Darya woke up to the sound of the front door slamming shut. Pavel had left for work without even looking into the bedroom. She lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the apartment. From the kitchen came the footsteps of her mother-in-law, Valeria Romanovna, who was already busy making herself breakfast.
Dasha slowly got out of bed, threw on her robe, and headed to the bathroom. As she passed the kitchen, she heard a loud, irritated snort.
“Careless again! You left the bread on the table instead of putting it in the breadbox. Natalya would never do that…”
Darya clenched her fists but said nothing.
Four years. For four years she had lived in this apartment, in this house where every single day reminded her that she was only a guest. An unwanted guest.
After washing her face with cold water, Darya returned to the bedroom and got dressed. It was her day off, and the only thing she wanted was to spend it as far away as possible from Valeria Romanovna and her endless comparisons with perfect Natalya.
“Darya!” her mother-in-law’s commanding voice rang out. “When are you going to the store? There’s no milk, no cottage cheese. Am I supposed to buy everything myself at my age?”
Darya closed her eyes and counted to ten. Then she stepped into the hallway.
“I’ll go after lunch, Valeria Romanovna.”
“After lunch, after lunch…” the older woman muttered. “And what am I supposed to do, sit here hungry? Natalya always buys everything in the morning so no one has to wait.”
Darya turned away before she could answer. She grabbed her bag, put on her jacket, and left the apartment without saying goodbye. Let Valeria Romanovna complain all she wanted. Today, Darya simply had no strength left to endure it.
That evening, when Pavel came home from work, his mother immediately began complaining.
“Can you imagine, Pavlusha? This morning I asked her to buy milk, and she just walked out! She was rude to me and left!”
Pavel wearily took off his shoes and glanced at Darya, who was standing by the stove.
“Mom, please don’t start…”
“What do you mean, don’t start? I live here too, in my own apartment! And I’m being disrespected!”
Darya flipped the cutlets in the frying pan, feeling tension crawl up her shoulders. Pavel walked past her into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, drank it, and disappeared into the room. He did not hug her. He did not ask how her day had been.
That was how it always was. His mother spoke, and Pavel either stayed silent or walked away. Darya had understood long ago that he would never defend her. It was easier for him to hide somewhere until the storm passed.
The next day, Natalya arrived for lunch. She was tall and slim, wearing a new coat and carrying a fashionable handbag over her shoulder. Valeria Romanovna greeted her daughter with open arms.
“Natashechka, my darling! You look even more beautiful! And that new coat! Look, Darya, this is how a woman should dress, not walk around in those stretched-out sweaters of yours.”
Dasha stood in the kitchen doorway with a cloth in her hand. She had just been wiping the table. Natalya gave her an indifferent glance and walked into the living room without even saying hello.
All evening, Valeria Romanovna admired her daughter. Natalya talked about her new job, her trip to Sochi, and her plans for the future. Her mother listened with delight, nodding and gasping at every word. Darya was not even invited to sit at the table. She silently cleaned the kitchen, listening through the wall as Valeria Romanovna once again held up golden Natalya as an example.
Pavel sat with his mother and sister too, occasionally adding a few comments. Darya finished cleaning, went into the bedroom, and lay down without waiting for the family evening to end.
There was no place for her there. There had not been for a long time.
A week later, the phone rang. Darya was home alone. Pavel was at work, and Valeria Romanovna had gone to visit a friend. The voice on the other end was formal and dry.
“Darya Sergeyevna? This is the city hospital calling. Your mother… Unfortunately, she passed away this morning.”
Darya could not remember what she answered. The phone slipped from her hand and fell onto the sofa. She sank down beside it, pressing her palms to her temples.
Her mother. Her mother was gone.
For the last six months, her mother had been ill. Darya had visited her whenever she could, but work, the house, and Valeria Romanovna’s endless criticism had drained so much of her energy that she had not always been able to visit as often as she wanted.
And now… now it was too late.
When Pavel came home that evening, Darya was sitting in the kitchen, holding a cup of cold tea in both hands. Her husband looked at her red eyes.
“What happened?”
“Mom… she’s gone.”
Pavel froze, then awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders.
“I’m sorry. I… my condolences.”
That was all. He said nothing more.
When Valeria Romanovna heard the news, she merely pressed her lips together.
“Well, we all end up there eventually. You’ll need to handle the documents and arrange the funeral.”
No words of comfort. No sympathy. Just a businesslike tone, as if they were discussing the purchase of a new kettle.
Darya buried her mother almost alone. Pavel came to the cemetery and stood beside her, but he did not even embrace her. Valeria Romanovna did not come at all. She said she was not feeling well.
A week later, Darya received a call from a notary. Her mother had left a will. The apartment, a two-room place in an old district on the outskirts of the city, now belonged to Darya. She went there, completed the paperwork, and received the keys.
