Yana sat in the car, watching the city’s night lights blur into watery streaks across the windshield. Sergey drove without a word, only tapping his fingers on the steering wheel now and then to the rhythm of the radio. October rain drummed on the roof, and the interior smelled like warm pastry—Yana had baked a Napoleon cake for her mother-in-law. It was perfect: thin, delicate layers, soft cream, and a finish of chocolate crumbs.
“I hope your mother likes it,” Yana said quietly, keeping the cake box steady on her knees.
Sergey only shrugged.
“It’ll be fine. What matters is the guests enjoy themselves.”
Yana pressed her lips together. For months, tension had been creeping between them. Sergey spent more and more time with his mother, and at home he’d become sharp-tempered and distant. Yana tried to talk, but he waved her off, blaming exhaustion after work at the auto shop.
The car turned into the courtyard of a five-story building on the outskirts of town. Yana stepped out, clutching the cake box to her chest. The rain soaked her coat within seconds. Sergey slammed his door and headed for the entrance without even looking back at his wife.
Guests had already gathered at Larina Yuryevna’s apartment. The smell of fried meat and pungent spices hit Yana the moment she crossed the threshold. Her mother-in-law met them in the hallway wearing a new burgundy dress, hair neatly styled, makeup bright and confident.
“My son! At last!” Larina Yuryevna kissed Sergey on both cheeks, then let her gaze slide over Yana. “Oh. You came too.”
“Good evening, Larina Yuryevna. Happy anniversary,” Yana said, offering the cake box. “I baked it for you.”
Larina Yuryevna took it without even peeking inside and handed it to a neighbor.
“Tanya, take that to the kitchen. There are already three cakes in there—where are we supposed to put another?”
Yana swallowed. Sergey had already walked into the main room, where relatives and neighbors sat around a large table. Yana removed her wet coat and hung it on the rack. Her hands shook—whether from the cold or from humiliation, she couldn’t tell.
There were about twenty people at the table. Larina Yuryevna sat at the head, Sergey took the seat to her right, and Yana was pointed to the very end, squeezed between two elderly neighbors. The table sagged with food: roasted duck, salads, platters of sliced meats, pickled vegetables. In the center stood bottles of wine and vodka.
“Dear guests!” Larina Yuryevna rose, raising her glass. “Thank you for coming to share this wonderful evening with me! I’m fifty-five today, and I’m grateful for every year I’ve been given!”
The guests murmured and lifted their glasses. Yana sipped juice—she would have to drive them back, and Sergey had already poured himself vodka. Larina Yuryevna continued, listing her accomplishments and describing how she raised her son alone after divorcing her husband.
“And here he is beside me—my only one, my golden boy!” Larina Yuryevna placed her hand on Sergey’s shoulder. “His choice of bride wasn’t exactly a triumph, but what can you do—youth, hormones.”
A few guests snickered. Yana dropped her eyes to her plate. Her cheeks burned, but the last thing she wanted was to show how stunned she felt in front of all these people.
“Mom, that’s enough,” Sergey muttered, though his voice held no real protest.
“Enough of what? I’m telling the truth!” Larina Yuryevna laughed and sat down. “All right, let’s drink to the birthday woman!”
Glasses clinked. Yana rubbed her forehead—an ache was starting to bloom. The woman on her left, a heavyset neighbor around sixty, leaned in.
“Don’t mind her, dear. That’s just how Larina Yuryevna is—sharp tongue. But deep down she’s kind.”
Yana nodded, not believing a word. She’d known her mother-in-law for three years—since the day Sergey brought her home after only six months of dating. Back then, Larina Yuryevna had been cool but polite. After the wedding, it began.
At first it was petty remarks. “Yanochka, don’t you know how to iron shirts? Look at those creases.” Or: “Son, maybe ask your wife to cook better? You’re getting thinner.” Later the accusations grew heavier. Larina Yuryevna constantly called Sergey, complaining about her health and demanding he come over to help around the house. Yana offered to go with him, but Larina Yuryevna always found a reason the daughter-in-law wasn’t needed.
“Son, you can handle it yourself. Why do you need that… ‘helper’?”
