“Another week down,” Alisa said, tossing her bag onto the coat rack and kicking off her heels right in the entryway. “God, I am exhausted.”
Friday. Finally, Friday. It had been five long days of presentations, meetings, and bickering with clients. As an ad agency manager, the latest project had completely drained her. The client changed requirements three times a day, the designers were spiraling, and the director was breathing down her neck.
Right now, Alisa only wanted one thing: two days of peace. She wanted to sleep until noon, binge-watch a series she’d been putting off for a month, and soak in a bubble bath. No plans, no people, no noise.
Arthur walked out of the bedroom, buttoning his shirt.
“Hey. How was your day?”
“I survived,” Alisa said, walking into the kitchen and opening the fridge. “Are you eating dinner?”
“No, I’m heading to my parents’ place. Dad asked me to help with the garage roof—it’s leaking.”
Alisa turned around. “Now? On a Friday night?”
“Well, yeah,” Arthur shrugged. “I’ll stay the night, help him out Saturday, and head back Sunday.”
A warm feeling spread through Alisa. An entire weekend alone. No Arthur, no his…
“Okay,” Alisa smiled. “Go ahead. Say hi to Nadezhda Valentinovna and Timur Olegovich for me.”
Arthur’s parents lived in a town about 25 miles away. Nadezhda Valentinovna was a retired Russian teacher; Timur Olegovich was a pensioner who had worked at a factory his whole life. They were decent people, in principle. But they had one quirk.
The quirk was that the in-laws considered their son’s apartment their secondary residence, even though it officially belonged to Alisa. They would show up at any moment—on a weekend, a weekday, in the morning, in the evening. No warning, no checking in. They would just appear on the doorstep with bags of homemade pastries, declaring, “We’re only staying for a bit!”
“A bit” always turned into four or five hours. Nadezhda Valentinovna would inspect the apartment, offer «helpful» cleaning tips, and critique the furniture layout. Timur Olegovich would blast the news on the TV. Then came the endless stories about Arthur’s childhood, the neighbors back home, and politics.
Alisa had tried talking to her husband. Several times. She explained how it made her uncomfortable, how she wanted to know in advance, and how they should at least ask if they could drop by.
Arthur would nod. “Fine, I’ll tell them.”
But nothing ever changed. Nadezhda and Timur continued to pop up out of nowhere, and Arthur continued to act like it was no big deal.
“Listen,” Arthur said, pulling his keys from his pocket. “My parents are coming over Sunday. Mom wants to see the new curtains you put up.”
Alisa froze, a yogurt cup in her hand. “What?”
“Yeah, my parents,” Arthur said, zipping up his jacket. “They’ll drop by in the morning, around ten. Mom’s going to bake a pie, like usual.”
“Arthur,” Alisa set the yogurt on the table. “I’m tired. I want to rest this weekend. At home. Alone.”
“It’s just for a bit,” her husband waved her off. “A couple of hours, no more.”
“Arthur!”
“Alisa, what’s the big deal?” he frowned. “My parents are coming by, they’ll sit for a while, and then leave. You know how Mom is—she just likes to see everything and catch up.”
“Well, it’s important to me that I rest!”
“You’ll rest,” Arthur said, opening the front door. “Anyway, I have to go. See you Sunday.”
The door clicked shut. Alisa stood in the middle of the kitchen, her fists clenched. It was happening again. Once again, he had decided everything himself without asking her or caring how she felt.
Sunday morning. 10:00 AM. Nadezhda Valentinovna would arrive with a pie and comments about how the curtains “hung a bit crooked and needed adjusting.” Timur Olegovich would bring his endless news reports. Arthur would sit there, smiling, saying, “Oh, Mom, oh, Dad, don’t be so picky.”
Alisa pulled out her phone and messaged her friend Vera: “Thanks for the recommendation for that lawyer. I think I’m going to need them.”
Friday night passed in silence. Alisa ordered pizza, put on a comedy, and sprawled out on the couch. No one rang the doorbell; no one asked why she wasn’t cooking a «proper» dinner. It was bliss.
Saturday started with a long sleep until eleven. Alisa woke up, stretched, and looked out the window. Sunny. Perfect. Breakfast in bed, a bubble bath with a face mask, and two movies back-to-back.
