— Inga, I’ve been thinking… Basically, I’ve got an idea how we can get our life on track, — Stas’s voice, full of self-satisfaction and expecting praise, caught her in the kitchen.
She was slicing vegetables for a salad, the sharp knife gliding confidently through the firm cucumber, leaving behind perfectly even, fresh-smelling rounds. Inga didn’t turn around; she only threw over her shoulder, continuing her methodical task:
— If your brilliant idea is another loan for a bigger car, I’m not even listening.
— No, this is much better! Bigger, you know? — he walked into the kitchen, bringing with him the smell of the street and the cheap cologne from his office. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, the pose of a man about to bless the world with a revelation. — We’re moving.
The knife in Inga’s hand stopped. She slowly set it down on the cutting board and turned to her husband. Her gaze was calm but intent, as if she were trying to gauge just how delusional his mood was today.
— And where exactly are we moving? Did you find a job in another city?
— Even better! We don’t have to go anywhere. We’re moving in with my folks, in Maryino. He was smiling. Smiling so wide and sincere you’d think he’d just offered her a round-the-world trip, not voluntary exile to a three-room Khrushchyovka with his mother, Raissa Pavlovna, for whom Inga had always been “that stuck-up city prima donna with pretensions.”
— You’re joking, — it wasn’t a question, just a statement. She didn’t even try to hide her puzzlement as she studied his beaming face.
— No joke! Just listen to the plan. We move in with them. They’ve got a three-room place, plenty of space; Dad hardly goes into his room, he just sits by the TV. Mom will get help — she’s always complaining her back hurts, everything’s hard for her. And we’ll be right there, ready to help. No utilities to pay — crazy savings! — he ticked off the advantages on his fingers, advantages that existed only in his head. — And now the main thing! Your one-room apartment, — he jabbed a finger at the ceiling, as if the flat were up there above them, — we rent it out! Prices are good right now — forty-five, even fifty thousand easy. And that money goes into the common pot! Imagine the boost to our budget. In a couple of years we’ll have the down payment for our own bigger place!
He finished his speech and stared at her expectantly, waiting for delight. Inga said nothing. She looked at her husband, and in her mind, scenes of the future flashed past like a kaleidoscope: her mother-in-law’s perpetually displeased face, the unsolicited advice about borscht, the dust on the shelves, and Stasik’s shirts “ironed the wrong way.” The lectures about how a “real woman” should get up at six and bake pies instead of “sitting at that computer of yours.” Life under a microscope, where every step would be judged, criticized, and reported to her son, twisted out of shape. And her own apartment, her cozy nest, her stronghold, the one her parents had bought her, handed over to be torn apart by strangers.
— Oh sure, right now! I’ll just drop everything and move in with your parents! I have my own apartment, and I’m going to live in it, and I’m not renting it out!
The smile slid off Stas’s face. He clearly hadn’t expected such pushback. His eyebrows climbed, performing offended bewilderment.
— You don’t get it. This is for us, for our family. What are you, selfish? I’m thinking about the future, and you…
— What future, Stas? The future where I become free help for your mother? The future where I don’t have my own corner because you decided I could be monetized on the side? No thanks. You can live in that future yourself.
— Oh, so I’m the bad guy because I want us to live better? — Stas straightened up, taking his hands off the frame. His face went from jovial and enthusiastic to hard and wounded. — I’ve come up with a plan to get us out of this shoebox, to start putting money away, and you immediately get all huffy. Such ingratitude.
Inga picked up the knife and went back to the vegetables, but now her movements were sharper, more abrupt. The clack of the blade on the board became a dry, irritating accompaniment to their conversation. — Your plan, Stas, is brilliant only for you and your mother. You get the money and a pair of free hands — me — to service her household, and she gets full control over our home. And what do I get in this plan? A room in an apartment where I’m openly disliked, and daily lectures? Stunning plan.
He walked around the table and stood opposite her, trying to catch her eye, but she kept staring at her hands, at the bright scatter of sliced peppers.
— What are you making up now? Nobody dislikes you. Mom just… she’s old-school. Blunt. She cares about us. She wants things done properly, like a family. You’ve just never tried to understand her. You’re always looking down on her.
