Mom, they’re here again,” Nastya whispered, not lifting her eyes from her textbook.
Olga froze in the hallway, clutching the grocery bags. Other people’s shoes were piled up by the door—worn sneakers, work boots, expensive trainers. From the kitchen came the familiar hum of male voices, the clink of bottles and hoarse laughter. Her daughter sat in the corner of the hallway, hands pressed over her ears, pretending to read math.
“How many?” Olga asked quietly, taking off her coat.
“Three. Uncle Seryozha, some new one, came too.”
Olga sighed and headed into the kitchen. Four men were sprawled around the table—Igor and his usual crew. Empty beer bottles stood on the table, leftovers from yesterday’s dinner lay around, the ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts.
“Olka, hey!” Igor waved with a half-empty bottle. “Meet Seryoga from the car shop. A golden guy.”
Seryoga nodded without looking up from his phone. His fingers flew over the screen—either a game or some chat. A burnt pan smoked on the stove, and in the sink a mountain of dirty dishes towered.
“Igor, we agreed you’d warn me,” Olga said, putting the bags down on the only free spot by the window.
“Oh, come on, it’s not the end of the world,” he brushed her off. “I ran into Seryoga by chance, we decided to hang out.”
The friends snickered. Tolik, the older one with the receding hairline, raised his bottle:
“To meeting the lady of the house!”
Olga turned to the stove and started scraping off the burnt eggs. The muscles in her neck tightened. The only ones who called her “lady of the house” here were her husband’s drunk buddies. At home Igor didn’t consider her a lady of anything—at best, a free cleaning lady.
“Igoryok, you got a rich fridge?” the skinny guy with the tattoo on his neck asked. “Got any sausage or something?”
“Ol, you heard that?” Igor shouted without getting up. “The guys are asking for snacks.”
Silently, Olga opened the fridge. She took out sausage, cheese, tomatoes—everything she’d bought for the kids’ dinner. She sliced automatically, feeling that familiar heaviness growing inside.
“Mom, where am I supposed to do my homework?” seven-year-old Artyom appeared in the doorway with his notebook in hand.
“In the room, honey.”
“But the uncles are watching TV there.”
Olga looked into the living room. The four men had migrated there with their beer and turned the football on full blast. Artyom stood in the middle of the room with his toy cars, staring helplessly at the occupied couch.
“Play in the hallway for now,” Olga said wearily.
She went back to the cutting board. Her hands moved on their own, but her thoughts were all tangled. Once again, the apartment had turned into a passageway for strangers. Once again, the kids were sitting in corners, afraid of bothering Dad’s friends.
“Mom, why did Uncle Tolik take my car?” Artyom tugged at her sleeve, pointing toward the living room.
Olga glanced in. Tolik was indeed turning a red BMW model car in his hands—her son’s favorite toy.
“Just a second,” she said shortly, wiped her hands, and went into the living room.
“Tolik, that’s a child’s toy.”
“Huh?” He tore his eyes from the car. “Relax, I’m just looking. Cool model.”
“Give it back, please.”
Olga held out her hand. Reluctantly, Tolik returned the car. The men exchanged glances, displeasure in their eyes.
“Auntie’s strict,” Seryoga snorted without looking up from the phone.
Olga took the car and handed it to her son. He hugged the toy to his chest and ran back to the hallway. From the TV, the commentator screamed—someone had scored a goal. The men roared and clinked bottles.
Olga went back to the kitchen, finished the platter and put the plate on the table. Igor didn’t even say thank you—he grabbed a slice of sausage and carried it to his friends.
Ten in the evening. The kids should be asleep, but shouting and swearing still poured out of the living room. Olga sat in the children’s room, stroking Nastya’s head. The girl lay facing the wall, her shoulders trembling.
“I can’t fall asleep,” the daughter sobbed into her pillow.
“They’ll leave soon.”
“Mom, Lena wanted to come tomorrow to work on our biology project. But with the uncles here it’s awkward.”
Olga felt everything clench inside. Nastya was a straight-A student, a responsible girl. She was ashamed to bring classmates over because of her father’s drunk friends.