In the evening, she sat on the balcony with a glass of wine, watching the city. Streetlights flickered on one by one; below, she could hear teenagers laughing and the hum of passing cars.
Suddenly, she thought: *What if it were always like this?* What if there were no more surprise visits from the in-laws, no more explaining why she was uncomfortable, no more husband who nodded but never changed a thing?
Vera, her friend, had gone through a divorce a year ago. She’d said back then, “You know when I realized I was going to get a divorce? When I imagined life without him—and it became easier to breathe.”
Alisa took a sip of wine. *Easier to breathe.* Yes. That was exactly it.
She pulled out her phone and opened her contacts. The lawyer, Marina Sergeyevna. Vera had given her the number a month ago when Alisa had been complaining about the in-law situation yet again.
She typed a message: “Hello. I’d like to consult with you regarding a divorce. Can I book an appointment for Monday?”
The reply came five minutes later: “Good evening. Monday at 3:00 PM. I’ll send the address separately.”
Alisa let out a long breath. That was it. It was decided.
Sunday morning was just as quiet. Alisa got up at nine, took a shower, and brewed some coffee. She turned on some music—not loud, just in the background. She sat by the window with a book she’d bought six months ago and never managed to start.
At 9:55 AM, she walked over to the intercom and turned it off. She simply pressed the mute button. The device went dark.
She placed her phone nearby and set it to silent. The screen flashed several times—incoming calls. Alisa didn’t look to see who was calling.
At exactly 10:00 AM, the phone vibrated particularly insistently. Alisa glanced at the screen. *Nadezhda Valentinovna.* She picked up.
“Hello?”
“Alisochka!” the mother-in-law’s voice was loud and cheerful. “We’re already at the door! Buzz us in!”
Alisa took a sip of coffee and turned the page of her book. “Nadezhda Valentinovna, I’m not home.”
A pause. A long, heavy pause.
“What do you mean you’re not home?” the mother-in-law’s voice sharpened. “Arthur said you were home!”
“Arthur was mistaken,” Alisa replied calmly. “I’m not here. And I can’t open the door. Have a good day, Nadezhda Valentinovna.”
Alisa ended the call, placed the phone on the table, and went back to her book.
The phone vibrated again. *Nadezhda Valentinovna.* Alisa declined the call. Another vibration. *Timur Olegovich.* Declined. Arthur was out of range—presumably driving.
Alisa kept reading. The protagonist of the novel was leaving the city, walking away from a dead-end job and a man who didn’t value her. Alisa smiled. Just like in real life.
Downstairs, at the entrance, Nadezhda Valentinovna and Timur Olegovich were standing there. The father-in-law held a bag of pie, and the mother-in-law was nervously twisting her purse.
“Timur, ring it again!” Nadezhda Valentinovna nodded at the intercom.
Timur Olegovich pressed the button. Silence. He pressed it again. Still silence.
“Maybe it’s broken?” Timur Olegovich muttered.
“It’s not broken, she just isn’t opening it!” The mother-in-law pulled out her phone and dialed Alisa. “She’s declining! Can you imagine?! She’s declining my calls!”
A young woman with a dog walked by, glancing sideways at the elderly couple. Nadezhda Valentinovna pressed her lips together. “Standing here like fools. How embarrassing.”
“Maybe she really did leave?” Timur Olegovich shifted the bag from one hand to the other.
“Leave where?! On a Sunday morning?!” Nadezhda Valentinovna dialed Arthur. “Out of range! The son is out of range!”
They stood there for over an hour. Nadezhda Valentinovna kept ringing the intercom and calling Alisa and Arthur. Timur Olegovich stood silently, shifting his weight from foot to foot and staring at the closed door.
“That’s it,” Nadezhda Valentinovna finally said. “Let’s go home. She can explain what this was all about later.”
“Maybe she got sick?” Timur Olegovich suggested uncertainly. “Maybe she needs help?”
“What kind of help, Timur?! She’s declining the calls! If she were sick, she wouldn’t be declining calls!”
They got into the car and drove off. Nadezhda Valentinovna grumbled the entire way; Timur Olegovich stayed silent, eyes on the road.