— Understand? — Inga smirked without raising her head. — I understood her perfectly. That time when, “caring about us,” she threw out my spices because they, quote, “stink of foreign poison.” Or when she told me my remote job was just idling, and I’d be better off mopping the stairwell so I’d at least be useful. I understand everything just fine, Stas. I understand that to her I’ll always be the outsider, lazy, and the wrong kind of daughter-in-law. And I am not going to willingly lock myself in that cage.
Stas flung up his hands, irritation mounting. He started pacing the small kitchen, from sink to window and back again, like an animal darting around a cramped enclosure.
— Trifles! You’re nitpicking over trifles! So she said something — big deal, that’s her character! As if your mother is some angel incarnate! We’re talking serious matters here — our financial well-being! The chance to buy our own place, a normal, big one! And you’re going on about spices! That’s pure selfishness! A wife should support her husband’s initiatives, not throw a wrench in the works!
— Support — yes. But not at the cost of my own humiliation and comfort, — she finally lifted her eyes to him, and her gaze was as cold and hard as the steel of the knife in her hand. — This apartment, — she swept the kitchen with her eyes, — is my comfort. It’s my place. The only place I can get a break from your “blunt” mother and everyone else. And you’re proposing I hand it over to strangers and send myself to the epicenter of perpetual discontent. And for what? For an illusory “common pot” out of which your mother will immediately teach you how to “spend properly”?
He stopped right in front of her, looming over the table. His face had reddened.
— This isn’t your apartment, Inga — it’s ours! We’re a family! And everything we have is shared! And we should make decisions together, for our common good!
— Exactly, Stas. Together. But you came with a ready-made plan in which my role is the voiceless sacrifice. You didn’t even ask my opinion. You just presented me with a fait accompli. To you this apartment isn’t my home. To you it’s just an asset. A resource to be exploited.
— It’s not an asset, Inga, it’s bricks! Just bricks and concrete that can work for us instead of just standing there! — Stas raised his voice, crossing the line where calm conversation becomes open quarrel. He slapped his palm on the kitchen table. The dishes in the rack gave a faint clink. — You’re clinging to this apartment as if it’s the only thing you’ve got! What about me? What about us? A family means everything’s shared, people make compromises for the common good!
Inga slowly set the knife on the countertop. The sound of metal on wood was the only sound in the kitchen besides his heavy breathing. She wiped her hands on a towel, her movements deliberately unhurried, which only infuriated him more.
— Compromises, Stas? A compromise is when I agree to go to your parents’ dacha on my only day off. A compromise is when I cook your beloved greasy carbonara even though I can’t stand it. What you’re proposing isn’t a compromise. It’s capitulation. You’re asking me to give up my home, my peace, and my personal space for the sake of your parents. And you call that “the common good.”
— Yes, the common good! Because the money we’ll get will go to both of us! We’ll finally be able to breathe! Stop counting every penny! You don’t get it because everything’s been handed to you on a platter! Your parents gave you a little flat, so you sit in it like a princess in a tower! And I’m the one busting my back so we can afford anything at all! And when I find a real way out, you start whining about “comfort”!
His words were like slaps. He devalued everything: her work, her parents, her right to own property. He painted a picture where she was a pampered freeloader and he was the long-suffering provider.
— My parents gave that apartment to me, Stas. Not to us. To me. So I would always have my own place. And I won’t let you turn their gift into a source of your income and my humiliation. You want to solve your problems? Solve them yourself. Find a second job, ask for a raise, do whatever you want. But not at my expense.
Rage flickered in his eyes. He took a step toward her, and for a moment she thought he was going to grab her, shake her. But he stopped, fists clenched. The air in the kitchen turned dense, heavy — you could have cut it with a knife.
— So that’s how it is… “Mine,” “yours”… I get it. For you there’s no family. There’s only you and your interests. All this time I thought we were a team, but it turns out I’m just a convenient roommate in your apartment.
— A team doesn’t make decisions behind a teammate’s back, — she shot back. — A team discusses plans, it doesn’t deliver ultimatums.
