself!”
“She’s right, Mom,” Vitaly chimed in. “She’s been all about her career and her parents lately…”
Anastasia listened silently. Inside, she felt nothing but exhaustion. No anger, no hurt — just emptiness.
“My mind is made up,” she said when Elena paused for breath. “I’m meeting the realtor tomorrow.”
Two days later, the apartment was up for sale. A buyer appeared quickly. Anastasia quietly packed her things and moved them to her mother’s. Vitaly pretended not to notice — even though the suitcases stood right in the hallway.
“Where are you taking all that?” he finally asked as she took their wedding photo off the wall.
“To Mom’s,” she said without looking at him. “You’ll stay with Elena Pavlovna.”
“You seriously think I’ll live apart from my wife?” Vitaly crossed his arms.
“Do you have a better idea? Rent something with what little money we have left?”
He said nothing.
A few days later, while packing, Anastasia’s phone rang. It was the realtor.
“Thank you,” she said, wiping away tears. “The money’s in the account. Time to hand over the keys.”
Suddenly, Elena Pavlovna appeared in the kitchen. Anastasia flinched — she didn’t know her mother-in-law was there.
“You sold it?” Elena looked her up and down.
“Yes,” Anastasia put her phone in her pocket.
Elena planted her hands on her hips.
“Vitalik, tell her to transfer the money to your account! Now! Before she gives it all to her father!”
“What?” Anastasia stepped back.
“You kicked my son out — at least leave us the money! Vitalik, take her phone!”
Anastasia hid her hand with the phone behind her.
“I’m not giving you a penny from the sale of my premarital apartment!”
“You snake!” Elena screamed. “Vitalik, do something!”
“Nastya, calm down,” Vitaly approached. “Let’s talk…”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Anastasia said coldly. “My father is sick! He needs surgery!”
“How old is he?” Elena waved dismissively. “He’s had his life! You and Vitalik still have yours! Why waste that kind of money on an old man?”
Anastasia froze, unable to believe what she was hearing.
“You… how can you say that?”
“Why not? It’s the truth! How much time does he have left? A year? Two? You and Vitalik need that money!”
“She’s right,” Vitaly nodded. “Give me the phone, Nastya.”
He reached for her, but Anastasia dodged, grabbed her keys, and bolted.
“Stop!” Vitaly shouted after her.
Anastasia fled down the stairs, tears streaming down her face. How had she lived with these people? How had she never seen who they really were?
Half an hour later, she sat in her mother’s kitchen, struggling to speak through sobs.
“They… they tried to take the money. Said Dad’s too old. That he doesn’t deserve to live,” she choked out.
Irina stroked her daughter’s head.
“My sunshine…”
“I transferred the money,” Anastasia wiped her tears. “Go pay for the surgery. Now.”
Irina nodded and reached for her phone.
That evening, they returned to collect the last of her belongings. Elena yelled in the stairwell, calling her a thief and a traitor. Irina stared her down calmly.
“Control your mother,” she told Vitaly. “Or I’ll call the police.”
He pulled his mother aside.
When the last box was loaded into the car, Anastasia turned to her husband.
“I’m filing for divorce,” she said. “It’s really over now.”
Three years later, Anastasia stood in a bright, empty apartment. Spring sunlight streamed through the windows.
“Spacious,” said her father, Alexander Ivanovich, inspecting every corner. “And a nice view.”
“Do you like it, Dad?” Anastasia smiled.
After surgery, he recovered faster than expected. He looked younger than before his illness.
“Very much,” he nodded. “You did great, sweetheart.”
Anastasia beamed. So much had changed in her life — the divorce, a promotion. Her income now allowed her to live comfortably and save. She had saved enough for a down payment and was finalizing the purchase today.
“Now I have my own place again,” she said, walking to the window. “And no one will ever tell me how to live my life.”
Her father put an arm around her.
“I’m sorry you had to go through so much.”
“Don’t be,” Anastasia shook her head. “Now I know I can rely on myself. And on you and Mom, of course.”
She looked around the empty apartment.
Her new life began right here, right now.