“We’ll definitely solve this problem,” she promised, kissing her daughter on the crown of her head.
She understood perfectly well—tomorrow she’d be ashamed in front of the neighbors again. More apologies for the noise, more sideways looks in the stairwell.
Something crashed in the hallway. Artyom woke up and called out in fright:
“Mom!”
From the living room came:
“Damn it, Seryoga, watch where you’re going!”
“It’s fine, guys! We’ll fix the chair!”
Laughter, the sound of shards.
Olga tucked her son in tighter and trudged to the kitchen. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes—plates, forks, ashtrays. Crumbs lay all over the floor, beer had pooled in sticky puddles on the table.
Half past eleven. At last she heard voices in the hall, doors banging, footsteps on the stairs. The men were leaving. Olga started gathering empty bottles, cigarette butts from the balcony, wiping down the tables.
Igor sprawled on the couch scrolling through his phone. His face was red, his eyes bleary.
“Quit making that face,” he muttered without looking up. “They’re decent guys.”
“Igor, the kids can’t study, the neighbors are complaining,” Olga said tiredly, dropping bottles into a bag.
“So what, I can’t relax once a week?”
“Once a week?” Olga stopped and looked at him. “On Monday Vityok and Dima were here. On Wednesday Tolik came. Today is Thursday, and again a crowd.”
“So what? I work, I have the right to unwind.”
Igor got up from the couch and went to the bedroom. Olga stayed in the kitchen with a rag in her hands. Outside, the streetlights were glowing, the city was drifting off to sleep. And she kept wiping and wiping, erasing the traces of someone else’s fun.
In the morning at breakfast, Nastya poked at her oatmeal without raising her eyes.
“Lena’s not coming today,” she said quietly. “She told her mom it’s noisy at our place. It’s embarrassing.”
Igor snorted, spreading butter on his bread:
“What nonsense. Everything’s fine.”
“Dad, can I study at the library?” the daughter asked cautiously.
“Why? You’ve got a desk at home.”
“It’s quiet there.”
Olga felt the boil rising inside her. Her daughter was forced to flee her own home just to study in peace. But with the kids at the table, she held herself back and only squeezed her coffee cup tighter.
After breakfast, walking Nastya to school, she took the girl by the hand:
“I’ll have a serious talk with Dad tonight. I promise.”
Nastya nodded, but there was no hope in her eyes. Too many promises had already been made over the years.
That evening in the stairwell, Olga ran into Sveta, the neighbor from the fifth floor. The woman was carrying a shopping bag, but stopped when she saw Olga.
“Hey, did you guys have a fight last night or what?” Sveta asked, shifting the bag to a more comfortable grip. “The neighbor from the third floor says you were yelling till one in the morning.”
Olga felt her face flush hot.
“No, it was just… the TV was loud.”
“The TV?” Sveta narrowed her eyes. “Ol, you look so pale. Igor’s not brawling, is he?”
“Of course not, I’m just tired from work.”
Olga quickly pressed the elevator button, avoiding Sveta’s gaze. Sveta was silent, but her face said clearly—she didn’t believe a word.
“If anything, call me,” she said when the elevator arrived. “Seriously.”
At home, Olga stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time, studying her reflection. Dark circles under her eyes, pale skin, tight lines around her mouth. When had she managed to age like this?
On Wednesday evening, Igor brought company home again. Olga heard the familiar voices already in the stairwell and froze on the landing, her keys clenched in her fist.
“But they were already here on Monday!” she blurted out as soon as she stepped over the threshold.
“So what?” Igor shrugged, helping Vitya off with his coat. “It’s his birthday. What, he’s not supposed to celebrate?”
“But we talked about this…”
“No, we didn’t talk about anything,” her husband cut her off. “Vityok, go on into the kitchen, we’ll get some snacks going.”
The friends took over the kitchen, settled at the table and started demanding their usual service. Olga silently sliced sausage, feeling anger choke her. In the living room, Artyom started crying—he wanted to watch cartoons, but the TV was once again taken over by football.