—
Alisa had just finished the chapter when her phone vibrated again. *Arthur.* This time, she picked up.
“Yes?”
“Alisa, what is going on?!” her husband’s voice was bewildered. “My mother is calling, saying you wouldn’t let them in!”
“I told you—I wasn’t home,” Alisa said, turning a page.
“Alisa, enough! I know you were home! Why are you doing this?!”
“Because I asked you not to come,” Alisa answered steadily. “And you didn’t listen. As usual.”
“Alisa, they’re my parents! They wanted to see you and talk!”
“Arthur, I’m tired. I wanted to rest. I told you that on Friday.”
“So now, because of one visit, you’re throwing a tantrum?!”
Alisa closed her book and set it on the table. “Not because of one. Because of hundreds. Because my requests are ignored. Because my opinion doesn’t matter.”
“Alisa, let’s talk about this calmly…”
“Listen,” Alisa interrupted. “Come over tonight. I’ll make dinner, and we can talk.”
“That sounds great!” Arthur sounded relieved. “I’m heading out now!”
“No,” Alisa looked out the window. “Tonight. Around seven. I need time to think.”
Arthur went quiet, then asked uncertainly, “Think about what?”
“About us,” Alisa hung up.
The day dragged on slowly. Alisa cleaned, cooked, and laid out Arthur’s things on the sofa in the living room: a few shirts, jeans, sneakers, his razor, his phone charger. The essentials.
The rest he could pick up later.
At 7:00 PM, a key turned in the lock. Strange. The key turned, but the door didn’t open. He tried again. Another failure.
Arthur rang the doorbell. Alisa opened it. Her husband stood on the threshold with his keys in his hand, looking at the lock in confusion.
“What’s wrong with the lock? My key doesn’t work.”
“It works,” Alisa stepped aside. “I just changed the cylinder.”
“Why?”
Alisa walked into the living room and pointed to the sofa with his things. “Take it. You can get the rest later, once we’ve settled everything.”
Arthur walked in slowly and closed the door behind him. He looked at the things, at his wife, and back at the things. “Alisa, what is this?”
“You don’t live here anymore.”
Her husband froze. He opened his mouth, closed it, and blinked a few times. “Are you joking?”
“No.”
“Alisa,” Arthur stepped toward her. “Is this because my parents came over? Seriously? You’re kicking me out over that?!”
“Not because of that,” Alisa sat on the armrest of the chair. “Because you don’t listen to me. You don’t hear me at all.”
“I do hear you!”
“No,” Alisa shook her head. “You nod, you say ‘fine, I’ll tell my parents,’ and then nothing changes. They arrive whenever they want, you agree, I get angry, we argue, you promise to do better. It’s a cycle.”
“Alisa, we can fix this! I’ll talk to my mother, I’ll explain…”
“How many times have you said that?” Alisa raised her eyebrows. “Ten? Twenty? I’ve lost count.”
“But this time I…”
“Arthur, stop,” Alisa interrupted. “I’m tired. Tired of explaining the same things. Tired of being angry. Tired of feeling like a stranger in my own home.”
“Alisa,” her husband’s voice trembled. “Let’s try one more time. I’ll change, I swear!”
“You know what I realized this weekend?” Alisa stood up and walked to the window. “When you were gone, I breathed freely. For the first time in a long time. I didn’t have to justify myself to anyone, explain anything, or prove anything. I was just living.”
“Alisa…”
“And I want to keep living like that,” Alisa turned to face him. “Without the constant feeling that my opinion means nothing.”
Arthur slumped onto the sofa, burying his head in his hands. “I didn’t think it was this serious.”
“You should have.”
Silence hung in the room. Arthur sat there, staring at the floor. Alisa stood by the window with her arms crossed.
“Are you sure about this?” Arthur asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“And nothing will change your mind?”
“No.”
Arthur stood up and picked up his bag of things. He paused in the doorway. “My mother will call you. She’ll blame you.”
“Let her call,” Alisa shrugged. “I’ll explain the same thing to her that I explained to you. Although she probably won’t understand.”
“She won’t,” Arthur agreed. “To her, family is when everyone is always together and always happy to see each other.”
“To me, family is when you respect boundaries,” Alisa opened the door. “It seems we have different ideas.”