Toasts began. Neighbors and relatives stood one by one, congratulating Larina Yuryevna, wishing her health, long life, family happiness. She accepted it all with gracious nods. When a distant relative’s turn came, she said:
“Larina Yuryevna, I hope you live to see grandchildren from Sergey!”
Larina Yuryevna sighed dramatically.
“Oh, I dream of it! But somehow it hasn’t worked out yet. Apparently it’s not meant to be.”
Under the table, Yana clenched her fists. She and Sergey had been trying for a baby for over a year, but nothing happened. Yana suggested they both get checked, but Sergey refused, insisting it would happen on its own. And now his mother was hinting—in front of everyone—that the problem was Yana.
Sergey poured himself more vodka. His face flushed, his eyes turned glassy. He downed it in one swallow and chased it with a salty pickle. Yana recognized that look—he got drunk fast, and the drunker he became, the more aggressive he turned.
“Seryozh… maybe that’s enough?” Yana murmured, leaning toward him.
He turned on her with a flash of irritation.
“Don’t lecture me. It’s my mother’s birthday. I have the right to drink.”
Yana leaned back. Her heart thudded high in her throat. She picked up her fork and pushed at the salad, unable to swallow even a bite.
Larina Yuryevna stood again, lifting her glass.
“My dears! I want to thank you all for the gifts! Especially my Seryozhenka—he bought me a new TV! Now that’s care!”
The guests applauded. Yana remembered how she and Sergey had fought two weeks earlier about money. He’d spent nearly his entire paycheck on that television, and the utility bills had been covered with Yana’s salary. She worked as a pharmacist at a drugstore, earned modestly, but tried to save for a mortgage down payment. She dreamed of her own place—somewhere she wouldn’t have to share air with constant reminders that she wasn’t good enough.
“And now—let’s dance!” Larina Yuryevna announced.
Someone turned on music. A few guests left the table and began swaying to a slow melody. Yana stayed seated. Sergey poured again. Yana noticed how her mother-in-law glanced at her son, then at Yana, and smirked.
Time dragged like punishment. Yana tried several times to catch Sergey’s eye, to hint it was time to leave, but he carefully avoided looking at her. He was thoroughly drunk now—rocking on his chair, laughing too loudly at the neighbors’ jokes, slapping someone on the shoulder.
Closer to midnight, Larina Yuryevna asked for attention again. The music went off. The guests fell quiet.
“My friends! The evening is coming to an end, and I want to say one more thing. At fifty-five, I’ve realized something: the most important thing in life is family. A real family—where people love and respect each other.”
Yana stiffened. There was something ugly in her mother-in-law’s tone, a hidden bitterness.
“Take my Seryozha,” Larina Yuryevna continued, resting her hand on her son’s shoulder. “He was always such a good boy. Caring. Attentive. And then he got married.”
People exchanged uneasy glances. Someone coughed. Yana went pale.
“And you know… sometimes I think my son deserves more. Much more than what he has now.”
Yana gripped the edge of the table. She wanted to stand up and walk out, but her legs felt heavy, pinned.
Sergey swayed as he pushed himself up. His face was red, his eyes shining with an unhealthy glare. He lifted his glass, but vodka spilled onto the tablecloth.
“Mom!” Sergey shouted drunkenly. “I’ve got something to tell you!”
Larina Yuryevna smiled as if she’d been waiting for this.
“Go on, son.”
Sergey swept his gaze across the guests, then jabbed a finger toward Yana.
“I’m divorcing that scruffy hag! That’s my gift to you, Mom!”
The words hit the table like stones. For a heartbeat, the room went dead silent. Yana froze, unable to move. The blood drained from her face; her ears rang. It felt as if the world itself slowed down.
Then laughter tore through the silence. First a girl giggled, then two more joined in. The neighbor to the right snorted into her napkin. One of the men roared with laughter.
“Man, Sergey, you’re something else!”
“Now that’s a present!”
Larina Yuryevna jumped up and clapped her hands.
“My boy! Is it true? Are you serious?”
Sergey nodded, unsteady on his feet.
“Dead serious. I’m sick of it. Living with her is impossible. She can’t do anything—just runs her mouth. And you, Mom, you were right all along.”
