Lera woke up not to an alarm clock, but because the room was stuffy—like a rush-hour bus where the driver forgot to turn on the AC and the passengers are convinced fresh air is bad for your health. She automatically stared at the ceiling: a spider in the corner seemed like the only living creature that wasn’t complaining about the heat.
“Maybe it’s suffering too—just silently. Unlike my relatives,” Lera thought grimly, and rolled onto her other side.
In the kitchen, dishes were already clattering. That meant Valentina Sergeyevna was up. Lera knew this routine perfectly: her mother-in-law got up at seven and immediately started making noise, as if she were competing with the municipal services.
“Lerochka, get up, it’s already half past seven!” came a cheerful—almost mocking—voice from the kitchen. “You’re the only one who works—don’t oversleep!”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Lera muttered as she got up. “As if I wouldn’t know without you.”
In the hallway she ran into her husband, Roman. He was sitting in nothing but his underwear, scrolling on his phone with intense focus. He looked so serious you’d think he was deciding the fate of the country. In reality, as Lera knew, he was deciding which footballer would “come through on today’s bet.”
“Rom, could you at least get dressed,” Lera said, passing by.
“What’s the point?” her husband shrugged without looking up. “I’m at home. Different vibe here.”
“Yeah. The vibe of a flyswatter,” Lera couldn’t help saying.
Roman didn’t react. His brain was clearly fully absorbed by the odds on Spartak.
In the kitchen, Lera was hit by the smell of burnt oatmeal. Valentina Sergeyevna, in her robe, stood at the stove stirring something in a pot.
“I cooked you porridge,” she said as if she’d performed a heroic feat. “So you’ll have strength. After all, the whole house rests on you.”
“Thanks, of course,” Lera replied, pouring herself coffee, “but I usually have yogurt for breakfast.”
“Well that’s nonsense, not food!” her mother-in-law snapped. “Porridge is the foundation. It’s not for nothing I fed kids at school with it my whole life.”
Lera took a sip of coffee and swallowed a sarcastic comeback. “Yes, Valentina Sergeyevna, that’s probably why the kids ran to the cafeteria for buns during recess. Porridge is porridge, but everyone needs real food.”
“Mom, can you put money on my phone?” Roman shouted from the other room. “I’m in the red.”
Lera nearly choked.
“Rom, you’re a grown man. You’re forty-two. You’ve got two hands and even an engineering degree, by the way. Is it really that hard to top up your own balance?”
Roman appeared in the kitchen doorway, scratching his stomach.
“I’d love to, but my card’s empty. And you’re basically our CFO—easier for you.”
“CFO?” Lera gave a bitter little laugh. “And here I thought I was your wife.”
“Well, wife too,” Roman agreed. “You’re multitasking, you could say.”
At that moment Valentina Sergeyevna took her son’s side.
“Lerochka, why are you being stingy? You earn money anyway. We’re family. Isn’t that what family is for—sharing?”
“Funny,” Lera said, sipping her coffee and narrowing her eyes at her mother-in-law. “For some reason, I’m the only one who shares, and everyone else just takes.”
Silence dropped into the room. Even the porridge seemed to stop bubbling.
“Are you starting again?” Valentina Sergeyevna frowned. “I really don’t like this greed of yours.”
“This isn’t greed, it’s basic fairness,” Lera replied. “I’m not an ATM.”
“And here we go,” Roman sighed. “It’s morning and you’re already making claims. Do you understand this is all from nerves? You need to take life easier.”
“Easier?” Lera felt anger rising in her chest. “You’ve been sitting at home for the second year, ‘taking it easy.’ Your mother spends money from my salary—even helps relatives—while I’m supposed to pay for everything and keep quiet?”
“You’re dramatizing,” Roman said calmly, going back to his phone. “It’s all solvable.”
“Of course it’s solvable,” Lera nodded. “Only I’m the one who always has to solve it.”
She sharply set her cup in the sink. The sound was like a gunshot in that tiny kitchen.
“Lerochka,” her mother-in-law drew out conciliatorily. “We’re family. Times are hard now, but later everything will settle down.”
“When?” Lera looked up. “When I’m sixty and working to fund my retirement so you can keep sitting at home?”
No one answered.
Lera exhaled. A thought flashed through her mind: “Maybe it’s my fault. I let them get used to it. At first it seemed like, okay, I’ll help. Then again, and again… and now I’m feeding two adult loafers, and they think it’s normal.”
Her phone chirped—a reminder about the mortgage payment. Lera glanced at it and felt her stomach tighten.
“By the way,” she remembered, “who withdrew fifty thousand from my card yesterday?”
Roman lifted his eyebrows in surprise.
“Not me, I don’t have access,” he said.
Valentina Sergeyevna coughed and lowered her eyes to her plate.
“Mom?” Lera’s voice turned cold.
