— The potatoes turned out especially good today. Just like in childhood,” Stas said, spearing a golden slice with his fork and popping it into his mouth with relish, his eyes closing in satisfaction. “And these cutlets of yours… pure magic.”
Lena smiled—not the tired, automatic smile after a long workday, but a genuinely warm one. She loved evenings like this. Just the two of them in their small but cozy kitchen. Outside the window, deep blue November twilight was gathering; inside, a soft light glowed, the air smelled of fried chicken and dill, and for a moment it felt as if all their problems were somewhere far away, beyond the borders of their little world.
“I tried,” she said, neatly cutting off a piece of cutlet. Fragrant juices ran onto her plate. “You know, today I counted everything again. And looked at apartment prices. If we save a little more, then by summer we’ll probably be able to start looking at options.”
She was talking about the money her grandmother had left her. It wasn’t just a sum in a bank account. It was a final greeting from her childhood, the last tangible expression of her grandmother’s love. Every time Lena thought about that money, she didn’t see numbers—she saw wrinkled, warm hands that baked the best pies in the world, and mischievous eyes looking at her from a faded photo on the dresser. She and Stas had decided right away that it was their shared ticket to a new life: a spacious two-bedroom apartment, with room for a nursery and a corner of their own.
“Yeah, that would be great,” Stas nodded, chewing thoughtfully. He set down his fork and looked at Lena. “It’s like she knew… your grandma. She wanted you to have something of your own, something reliable. So you’d feel more secure.”
Lena looked at him with gratitude. He understood. He felt the same way she did. That mattered. More than anything.
Stas was quiet a moment longer, staring at his plate, and then suddenly he looked up—something new and energetic lit up in his eyes.
“By the way, speaking of good things. It’s Irka’s birthday soon. Thirty—an anniversary. And I keep thinking what I should get her…”
Irka, his younger sister, was a delicate topic. A dragonfly flitting through life, changing jobs and boyfriends, constantly complaining about having no money and how cruel the world was. Lena felt neutral toward her, like toward an unavoidable weather event.
“Get her a spa gift certificate. She likes that stuff,” Lena suggested, her thoughts drifting back to their apartment plans.
Stas waved it off, as if she’d suggested giving the birthday girl a bunch of balloons.
“Come on, a certificate… that’s small stuff. This needs to be a gift that’s, like… wow. Something she’ll remember. Something that actually changes her life for the better. She’s always getting bounced around on those minibuses, spending her last money on taxis.”
He leaned across the table, his face turning conspiratorial and thrilled, the way kids look when they’ve come up with a genius prank. His voice dropped to a confidential half-whisper.
“Len, listen. What if…” He paused for effect. “What if we buy her a car with your money? Huh? Can you imagine? Not a new one, of course—something simple, used. Just so she can drive. Picture her face! She’ll lose her mind with happiness! Now that would be a gift!”
The fork in Lena’s hand froze halfway to her mouth. The warmth from the food that had been spreading comfortably through her body seconds ago evaporated instantly, replaced by an icy chill in her stomach. She stared at his beaming, completely sincere face and couldn’t understand. Was this some stupid, inappropriate joke? A test? Or did he really just say that?
Slowly, she set her fork down on the plate. The metallic clink against the porcelain sounded deafening in the sudden silence.
“Are you out of your mind?” she asked. Her voice was even, almost calm—but there was steel ringing in it.
Stas didn’t even understand what had happened. His smile slid off his face, replaced by confusion. He genuinely didn’t get her reaction.
“What’s the big deal? We have the money. It would really help Irka. We’re family—we should help each other. What, are you stingy or something?”
“Stingy?”
That simple word hit Lena in the gut harder than a slap. It was so absurd, so monstrously out of place, that for a few seconds she couldn’t breathe. He sat across from her with the same sincerely bewildered expression and waited for an answer. He truly didn’t understand. Didn’t understand that with a single sentence he’d trampled the memory of her grandmother, their shared plans, her trust—everything at once. He had simply devalued what was sacred to her, turning it into a banal question of greed.
She slowly straightened in her chair. The kitchen table, which a minute ago had been the center of their little universe, now felt like a barrier separating two warring camps. The smell of dinner suddenly seemed cloying and nauseating.
“What does your sister have to do with the money my grandmother left me? Who is she to me? Why on earth would I buy her a car with it, Stas?!”
She said his name as if she were seeing him for the first time and trying to remember what he was called. It wasn’t a questioning “Stas?” but a final “Stas.” A period at the end of the sentence. At the end of their old relationship.
It finally began to sink in for him—not the rightness of her words, no. What sank in was that his brilliant plan had met resistance. His face started to flush.