And that’s when he made his fatal mistake. He decided that since logic and manipulation hadn’t worked, it was time to break her will and show who was master in the house. He looked down at her with the expression of final, irrevocable righteousness. The certainty that the last word always belonged to him gave his voice a metallic hardness.
— Who says I’m asking? This is no longer up for discussion. I’ve already decided everything and told my parents we’re coming tomorrow.
Silence. Not ringing, not heavy — just empty. A vacuum. In that moment Inga felt something snap inside her. Something warm and living, the thing that had made her forgive his small slights, put up with his mother, and believe in their shared future. It vanished, evaporated, leaving behind only cold, ringing ice. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. Not a husband. Not someone close. A stranger, an arrogant man who had barged into her home and was trying to dictate the rules.
She tilted her head slightly, and a barely noticeable, strange smile touched her lips.
— Perfect, — her voice sounded surprisingly calm and even. — Then tomorrow you’ll go.
For a split second Stas was thrown by her calm tone. He’d expected anything: shouting, pleading, accusations — but this icy compliance knocked him off balance. He took it as his unconditional victory. She’d realized resistance was futile. He smirked condescendingly, stepping back from the table, reclaiming the look of the benefactor who had just made a hard but right decision for the good of the family.
— That’s more like it. I knew you were a smart woman and would understand. No need to get worked up. Tomorrow morning we’ll pack the essentials, and we’ll move the rest on the weekend. Mom will be thrilled.
He talked, and Inga watched him in silence, unblinking. She no longer saw a husband. Standing before her was a smug invader, sure he had already won. She didn’t say a word in response to his speech. She simply turned and left the kitchen without a word. Stas, deciding she’d gone to the bedroom to “digest” her defeat and accept the new reality, cast a triumphant look around the kitchen that would soon cease to be their home. He was already counting the future profits, planning how they’d live with his parents, how he’d come home from work to find both Mom and his wife waiting there. An idyll.
A minute later Inga returned. In her hands she carried his big black gym bag — the very one he took on business trips and to the gym. She stepped right up to him and, without changing her expression, dropped the bag at his feet. It hit the linoleum with a dull thud.
Stas stared first at the bag, then at her. His victorious smile slowly faded, replaced by puzzlement.
— What’s this supposed to be? You decided to help me pack? Don’t. I’ll do it myself…
— Since you’ve already made all the decisions for the two of us, you’ll be living by those decisions. Alone, — her voice was flat and emotionless, like a newscaster reading the weather. — In your beloved parents’ apartment.
He looked at her, and finally the meaning began to sink in. This wasn’t a tantrum. It was a sentence.
— What… what are you talking about? You’re throwing me out? Because I want what’s best for us?
— You want what’s best for yourself, Stas. And I want to live in my own home, — she took a step aside, toward the kitchen doorway, as if clearing his path. — So pack your things. The essentials. Just like you planned. I think an hour should be enough. And by tomorrow there won’t be any of your things in my apartment.
Rage flooded his face, turning it crimson. Puzzlement gave way to animal fury.
— You’ve lost your mind! This is our home! We live here together! You can’t just throw me out on the street!
— My home, Stas. Turns out it’s only mine, — she corrected him as calmly as she would correct a mistake in a dictation. — And I’m not throwing anyone out. You made the decision to move. You told your parents yourself that you’re coming tomorrow. I just don’t want to get in your way. I respect your decision. Go. They’re waiting for you.
He stared at her, opening and closing his mouth, but no words came. All his confidence, all his affected authority crumbled to dust. He realized she wasn’t joking, wasn’t bluffing, wasn’t trying to manipulate him. She was simply erasing him from her life. Coldly, methodically, irrevocably. He was no longer a husband, just an obstacle in her apartment.
— You… you’ll regret this! — he finally squeezed out, but even the threat sounded pathetic and unconvincing.
— Maybe, — Inga shrugged. — But that will be later. Right now you have fifty-eight minutes.
She turned and went to the bedroom, leaving him alone in the kitchen. He stood in the middle of what suddenly turned out to be someone else’s space and stared at the damned gym bag at his feet. This wasn’t a scandal. It was an execution. And he’d just gladly stuck his head in the noose himself…