Arthur stepped into the hallway and turned back. “Can I… can I try to change everything? Maybe you could give me some time?”
“How much time do you need?” Alisa asked. “Another year? Two? Five? Arthur, we’ve been married for four years. In four years, you haven’t changed anything. Why should I believe you will now?”
Her husband was silent.
“Exactly,” Alisa nodded. “Go, Arthur.”
The door closed. Alisa leaned her back against it and closed her eyes. That was it. The end.
So why did she feel so calm? Why were there no tears, no hysterics, no desire to turn back time?
Because she hadn’t made the decision today. Or yesterday. Or a week ago. The decision had been ripening for months, every time Nadezhda Valentinovna and Timur Olegovich appeared on the doorstep uninvited. Every time Arthur nodded and promised, but nothing changed.
On Monday, Alisa went to see Marina Sergeyevna. The lawyer listened and nodded.
“Is the property joint?”
“The apartment is mine, bought before the marriage,” Alisa replied. “The car is his. No debts, no children.”
“Then the divorce will be quick,” Marina Sergeyevna noted in her pad. “If your husband doesn’t object, it will all be over in a month or month and a half.”
Arthur didn’t object. He called several times, asking to meet and talk. Alisa agreed to meetings—in cafes, on neutral territory. They discussed documents, the division of belongings, and the formalities.
Arthur tried to bring up reconciliation every single time. Alisa gently but firmly shut him down: “Arthur, don’t. The decision is made.”
Nadezhda Valentinovna called twice. The first time, she screamed into the receiver, accusing Alisa of destroying the family, of being heartless, of disrespecting her elders. Alisa listened in silence, then replied calmly, “Nadezhda Valentinovna, if you had respected my boundaries, perhaps we wouldn’t be talking about divorce right now.”
“What boundaries?!” the mother-in-law choked on her indignation. “We are parents! We have the right to see our son!”
“You do,” Alisa agreed. “But letting me know in advance also makes sense.”
“We’ve always done it this way! And we lived perfectly fine!”
“You lived perfectly fine,” Alisa looked out the window. “But I didn’t.”
Nadezhda Valentinovna hung up. She called a second time two weeks later; her voice was quieter, almost pleading. “Alisa, could you and Arthur make up? Why get divorced over such a trivial thing?”
“Nadezhda Valentinovna, for you, it’s trivial. For me, it isn’t.”
“But we can come to an agreement! I’ll warn you in advance!”
“It’s too late,” Alisa sighed. “I’m sorry.”
The divorce was finalized. Alisa received the certificate and placed it in her file folder. That evening, she sat on the balcony with a glass of wine, watching the city.
Vera called. “So, how are you?”
“I’m fine,” Alisa took a sip of wine. “You know, I expected it to be harder. But in reality—it’s easier.”
“I understand,” her friend sighed. “It was the same for me. When I got divorced, my first thought was, ‘Wow, this feels so good!’”
“Exactly,” Alisa laughed. “It feels so good.”
Life settled into a rhythm quickly. Alisa rearranged the furniture in the apartment, bought new pillows, and hung up paintings Arthur hadn’t liked. She signed up for yoga and started going to the theater with her friends.
On weekends, she woke up whenever she wanted and did whatever she wanted. No one rang the doorbell without warning. No one inspected the apartment with a critical eye. No one blasted the television at full volume.
Silence. Freedom. Respect for her own space.
One day, three months after the divorce, Alisa ran into Arthur at the mall. He was walking with a girl, laughing. He saw his ex-wife and froze; the girl tugged on his hand.
Alisa nodded and smiled. Arthur nodded back, awkwardly and embarrassed. They walked in opposite directions.
That evening, Arthur messaged her: “Sorry about earlier. Didn’t want it to be awkward.”
Alisa replied: “Everything is fine. Live happily.”
She truly wanted him to be happy. Without the anger, without the resentment. Just… not with her. With someone who wouldn’t mind the surprise visits from the in-laws. With someone who didn’t care about those things.
But Alisa did care. And now she could live the way she wanted. Without compromises, without explanations, without feeling guilty for defending her own boundaries.
She sat on the balcony again, watching the city. A glass of wine, a book on her lap, silence all around.
And it felt so good. It just felt so good.