She came home late that evening. Pavel was sitting in front of the television, scrolling through his phone. Darya sat down beside him.
“Pavel, Mom left me her apartment.”
Her husband raised his eyes and nodded.
“Well, that’s good.”
“I was thinking… maybe we could move there? We could live separately, just the two of us. It would be our apartment, and no one would…”
“Mhm,” Pavel mumbled, already looking back at his phone. “We’ll see. We’ll discuss it later.”
Darya wanted to say more, but Valeria Romanovna’s voice came from the hallway.
“An apartment, you say? But you’re not going to abandon me now, are you?”
Her mother-in-law stood in the doorway with her arms crossed. Darya realized she had heard the entire conversation.
The next day, during dinner, Valeria Romanovna brought up the subject herself. Darya was serving potatoes onto plates while Pavel sliced bread. Her mother-in-law leaned on the table.
“Darya, I’ve been thinking about your apartment. What area is it in?”
“On Lesnaya Street,” Darya answered cautiously.
“Is it big?”
“Two rooms. Fifth floor. No elevator.”
“I see,” Valeria Romanovna said with a nod. “And how much could it be worth?”
Darya stopped, still holding the ladle.
“I don’t know. I haven’t had it valued.”
“But roughly? Three million? Four?”
“Valeria Romanovna, I’m not planning to sell my mother’s apartment.”
“That’s a mistake,” her mother-in-law said, reaching for the salt. “Money is much more useful right now. Natalya, for example, needs funds for a new project. Serious funds. And you’re young and healthy. You’ll manage somehow. What do you need an empty apartment for?”
Darya slowly placed the ladle on the table. She looked at Pavel. He sat there staring at his plate, as if he had not heard a word.
“Excuse me, but this is my apartment. My mother left it to me.”
“So what?” Valeria Romanovna frowned. “Family should help one another. Natalya is your relative now, your husband’s sister. Are you really going to refuse to help her? Sell the apartment, divide the money. Some for Natalya’s project, some for you and Pavel. That would be fair.”
Something inside Darya cracked. She stared at her mother-in-law, unable to believe what she had just heard.
Sell her mother’s apartment? Divide the money with Natalya, who could not even be bothered to greet her? Give away the last thing she had left from her mother?
“No,” Darya said, shaking her head. “I am not selling the apartment.”
“Darya, you don’t understand,” Valeria Romanovna raised her voice. “Natalya really needs money. A lot of money. And you already have a roof over your head. You live here, in our apartment. What difference does it make to you?”
Pavel remained silent. He simply sat there, as if he was not in the room at all. Darya looked at her husband.
“Pavel, say something.”
He raised his eyes and shrugged.
“Mom is right. Family should help. Natalya is having a hard time, and if you have the opportunity…”
Darya froze. She looked at Pavel and no longer recognized the man she had lived with for four years. Did he truly believe she should sell her mother’s apartment for his sister? For Natalya, who had always looked down on her?
“Do you understand what you’re saying?” Darya asked quietly.
“I understand that family comes first,” Pavel said, looking away. “And if you can help, then you should.”
Valeria Romanovna nodded with satisfaction.
“You see? Pavlusha understands everything perfectly. So, Darya, let’s not be foolish. Arrange the sale, and that will be the end of it.”
Blood pounded in Darya’s temples. Slowly, she rose from the table. Her hands were trembling, not from fear, but from rage that had been building inside her for years. She looked at her mother-in-law, then at her husband, and when she spoke, her voice was cold and firm.
“Dream on! My mother left that apartment to me, not for all of you to divide among yourselves!”
Valeria Romanovna froze with her mouth open. Pavel sharply lifted his head and stared at his wife in disbelief. The air in the room seemed to thicken, becoming heavy and suffocating.
“How dare you?!” Valeria Romanovna jumped to her feet. “Who do you think you are, speaking to me like that?”
“Exactly like that,” Darya replied, not looking away. “For four years I’ve endured your criticism, your comparisons with Natalya, your constant reproaches. For four years I’ve lived in this apartment as if I were some unwanted outsider. And now you want to take the last thing I have left from my mother? No. That will never happen.”
Pavel stood up, his lips pressed tightly together.
“Dasha, stop it. You’re being rude to my mother.”
“And you stay silent while she humiliates me!” Darya turned to him. “Not once have you defended me. Not once! You always keep quiet or walk away, leaving me alone with her attacks.”
“Mom isn’t attacking you, she’s just…”
“What?” Darya stepped closer. “Just comparing me to Natalya? Just saying I cook badly, dress badly, clean badly? Just making it clear that I’m not worthy of being part of your family?”
Pavel turned away and crossed his arms.
“You’re exaggerating.”
“No,” Darya said, shaking her head. “I’m finally seeing the truth. You will never protect me because your mother matters more to you. She always has, and she always will.”