Yana stayed motionless. Her hands lay on her lap, fingers clenched so tight her knuckles turned white. Her breathing went uneven; a dull pain spread through her chest. Around her, people kept laughing, and someone even raised a glass.
“To Sergey! To the right decision!”
Larina Yuryevna wrapped her arms around her son and kissed his cheeks.
“Thank you, darling! That really is the best gift! I’ve been waiting for this day for so long!”
Slowly, Yana stood. Her legs wobbled, but she forced herself to take a step. Then another. No one paid attention—everyone stared at Sergey and Larina Yuryevna, discussing the “news,” laughing, buzzing.
Yana reached the entryway. Her hands trembled as she put on her damp coat. Her bag hung on a hook—she grabbed it and headed for the door.
“Yana, where are you going?” called Tanya the neighbor, peeking out from the room.
Yana turned. Tanya’s face held a mix of curiosity and spite.
“Home,” Yana said quietly.
“And Sergey? He’s drunk.”
“Let his mother take care of him. Since she planned everything so well.”
Yana stepped onto the landing and pulled the door shut behind her. The sounds of celebration still seeped out, but with every step down the stairwell they grew quieter. Outside, the drizzle hadn’t stopped. Yana paused by the entrance, staring up at the dark sky.
No tears yet. Only a strange hollow inside her—and an icy calm. She took out her phone and called a taxi. It arrived about fifteen minutes later. She waited under the awning, listening to the rain and the distant hum of the city.
The car pulled up. Yana slid into the back seat and gave her address. The driver, a middle-aged man, glanced at her in the rearview mirror but asked nothing—probably because her face made it clear she didn’t want conversation.
The ride took half an hour. Yana watched streetlights flick past, the few pedestrians under umbrellas, the glowing windows of apartment blocks. Her mind was completely blank—no thoughts, no plans. Only the certainty that something irreversible had happened.
Her apartment greeted her with darkness and silence. She turned on the light, dropped her wet coat, and went to the kitchen. She sat at the table, placed her hands in front of her, and stared at one spot.
She sat like that for more than an hour. Then her phone buzzed—a message from Sergey. Yana opened it.
“I’m staying at Mom’s. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Yana set the phone face down on the table. She stood, went into the bedroom, and lay on top of the blanket without undressing. She closed her eyes.
Only then did the tears come.
Yana cried for about an hour. The tears flowed on their own—no sobbing, no hysteria—just sliding down her cheeks and soaking into the pillow. Then it stopped. She wiped her face with her palms, sat up, and looked at the clock: half past one.
She wasn’t sleepy. Something strange had settled inside her—not pain, not anger, but a cold clarity. As if the fog had lifted, and for the first time in three years she could see her life without decorations.
Sergey had never loved her. It was obvious now, with all the masks ripped away. He married Yana because that’s what his mother wanted. Larina Yuryevna had picked a bride who seemed quiet, obedient, willing to endure—someone she could control and belittle without consequences.
Yana got out of bed and went into the living room, switching on the light. The apartment was a small one-room place—tight, but cozy. Yana had renovated it herself, chosen the furniture, poured her heart into every detail. Sergey only criticized: the sofa was the wrong color, the shelves hung crooked, the rug was too bright.
Yana opened the hallway closet and pulled out a large suitcase—the same one Sergey had bought before their honeymoon trip to Sochi. It was dark blue, the corners scuffed.
She set the suitcase on the floor and flipped it open. Then she went to the dresser drawers where Sergey’s things were kept. Shirts, jeans, T-shirts—neatly folded. Yana washed them, ironed them, put them away. Sergey never even thanked her, treating her care as something he was owed.
Methodically, Yana packed his clothes into the suitcase. Her movements were precise, unhurried: shirt after shirt, T-shirt after T-shirt. Sergey’s jeans, his jacket, his sweaters. She worked in silence, hearing only the zipper rasping and the wall clock ticking.
When the clothes were packed, she moved on to his documents. In the desk drawer lay Sergey’s passport, driver’s license, medical insurance card. She put them into a separate bag and placed it on top of the clothes.
Then she gathered the small items: chargers, headphones, flash drives. Those went in too. Yana worked for more than two hours, but didn’t feel tired. With every item removed, breathing felt easier.