“Well… you see… my niece has problems. She got into debt. And we’re family—we have to help.”
“What niece?” Lera could barely hold back a shout. “I have a mortgage, utilities, expenses. You didn’t even ask me!”
“Lerochka,” her mother-in-law said softly, almost tenderly, “you don’t understand, it’s temporary. We’ll pay you back later.”
“You will? Pay me back?” Lera burst out laughing so hard tears sprang to her eyes. “Both of you? One lives off betting, the other lives off other people’s problems—and you’ll pay me back?”
“You’ve gotten mean,” Roman said quietly, shaking his head. “You used to be different.”
“No, Rom. I’ve always been the same. I just kept quiet before.”
She looked at them both and suddenly understood clearly: it was time to change something.
“That’s it. The free buffet is closed,” Lera said, pulling her card from her bag. “Today I’m blocking all the cards and moving the money to a deposit. From now on, everyone lives on their own.”
Roman’s mouth fell open as if he wanted to say something, but he couldn’t. Valentina Sergeyevna threw up her hands.
“Lera! What are you doing?! We’re family!”
“Exactly,” Lera replied icily. “Family is support. What we have is parasitism.”
She turned and walked into the bedroom, leaving them in the kitchen in complete silence.
“I did it. I actually said it. Now we’ll see what happens next.”
After yesterday’s statement, silence hung in the apartment—heavy, like an old Soviet chandelier everyone’s afraid to take down, but no one actually removes. Lera lay in the bedroom for a long time staring at the ceiling, as if looking for an answer there—what would happen next. The answer, of course, didn’t appear.
Morning began with doors slamming. Roman stomped his slippers down the hallway on purpose—clearly stepping harder so she’d hear. He went into the living room, came back, rustled bags, went out again. Like a ghost wandering the apartment with indigestion.
“Ler,” he finally snapped. “You’re serious, yeah? You hid the money?”
Lera was already pouring herself coffee.
“I didn’t hide it. I put it where you can’t reach it. That’s called ‘saving.’”
“That’s betrayal,” Roman decided to go on the attack. “You do this to me after everything?”
“After what?” Lera raised an eyebrow. “After I’ve been feeding you and your mother for two years?”
“And what, I’m not your husband?” Roman raised his voice. “I have the right!”
“You do,” Lera said calmly. “But only to your own paycheck.”
At that moment Valentina Sergeyevna rushed in from the kitchen in her eternal robe, with the face of a dramatic actress on stage.
“Lerochka, I understand everything, you’re tired. But you can’t do it like this, all at once! We’re family!”
“Family is when decisions are made together. When you withdraw fifty thousand without asking, that’s theft.”
“You’re accusing me of theft?!” the mother-in-law threw up her hands. “I did everything for the family!”
“For your niece,” Lera corrected. “And family is me, Roman, and you. Let your niece deal with her own debts.”
“You’re cruel!” Valentina Sergeyevna sniffled. “You have a heart of stone.”
“No. It’s just tired.”
Seeing his mother perform tragedy, Roman decided to add fuel.
“So listen, Ler, if you think you’re the only boss here, you’re wrong. This apartment is shared. Half of it is mine!”
“So what?” Lera set her cup down. “Half is yours, half is mine. Only I pay for everything.”
“You’re implying I’m a freeloader?” Roman started to boil.
“I’m not implying. I’m saying it,” Lera answered evenly.
“If I wanted to, I’d have been working ages ago!” Roman shouted. “I just… don’t want to humiliate myself for pennies.”
“Right. But humiliating yourself by asking your wife for phone money—that’s fine?” Lera smirked.
“You’re mocking me,” he snapped.
“No, Rom. That’s called real life.”
Valentina Sergeyevna couldn’t take it anymore and slammed her palm on the table.
“That’s enough of this circus! Lera, you have to understand men have it hard these days. There’s no decent work. And you earn well. So stop whining.”
“Mom, you don’t work either!” Lera turned to her. “Why am I supposed to support two people at once?”
“Because you’re young and strong, and I’m old. I’m entitled to rest.”
“You’re old?” Lera’s eyes widened. “Five years ago you flew to Turkey with your friend and danced at discos till morning! You’re livelier than me.”
Roman snorted a laugh—then immediately cut it off under his mother’s glare.
“So what if she danced?” he grumbled. “She has the right.”
“She does,” Lera agreed. “Only on her own dime, not mine.”
Silence again. It felt like even the fridge stopped humming.
“Fine,” Valentina Sergeyevna finally said, forcing a smile. “Alright, if you’re so principled. We’ll manage ourselves somehow.”
Lera tensed inside. She knew that “somehow.” It meant that in a couple of days they’d still try to blackmail her with tears and calls: “We have no bread,” “We can’t go to the pharmacy,” “Do you want us to starve?”