“Lena, what are you starting for? We’re family. Irka’s my sister, so she’s your family too. Why are you talking like I’m taking the last thing you have? We just want to do something good for her!”
“‘We’?” Lena gave a bitter little smile. “There was no ‘we.’ There was your proposal—and for some reason you expected my automatic agreement. My family is my grandmother, who worked herself to the bone at two jobs so I could have a start in life! She never once even saw your Irka! It’s her money, do you understand? Hers. Not yours, and not even ‘ours’ to waste on gifts!”
The cutlet on his plate was cooling, a pale film of congealed fat forming on top. Dinner was ruined beyond repair.
“So that’s what it is…” he drawled, and accusatory notes crept into his voice. “So when it’s about paying off a mortgage and looking for a bigger apartment, the money is ‘ours’—but when it’s about helping my own sister, suddenly it’s ‘yours’ and ‘grandma’s’? I didn’t expect such pettiness from you. Such greed.”
That word hung in the air again. Greed. Now it wasn’t a question, but a verdict. And that verdict tore away the last of Lena’s self-control.
“Greed?” she laughed, but it was sharp, barking. “That’s what you call greed? I call it trying to latch onto someone else’s money! You’re acting like a freeloader, Stas! You want to solve your sister’s problems at my expense and look like a generous benefactor! It’s easy to be kind with someone else’s money, isn’t it? Maybe we should renovate your parents’ house too? Why not—there’s money, right?”
He sprang up so fast he knocked over his glass of fruit compote. The dark, sticky liquid spread across the white tablecloth, soaking in as an ugly brown stain.
“Have you lost it? Don’t drag my parents into this! I just wanted to do a good deed—and you turned it into money and insults!”
“And it is money!” she shouted, rising too. “It’s not just bills! It’s years of my grandmother’s life! It’s our future home! And you’re trying to blow it on a whim for your infantile little sister!”
They stood facing each other across the table, where their last peaceful dinner was cooling. The cozy kitchen had turned into a ring. And both of them understood the bell had rung, and the fight was only beginning.
The shouting hung in the air, slowly settling like dust after an explosion. Stas was breathing hard, his chest heaving. He still stood with his knuckles pressed into the table, staring at the dark stain on the tablecloth as if it were proof she was wrong. He expected her to keep yelling, arguing, proving her point. But Lena fell silent.
Slowly, with a kind of detached grace, she sat back down. The movement was smooth, deliberate—as if she weren’t a participant in this ugly scene, but an observer watching from the outside. She looked at Stas, and there was no anger left in her eyes, no hurt. There was something far worse—cold, analytical curiosity. The way an entomologist looks at an insect pinned to velvet. She studied his flushed face twisted with malice, his clenched fists, the posture of a cornered animal—and she saw not her husband, but a complete stranger, unpleasant to her.
“So what now? We’re going to sit in silence?” he finally forced out. The quiet was crushing him; it was louder than any scream.
Lena tilted her head slightly.
“And is there anything to talk about? You’ve said everything. I heard you.”
That only enraged him more. Her calm was insulting. He wanted a fight—emotion, argument—something he could win by overpowering her with stubbornness or authority. But she had simply removed him from the conversation, delivered her verdict, and closed the case. He felt the ground slipping out from under him. In this duel, he was losing. And then he did what people do when their own arguments run out—he decided to call for backup.
“Fine,” he hissed, yanking his phone from his jeans pocket. “Talking to you is pointless. There are people who’ll understand me.”
His fingers jabbed nervously at the screen. Lena watched with the same icy calm. She already knew who he was calling. His last, dirtiest move, saved for special occasions: bringing in the “heavy artillery.” His mother.
“Mom, hi. No, I’m not asleep…” He moved toward the window, instinctively turning his back to Lena, forming an alliance against her. “Lena and I are… talking. Yeah. Why I’m calling… Remember I told you about Irka’s birthday? I came up with something…”
Lena didn’t listen to his words. She’d heard them before, in other, less significant fights. That wounded-boy whine, that subtle manipulation where facts were twisted and other people’s words were presented in the ugliest, most convenient way. She stared at his back, at his tense shoulders, at the way he gestured with his free hand, complaining into the receiver about his own wife.
“…No, can you imagine? She thinks Irka doesn’t deserve it! That it’s only her money! She called me a freeloader! Yeah, she actually said that… that I’m trying to grab someone else’s…”
In that moment, everything fell into place for Lena. This wasn’t just her husband’s stupid impulse. It was the position of his whole family. They were one organism, tight-knit and united. And she was the outsider. An attachment with a useful resource—an inheritance. And now their clan, in the person of her husband and mother-in-law, was deciding how best to use that resource. The man she had married, trusted, planned a future with—right before her eyes, he had turned back into his mother’s son, whining about his “difficult” wife.