Last came the personal toiletries: Sergey’s razor, deodorant, cologne. She collected everything from the bathroom and put it into another bag. The suitcase wouldn’t close, so she grabbed an extra duffel.
Yana zipped the suitcase and straightened up. The apartment looked larger—his things had vanished from everywhere. Her gaze swept the room. On the nightstand lay Sergey’s wedding ring—he’d taken it off before sleep and forgotten to put it back on.
Yana picked it up. Gold, smooth, engraved inside: “Sergey and Yana. Forever.” What irony. Three years ago that ring had meant love and hope. Now it meant nothing.
She set his ring on the suitcase. Then she removed her own ring—slowly, forcing it past the tightness. A pale mark remained on her finger. She placed it beside his.
Now came the hardest part—getting everything out. Yana opened the front door and looked onto the stairwell. Empty. Quiet. Neighbors asleep. She rolled the suitcase into the hallway, then carried out the bag. It took only minutes.
She set the suitcase against the wall opposite her door and placed the duffel beside it. Carefully, she placed the two wedding rings on top. They caught the dull light of the stairwell lamp and flashed once.
Yana stepped back inside and shut the door. She turned the key twice. Leaned her back against the door and exhaled.
Done.
The apartment felt different. Empty shelves in the closet, cleared drawers, no men’s shoes in the hallway—everything created a sensation of freedom. Yana walked through the room, touching what remained: her books, her dishes, her furniture. All of it belonged only to her.
She glanced at the clock. Four in the morning. Two hours until dawn. Yana lay down on the sofa, pulled a throw over herself, and closed her eyes. Sleep came unexpectedly—deep, dreamless.
She woke to the sound of a key turning. Yana jumped up, heart pounding. The key turned again, but the door didn’t open—the inner lock held. Outside came irritated muttering, then a knock.
“Yana! Open up!” Sergey’s voice was rough, hungover.
Yana stood, smoothed her hair, and walked to the door. Without opening it, she asked:
“What do you want?”
“What do you mean, what? Open the door, I’m home!”
“This isn’t your home. Your things are in the hallway.”
Silence. Then Sergey began pounding again.
“Have you lost your mind? What things? Open up right now!”
Yana rested her forehead against the door. Her voice stayed calm, steady.
“Sergey, last night at your mother’s anniversary you said—out loud—that you’re divorcing me. That was your decision. I accepted it. Take your things and go.”
“I was drunk! I didn’t know what I was saying!”
“A drunk tongue speaks sober thoughts. You told the truth. And Larina Yuryevna was thrilled.”
Another voice joined in—female, familiar.
“Seryozhenka, what’s going on? Why are you standing on the landing?”
Larina Yuryevna. Yana closed her eyes. His mother had come with him.
“Mom, she won’t let me in!” Sergey complained, like a child wronged.
“Won’t let you in? Yana!” Larina Yuryevna knocked on the door. “Yana, open this minute! What is this childish nonsense?”
Yana stepped closer so her words carried clearly.
“Larina Yuryevna, yesterday Sergey gave you a gift. He promised to divorce me. I’m simply helping him follow through. His things are outside. Take them, and live together the way you’ve wanted.”
“Are you insane?!” the mother-in-law screeched. “Sergey—break the door!”
“I wouldn’t,” Yana said coldly. “The apartment is in my name. If you force your way in, it’s illegal entry. I can call the police.”
Sergey fell silent—apparently the message made it through the haze. Larina Yuryevna kept ranting.
“How dare you! My son lived here for three years! He has rights!”
“He has no rights,” Yana replied. “I bought this place before the marriage, with my money. Sergey isn’t registered here. He has no claim.”
“Yana, stop being ridiculous,” Sergey said. “Open up and let’s talk like adults.”
“There’s nothing to discuss. You made your decision publicly—before twenty witnesses. I respect it.”
“I was joking!” Sergey snapped. “Do you understand? A stupid joke!”
“Larina Yuryevna didn’t take it as a joke. She was happy. She clapped and thanked you.”
The mother-in-law choked on outrage.
“I… I thought he really… anyway, it’s a misunderstanding!”