“Mom, can I go to Grandma’s?” he asked, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
Olga squeezed the knife in her hand. Her son was ready to run out of his own home just not to hear this nightmare.
The next day at work, she called Lyudmila Vasilievna, Igor’s mother. She spoke quietly so her colleagues wouldn’t hear.
“Lyudmila Vasilievna, please talk to your son. The children are suffering.”
“Olena dear, you should be glad he’s at home!” her mother-in-law’s voice sounded indignant. “And not out boozing in some bar! A man has the right to relax after work.”
“But it’s almost every day…”
“So what? The lady of the house should receive guests. That’s her duty.”
“Lyudmila Vasilievna, the children can’t sleep or study…”
“Stop making things up!” the older woman snapped. “Igoryok is a good boy, a hard worker. And you’re nitpicking over trifles.”
The line went dead. Olga sat in the restroom at work, face buried in her hands. Her last hope for support had collapsed.
At lunch break, her colleague Tanya popped into the break room where Olga was drinking coffee.
“Do you sleep at all?” Tanya asked, sitting down beside her. “You look like a zombie.”
Olga sighed and told her about the endless drinking sessions. Tanya listened, frowning more and more.
“Listen, what are you, a slave?” she burst out. “Give him an ultimatum!”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Then at least try. It can’t get any worse,” Tanya leaned closer. “Ol, he just doesn’t respect you. He thinks you’ll put up with everything.”
On Friday, Igor was once again leading his buddies home. Olga heard their laughter already on the stairs and intercepted her husband in the hall as he was turning the key in the lock.
“Stop.”
Igor turned, his friends crowding behind him.
“Either you warn me in advance, or I’m leaving with the kids to my mom’s.”
Igor laughed:
“Oh, come on, don’t turn this into a drama.”
“I’m serious.”
Something in Olga’s voice made him look at her more closely. His friends in the hallway exchanged uneasy looks, sensing the tension.
“Igoryok, maybe another time?” Tolik suggested uncertainly.
“No, it’s fine,” Igor tried to save face, but his voice wavered.
“No, it’s not fine,” Olga said firmly. “Either you warn me, or I go. For good.”
Silence fell. The friends stared at the floor, Igor clenched his fists.
“All right, guys,” he forced out through his teeth. “Another time, then.”
When the door closed behind the guests, Igor turned on his wife:
“Happy now? Humiliated me in front of everyone!”
“And you humiliated your family by turning our apartment into a booze joint!”
“If this keeps up, we’ll get divorced!” Olga threw over her shoulder and went to the kitchen.
Igor stayed in the hallway, kicking a slipper with his foot. From the children’s room came frightened whispers—the kids had heard the fight.
The weekend passed in heavy silence. Igor ostentatiously didn’t speak to his wife, slammed doors, turned the TV up loud. The children tiptoed around, sensing that something terrible was happening at home.
On Saturday evening, Igor took out his phone and dialed a number:
“Seryoga, come over tomorrow, we’ll watch the game.”
From the kitchen, Olga heard and couldn’t believe her ears. She came up to him:
“What are you doing?”
“What?” he replied brazenly, slipping his phone into his pocket. “I’ll be at home, won’t I?”
Olga looked at him and understood—nothing had changed. He’d taken her ultimatum as a bluff. He’d decided to test whether she was really ready to go to extremes.
Well then—tomorrow he’d get his answer.
On Sunday morning, Olga pulled a big sports bag out of the closet. Her hands weren’t shaking—her decision had fully ripened. Igor lay on the couch scrolling on his phone and at first didn’t pay attention to what she was doing.
“Mom, are we really leaving?” Nastya asked, peeking into the room.
“Yes. Dad doesn’t want to change.”
Olga packed the children’s things—school uniforms, textbooks, favorite toys. Her movements were precise, unhurried. She was no longer angry—she was simply doing what should have been done long ago.
Artyom watched the bags in confusion, not understanding what was happening. He clung to his mother and asked quietly:
“Are we taking Dad too?”
“No, honey. Dad is staying here.”
Igor finally tore his eyes from the screen and saw the bags. He got up and walked to the bedroom.