“Family should help each other,” Pavel stubbornly repeated. “And if Natalya needs money…”
“Then let her earn it herself!” Darya’s voice rang through the room. “Or you can help her! But not with my apartment. Not with what my mother left me!”
Valeria Romanovna snorted.
“There it is, her true nature! Selfish! I always told Pavlusha you weren’t one of us. You were a stranger. But he wouldn’t listen!”
Darya turned and left the kitchen. She went into the bedroom, pulled a large bag from the wardrobe, and began packing her things. Her hands were shaking, but she knew exactly what she was doing.
Pavel followed her and closed the door behind him.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m leaving.”
“Where?”
“To my mother’s apartment,” Darya said, stuffing several sweaters into the bag. “To a place where no one will compare me to perfect Natalya. Where no one will tell me what to do with my inheritance.”
“Darya, stop,” Pavel said, trying to take her hand, but she pulled away. “Let’s discuss this calmly. Without emotions.”
“Calmly?” Darya turned to him. “I was calm for four years. For four years I stayed silent, endured everything, tried to please your mother. And what did it change? She still thinks I’m worthless. And you… you didn’t even try to stand by me.”
“Mom only wanted what was best…”
“For Natalya,” Darya cut him off. “For your sister. Not for me. Never for me.”
She zipped up the bag and put on her jacket. Pavel stood there with his fists clenched.
“If you leave, it’s over.”
Darya stopped in the doorway and looked at him.
“It ended four years ago. I just didn’t want to see it.”
She walked down the hallway, past Valeria Romanovna, who stood frozen in the kitchen, and left the apartment. The door slammed shut behind her with a dull sound, as if cutting off the past.
Her mother’s apartment welcomed Darya with silence. She stepped inside, turned on the light, and looked around. Everything reminded her of her mother: the old sofa where they used to watch movies together, the bookshelves filled with favorite novels, the photographs on the walls. Darya went into the bedroom, sat down on the bed, and only then allowed herself to cry.
The tears came for a long time. Bitter, painful, but freeing. She cried for her mother, for the wasted years, for her broken marriage. And with every tear, she felt the weight she had carried for so long begin to leave her.
Pavel called the next day. Darya looked at the phone screen, saw her husband’s name, but did not answer. He called several more times, then sent a message: “Come back. We’ll talk everything over.”
Talk everything over.
Darya smiled bitterly. They would “talk” the same way they always did. Valeria Romanovna would set the terms, Pavel would stay silent, and Darya would once again be told that family mattered more than anything. Only now she understood: there had been no family for her there. Only a cage in which she had been suffocating.
A week later, Darya filed for divorce. Pavel called again, this time sounding irritated.
“Have you lost your mind? A divorce over some argument?”
“Not over an argument,” Darya replied calmly. “Because I realized you will never be on my side. And I don’t want to live with a man who won’t protect his wife.”
“Darya, don’t ruin everything! Come back, we’ll fix it!”
“No,” she said, then hung up and blocked his number.
The next few months were filled with chores and paperwork. Darya finalized the divorce and settled into the apartment. Pavel tried calling from different numbers, sent messages, demanded to meet. Darya ignored every attempt. She understood one thing clearly: she could not return to that life. Going back would mean betraying herself and her mother’s memory.
One evening, while sorting through her mother’s belongings, Darya found an old photograph. In it, she and her mother stood together in that very apartment. Her mother was smiling, hugging little Darya close. Darya ran her fingers over the worn photo and whispered softly:
“Thank you, Mom. You gave me more than an apartment. You gave me freedom.”
The divorce was finalized three months later. Darya received the documents confirming that the marriage had officially ended. She sat in the kitchen, holding the papers in her hands, and felt a strange sense of relief.
Four years were over. A new life was just beginning.
Little by little, the apartment filled with new things and new habits. Darya bought herself beautiful dishes she had always wanted but had been afraid to buy because Valeria Romanovna would have immediately found something wrong with them. She hung paintings on the walls, choosing them according to her own taste. She brought home houseplants, the kind her mother had loved.
One day, as she passed the mirror, Darya stopped and looked carefully at her reflection. The woman in the mirror was smiling.
For the first time in many years, it was a real smile. Not forced. Not cautious. Not afraid of doing something wrong.
This apartment became more than just a place to live. It became a place where she could breathe freely. A place where she did not have to justify every word or every action. A place where she could simply be herself.
Darya poured herself a cup of tea, sat down on the sofa, and wrapped herself in a blanket. Outside, a light rain was falling, but inside the apartment it was warm and cozy. She picked up a book she had wanted to read for a long time but had never found the time for, and opened it to the first page.
Life went on.
Without Pavel, without Valeria Romanovna, without endless comparisons to Natalya.
And this life was hers.
Hers alone.
