«What are you feeding my son? This is just cabbage water! Anton needs meat. He’s a man, he works, and here you are starving him!»
My mother-in-law’s voice grated on my ears. I stood at the stove, my legs throbbing with exhaustion after a twelve-hour shift. Five years of marriage had turned into an endless exam for the title of ‘Ideal Wife.’ And I failed it every single weekend when Margarita Vasilyevna showed up for her latest inspection.
I slowly wiped my hands on a towel and turned around. My mother-in-law stood in the middle of the kitchen, hands on her hips. Her eyes darted across the countertop, hunting for a speck of dust or an unwashed mug.
Anton was sitting at the table. My lawfully wedded husband was buried in his phone, methodically chewing on a sandwich I had made for him fifteen minutes ago. He didn’t even look up. As usual.
«Lena, look at his collars!» Margarita Vasilyevna pulled a shirt out of the laundry basket with a look of disgust, waving it in the air. «I’ve told you a thousand times: you have to scrub the collars by hand with lye soap. The washing machine doesn’t cut it. He goes into an office; people look at him! And the socks? Why aren’t they ironed?»
I took a deep breath. A heavy sense of resentment stirred in my chest. I worked as a head cashier, taking on extra shifts so we could pay off our loan faster. I came home drained, stood by the stove, mopped the floors, and did the laundry.
«Margarita Vasilyevna,» I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. «I iron the shirts and the slacks. I don’t have the time or the energy for socks. If it’s that important to Anton, the iron is in the closet.»
My mother-in-law gasped loudly, as if I had suggested her son go work in a coal mine.
«Do you hear how she talks to me? Telling me to use the iron! Since when does a man have to iron his own socks after work?»
Anton reluctantly looked up from his screen. He let out a sigh so heavy you’d think he’d been interrupted while solving world hunger. He looked at me with irritation.
«C’mon, Lena, why are you starting this? Mom’s right. I’m the face of my department. You could put in a little effort. Is it really that hard to scrub a shirt for five extra minutes?»
At that moment, I hit my breaking point. My naive hope that we were a real family crumbled into dust.
I looked at this thirty-two-year-old man. He was sitting in a warm apartment that I pay half the rent for. He was eating food that I bought and cooked. And he was waiting for two women to fight over the privilege of washing his dirty laundry.
«Put in more effort?» my voice turned eerily calm. «I work just as hard as you do, Anton. I pay half the loan. I cook, I clean, I do the laundry. And you can’t even be bothered to clear your own plate.»
«Don’t you dare raise your voice at my son!» my mother-in-law shrieked, throwing the shirt onto the table. «You’re a terrible housewife! He’s like an orphan living with you! Skinny, wrinkled, exhausted! I didn’t raise him for this!»
I looked at both of them. At my mother-in-law, red with rage. At my husband, who was cowardly averting his eyes while he kept on chewing.
The realization hit me instantly. It was cold and liberating. I didn’t want this anymore.
I turned around and walked silently into the bedroom. I opened the closet and pulled out the large duffel bag Anton used for business trips.
«What do you think you’re doing?» my mother-in-law’s voice echoed behind me.
I didn’t answer. I just swung the doors open and started tossing my husband’s things into the bag. Shirts, jeans, underwear. Everything went in, one big mess.
«Lena, have you lost your mind?» Anton appeared in the doorway. «Where are you stuffing my clothes? We were supposed to go see friends.»
I zipped the bag shut, grabbed the handle, and hauled it into the hallway. I dropped it right by the front door.
I straightened up and looked Margarita Vasilyevna dead in the eye.
«Stop right there. I am not your son’s nanny, and I am not his maid. Since you’re so unhappy with how he lives—take your little miracle back.»
«What are you talking about?!» my mother-in-law gasped, clutching her hand to her throat. «You’re thinking of throwing your husband out of the house? Are you in your right mind?»
«I am perfectly sane, Margarita Vasilyevna. I’m evicting a tenant who confused his wife with a free housekeeper,» I snapped. «Anton, your mother is right. You need special care. Hand-washing, hearty soups, ironed socks. I’m not doing it anymore. Go find someone else.»
Anton went pale. Fear flickered in his eyes. He tried to take a step toward me.
«Len, come on. What is this? Mom was just giving some advice. Let’s calm down. Mom, go home, we’ll handle this ourselves.»
«No, Anton. We already handled it.» I walked to the door and flung it wide. The cool air rushed into the hallway. «The exit is right there. I’ll file for a division of property in court; everything will be by the book. Now—both of you. Out.»
«Who would even want you with an attitude like that!» Margarita Vasilyevna screamed, grabbing her purse. «Hysterical woman! Come on, son! She’ll come crawling back to us on her knees!»
Anton hesitated. He looked at me, then at his mother. He didn’t even try to apologize. He didn’t try to fight for our marriage. He just silently picked up his bag and followed his mother like a literal mama’s boy.
I watched their backs for three seconds. Then I slammed the door.
I turned the key twice. I slid the deadbolt. I leaned my back against the door.
The apartment went silent. No one was nagging about the soup being wrong. No one was demanding a clean T-shirt. No one was sighing over crumbs on the table.
My hands were shaking from the tension, but a feeling of weightlessness was growing inside me. It felt as if I had finally dropped a burden I’d been hauling for five years.
The next morning, I woke up without an alarm. I didn’t jump out of bed to fix breakfast. I just stretched slowly in the empty bed.
I walked into the kitchen in my old pajamas. For the first time in years, I brewed tea just for myself. I sat by the window. Rain was tapping against the glass, but I felt warm and at peace.
My phone lit up on the table. It was Anton calling.
I didn’t pick up. I just watched as his name faded from the screen.
My life finally belonged to me.