“A misunderstanding that lasted three years,” Yana said. “But it’s over now. Your gift has been returned. Live together. Be happy.”
Yana stepped away from the door and returned to the living room. She sat on the sofa and picked up her phone from the side table. Her hands weren’t shaking. Inside, everything was quiet—almost cold.
Noise continued outside. Sergey and Larina Yuryevna argued in low voices, reacting, making plans. Then came the sound of the suitcase being opened—checking the contents. Yana listened and waited.
At last Sergey knocked again.
“Yana, at least give me back my ring. It was expensive.”
Yana gave a small, bitter smile. She rose and went to the door.
“The ring is on the suitcase. With mine. Take it.”
“And the divorce? Someone has to file.”
“I’ll file myself. On Monday I’ll go to the registry office. No kids, nothing to split—you’ll be free in a month.”
Silence. Then Larina Yuryevna’s voice:
“Seryozhenka, let’s go. No point standing here. She’s lost it—she’ll cool down. Then she’ll crawl back and beg forgiveness.”
“I won’t crawl back,” Yana said loudly. “I won’t. There’s no one to beg and nothing to beg for. I endured humiliation, insults, disrespect for three years. Last night it became clear: to both of you, I’m nobody. So go on living together—just without me.”
Larina Yuryevna snorted.
“And who are you, exactly? You think Sergey will fall apart without you? He’ll find another in a week!”
“Wonderful,” Yana answered. “I wish happiness to your next daughter-in-law. Let her enjoy your ‘care’ too.”
Yana heard Sergey lifting the suitcase. The wheels rattled across the landing. Footsteps went down the stairs. Larina Yuryevna muttered angrily, but the words faded.
Yana waited a few minutes, then looked through the peephole. Empty. The suitcase was gone, the rings too. Sergey and his mother had left.
She returned to the room and sat on the sofa, wrapping her arms around her knees. Silence. Absolute silence. No чужие вещи, no reminders, no husband. Only her space—her life.
For the first time in three years, Yana felt the apartment belonged to her again. Not to “them.” Not to Sergey and his mother. Only to her. The feeling was intoxicating, liberating.
Yana went to the kitchen, set the kettle on, and pulled out her favorite mug—the one with lavender on it that Sergey couldn’t stand. She brewed tea, stirred in a spoon of honey, and sat by the window watching the pale morning sky.
The October morning was gray and rainy. But to Yana it felt like the world had lit up with new colors. Freedom lay ahead—unknown, a little frightening, but desperately desired.
She finished her tea, washed the mug, and placed it on the drying rack. Then she took her phone and messaged her friend Katya:
“I’m getting divorced. I kicked Sergey out. I’ll explain when we meet.”
A reply came a minute later:
“Finally! Come over—we’ll talk.”
Yana smiled. Katya had always supported her, even when everyone else said: endure it, get used to it, marriage is like that. Katya alone had seen how Yana changed in the marriage—growing quieter, smaller, fading.
Yana got dressed, took her bag, and left the apartment. She locked the door with both locks. Downstairs, Sergey’s car stood by the entrance—a battered old Lada he loved more than his wife. Yana walked past without turning her head.
It was still drizzling. She raised her collar and headed toward the bus stop. Her chest felt light, in spite of everything. The marriage was over, but life went on. And now that life belonged only to Yana.
Meanwhile, in Larina Yuryevna’s apartment, Sergey sat on the sofa with the suitcase at his feet. His mother fussed in the kitchen, making breakfast and wailing:
“What a woman! The nerve! Don’t worry, Seryozhenka—we’ll show her!”
Sergey said nothing. In his hands he turned the wedding rings—his and Yana’s. Two rings meant to symbolize an unbreakable bond. Now they lay in his palm as a reminder that some “gifts” have a way of coming back.
Larina Yuryevna kept talking—plotting revenge, discussing how to force Yana to change her mind. But Sergey already understood: Yana wasn’t coming back. In her eyes last night he hadn’t seen pain or anger.
He’d seen indifference.
And that meant it was over.
Larina Yuryevna got the gift she wanted—her son stayed with her. Only for some reason there was no joy in it.
Just emptiness.