“You’re serious?” his voice sounded uncertain.
“Very serious.”
Olga was packing her own things—just a few, the essentials. Igor stood in the doorway watching. His face showed that he still didn’t believe she was capable of decisive action.
“Where are you going?” he asked. “To your mother’s?”
“Yes.”
“With the kids?” a mocking note crept into his voice. “How long do you think you’ll last?”
Olga didn’t answer. She zipped the bag and picked up the children’s jackets.
The doorbell cut through the silence. Igor went to open it, and Olga heard a familiar voice:
“Igoryok, I told you I was coming!”
Lyudmila Vasilievna stood on the threshold with a net bag full of groceries. She saw the bags in the hallway and the kids already in their jackets—her face stretched in shock.
“Olenka, what are you doing?” she cried, pushing her way into the hall. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To my parents’. I’m tired of living in a public passage.”
“You’ve gone crazy! Think of the children!” The mother-in-law grabbed Olga by the sleeve. “Who’s going to want you with two kids? Come to your senses, silly girl!”
Olga gently freed her arm. There was a calm strength in her movements.
“I am thinking of the children. They can’t sleep or study properly.”
Her mother-in-law turned to her son:
“Igor, say something! Your wife’s leaving and you’re just standing there!”
Igor stood with his head down. Silent. Maybe for the first time in his life he didn’t know what to say.
Nastya took her mother’s hand:
“Mom, let’s go.”
Olga nodded, picked up the bags. Lyudmila Vasilievna blocked her way:
“I won’t let you! You’re destroying the family!”
“Your son destroyed this family,” Olga said evenly. “Please step aside.”
“We’re leaving,” she added firmly, looking at Igor.
He didn’t move, only followed them with his eyes all the way to the elevator.
At her parents’ house, it was quiet. Her mother met them at the door, hugged the grandchildren and didn’t ask unnecessary questions. She helped them take off their coats and put the kettle on.
“It’s quiet, peaceful, nobody’s yelling,” Nastya whispered, hugging her grandmother.
Artyom fell asleep immediately in the children’s room where Olga herself had once slept. No tantrums, no flinching at sudden noises. He just fell asleep—deeply and peacefully.
Over dinner, Olga told her parents the truth. She didn’t complain, she simply stated the facts. Her father shook his head:
“Daughter, why do you need a husband like that?”
Olga stayed silent, but for the first time in years she felt the weight lifting from her chest. Here she didn’t have to make excuses, lie to neighbors or feel ashamed of someone else’s behavior.
The week flew by. Nastya did her homework in silence at the big table in the living room, and Artyom drew beside her. They slept soundly, without waking up to banging and swearing. Nastya even brought a friend from class over—they played in the room, laughing freely, not embarrassed at all.
“Mom, are we going to live here forever now?” Artyom asked, building a tower out of blocks.
Olga thought for a moment. Did she really need Igor? What exactly did he give the family besides problems? She worked, provided for the kids, ran the household. And he only brought drunk friends over and demanded to be waited on.
On Saturday morning, a familiar car pulled up to the gate. Igor got out with a huge bouquet of roses, stood there gathering his courage, and rang the bell.
Olga came out to the gate. He held out the flowers:
“Ol, I’m sorry, I’ve realized my mistakes.”
“You realized them after you ended up alone?”
Her voice was cold. Igor tried to smile:
“I won’t bring anyone home anymore, I promise.”
“Igor,” Olga didn’t take the bouquet, “until I see that you’ve actually changed, don’t bother coming here.”
“What do you mean, don’t come?” he was taken aback. “I’m your husband! We have kids!”
“We had kids,” she said. “Now I have kids that I’m raising.”
She turned and walked back toward the house. Outside the gate, a man stood with a bouquet in his hands, still not understanding what exactly he had lost.
From the children’s room window, Artyom peeked out. He waved to his dad and stepped back from the glass. Inside, Grandpa was showing him how to build a ship out of blocks. It was much more interesting than watching a grown man standing at someone else’s gate, unable to understand why he wasn’t being let home anymore