He talked for another couple of minutes, nodding at something being said on the other end. Lena didn’t look at him anymore. She looked at the cold cutlet on her plate. The dinner she’d cooked with love now felt like a disgusting mockery. Silently, she stood up, took her plate and Stas’s plate, and dumped the contents into the trash. The sound of food hitting the bin made him turn around.
“…Yeah, Mom, I’ll talk to her again. Okay, bye,” he threw into the phone and hung up.
He turned to her, and his face held a mix of righteous anger and confidence. He’d gotten support; his position had been approved. Now he was ready to continue the fight with renewed strength.
“Mom is shocked by you,” Stas began, and there was steel in his voice, hardened by his mother’s approval. He stepped forward, trying to regain control. “She said you just don’t understand what a real family is. That you need to be—”
He didn’t finish. Without a word, Lena turned around and left the kitchen. Her movement was so calm and purposeful that for a moment Stas was thrown off. He expected tears, screams, pleading—anything but this quiet, demonstrative exit. He stayed alone in the middle of the kitchen, an unfinished sentence on his lips, suddenly feeling stupid. What did it mean? Had she gone to the bedroom to dramatically go to sleep? Decided to ignore him? He snorted. Childish.
From the hallway came a soft rustle. Then another. He frowned, listening. He couldn’t understand what those sounds were. No cabinet doors slamming, no drawers being pulled out—just some quiet, methodical fussing. A minute later, she came back.
In one hand she held his bulky autumn jacket, in the other his worn boots. She walked to the table and carefully set the boots on the floor next to his chair. Then she draped the jacket over the backrest. After that she returned to the hallway and, a few seconds later, came back into the kitchen again. This time she was holding his car and apartment keys and his thick leather wallet. She placed them on the table, right on top of the sticky compote stain. The keyring clinked softly.
Stas stared at the little installation, and his brain refused to process it. It looked like some absurd performance piece.
“What is this?” he asked, his voice lost. The confidence he’d gained from calling his mother had vanished without a trace.
Lena sat down in her chair across from him. She didn’t cross her arms, didn’t take a defensive pose. She simply sat, relaxed and straight, and looked at him.
“These are your things,” she said in an even, colorless voice. “The ones you’ll need in the next ten minutes.”
It began to sink in—slowly, the way pain sinks in after a hard удар.
“You… you’re kicking me out? Because of a car? Are you serious?”
Lena allowed herself a faint, almost imperceptible smirk.
“No, Stas. Not because of a car. The car is just litmus paper. You just called your mom to complain about me. You brought her into our family so she could help you decide what to do with my money. You showed me there is no ‘us’ for you. There’s you and your family—and I’m a newcomer with a useful asset. You decided everything yourself. I’m just drawing conclusions.”
He stared at her, mouth open. He wanted to yell, to protest, to call her crazy—but the words stuck in his throat. Her calm paralyzed him. There was nothing left in her of the woman he’d lived with for five years. In front of him sat a stranger—cold, and absolutely resolute.
“You wanted to give your sister a generous gift,” she went on in the same flat tone, as if reading out contract terms. “I won’t get in your way. In fact, I’ll help you. You’re going to her place now. I’m sure she can find a couch for you. You can enjoy your nobility together.”
“You’ve lost your mind…” he whispered.
“On the contrary. I’ve never been more clear-headed,” she said, standing and taking his jacket from the chair back, holding it out to him. “If gifts for your sister matter so much, go to her and live there. And find yourself a wife with an inheritance you can squander. Mine, unfortunately, isn’t meant for that. You have five minutes to get dressed and walk out the door.”
She didn’t push him. Didn’t shout. She just stood there with the jacket extended, her gaze harder than stone. In that look, Stas read his sentence. He understood it was the end—not another fight they’d make up after. It was a full stop. Slowly, as if in a dream, he took the jacket. Took the keys and wallet from the table. Put on his shoes in silence. All his righteous indignation, all his certainty, crumbled into dust. He was crushed by her icy composure.
When he opened the front door, he turned back in a last, weak hope. But she was already walking back to the kitchen, not even granting him a goodbye glance. The door clicked shut behind him.
Lena was left alone in the apartment, filled with the smell of cold dinner. She took the tablecloth with the ugly brown stain, crumpled it up, and threw it into the trash. In the silence that followed there was no pain, no regret. Only cleanliness. And emptiness.