And sure enough. In the evening, when Lera came home from work, a note lay on the kitchen table: “No bread. No money either. At least pity the child, we’re sitting here hungry.” Signed: “Mom and Roma.”
Lera grimaced.
“Pity the child?” she muttered. “A forty-two-year-old child? That’s not a child—that’s a pensioner in track pants.”
Five minutes later Roman came home and immediately started the show.
“Ler, what are you doing? I didn’t eat all day. Mom didn’t either.”
“And how is that my problem?” Lera shrugged. “There are plenty of vacancies in stores. You go, you work—you buy bread.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m an engineer!” Roman protested. “Working a register is humiliating.”
“But begging your wife for phone money isn’t humiliating?”
“That’s different! We’re family!”
“Family doesn’t mean one person works themselves to death while two people rest,” Lera said. “That’s it, Rom. Turn your brain on.”
He went quiet. His face turned heavy, angry.
“Fine,” he said softly. “If you think I can’t handle it, we’ll see.”
And he walked into the room, slamming the door.
Lera stayed alone in the kitchen and, for the first time in many years, felt that the situation was changing. But inside she was anxious. She knew those two too well: they wouldn’t back down that easily.
“Well then,” she thought, “let them try. The free buffet is closed—so it’s closed.”
On the third day after blocking the cards, something happened in the apartment that Lera had been expecting—but still wasn’t ready to face.
In the evening, when she’d just taken off her heels and collapsed onto the couch with relief, a strange, businesslike throat-clearing came from the kitchen. That meant one thing: Valentina Sergeyevna was about to stage a “family council.”
And sure enough. When Lera walked in, Roman and his mother were sitting at the table. In front of them lay a sheet of graph paper, a pen, and even a cup of tea for “credibility.” The atmosphere was so serious, as if they were about to draft a new Criminal Code.
“Lerochka, sit down,” her mother-in-law declared solemnly. “Roma and I have discussed everything.”
“Yeah,” her husband nodded. “It’s time to make a decision.”
Lera smirked and sat down opposite.
“Interesting. Which one?”
Roman rolled the pen between his fingers, looking at her like a great strategist.
“We decided money really should be kept in a safe place. But you should manage it together with me. Half your salary goes to shared needs, half is your personal money.”
“Wonderful plan,” Lera nodded. “I just didn’t catch one thing: is it ‘my salary’ or ‘ours’?”
“Well of course,” Valentina Sergeyevna jumped in. “Everything in a family should be shared.”
“So my salary is shared, and your zeros in your accounts are personal?” Lera уточнила.
“There you go being snide again,” the mother-in-law said, offended. “We’re doing this for fairness!”
“For fairness?” Lera stood up and placed her palms on the table. “Fine. Then let’s do it fairly.”
She pulled three sheets of paper from her bag and slid one to each of them.
“These are printouts of expenses for the past six months. All card spending. Mine and… yours. Let’s take a look.”
Roman frowned.
“What are you, our accountant?”
“No,” Lera snapped. “I’m the idiot who paid for all of it.”
She jabbed her finger at the lines: “loan for niece,” “gift for neighbors,” “bookmaker bets.”
“Here you go. Am I supposed to count this as family expenses?”
“Well that’s…” Roman hesitated.
“It’s help!” his mother interjected. “You just don’t understand!”
“No, Valentina Sergeyevna. I understand perfectly. Helping is when people are grateful. You treat it like it’s your right.”
Valentina Sergeyevna jumped up, her eyes flashing.
“You’re ungrateful! If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have gotten married!”
“Mom!” Roman tried to stop her.
“No, let her hear it!” the mother-in-law worked herself up. “I brought my son into your home, and now you’re reproaching him!”
Lera felt everything inside her start to boil.
“You didn’t ‘bring’ him to me—I married him,” she barked. “And you know what? Enough!”
She grabbed her card, took out her phone, and right in front of them transferred all the money to a new account.
“That’s it. From today—everyone for themselves. Want to eat? Work. Want to help relatives? Find your own money.”
Roman sprang up.
“Are you out of your mind? You’ll destroy the family!”
“The family?” Lera laughed, but it was bitter. “We don’t have a family. We have me—with a paycheck. And you—with appetites.”
He stepped closer and grabbed her arm.
“You don’t get to say that!”
“Let go!” Lera yanked her hand free. “And remember, Rom: the free buffet is closed. Forever.”
Valentina Sergeyevna clapped a hand over her mouth and sank back down, as if her legs had given out. Roman stood there in silence, breathing hard.
And Lera suddenly felt a strange relief. Her chest loosened, like someone had flung open a window. She looked at both of them—and for the first time in years she didn’t feel guilty.
“Now it’s everyone for themselves,” she said quietly. “Welcome to adult life.”
And she walked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
The kitchen was left in silence.
