The cast-iron pan, filled with braised beef, was so heavy that even thick oven mitts couldn’t save me — the heat pierced through the gloves, and my hands were literally burning.
A sticky, unpleasant sweat streak ran down my back, and the strand that had escaped my ponytail fell straight into my eye.
I stood in the narrow hallway, leaning against the wall, listening to a dozen people laughing loudly in our living room.
— So, where is our little darling with the hot food? — boomed my deep-voiced uncle Misi, drowning out the clinking of forks and the crunch of pickles.
— Even the tiniest appetizer has landed in my stomach, now I expect the main course! The shots have paused in their glasses too!
— Oh, wait a minute, — extended the words my mother-in-law, Valentina Igorevna, with a sort of mocking elegance. — Our little Inn always drags her feet.
“Move already, lazybones, pale hands!” — she shouted toward the hallway so I could surely hear. — People came from outside, hungry, and she just dawdles! She got married but still can’t set the table properly!
The guests erupted into laughter all at once. Then my husband Pavol’s voice spoke up:
— But she really is trying, mom. She’ll bring it, where would she go!
Something inside me broke. You know that wretched feeling when you’ve been convincing yourself for years that everything is fine, that you need to be more patient and wiser, and then all illusions shatter at your feet.
Pavol always knew how to throw fog in people’s eyes. When we first moved in together, he seemed reliable.
Back then I spent days at the computer — designing app interfaces, taking urgent weekend orders. I slept four hours, four times a week.
My goal was to acquire my own apartment. And I did. A spacious, two-room flat in a quiet neighborhood, earned through hard work.
I chose every square meter, from the laminate flooring to painting the walls myself, and then washed my hands with solvent.
Pavol moved in with just a single gym bag and his computer. As a logistics worker, he spent his earnings on car repairs and friendly gatherings, while I covered the household expenses.
“I’m saving for our future, Innus, you’ll see, we’ll live well,” — he kept saying. And I believed him.
Valentina Igorevna gradually seeped into our lives. At first, she only visited occasionally on weekends. Then she started bringing seedlings and pickles and imposing her own rules. She could drop by anytime without notice.
— Inn, what’s with the stained stove at your place? — she asked already at the threshold, softly but with thick fingers running over the glass cooktop. — A good wife keeps the house clean. You are completely neglecting Pavol’s child with your computer sketches!
Next to my mother-in-law, Pavol turned into an obedient teenager. As if he had been crushed. In the evening, when I tried to talk to him about my grievances, he skillfully pressed empathy on me:
— Inn, don’t start. My mom is old-fashioned, she has her habits. She just wants to feel like she’s in charge. Don’t you mind if you just listen once? We are family.
I stayed silent. I kept rubbing the shiny bathroom taps.
But my mother-in-law’s appetite grew. She quickly realized that my apartment was the perfect stopover for all her relatives. One needed overnight accommodation, another felt like strolling in the mall.
Every visit ended in kitchen service. The relatives burst into the hallway, threw their coats on the bench, flopped onto my light sofa, and waited for dinner.
Yesterday was the last straw. On Thursday evening, Valentina Igorevna called:
— So, we’re gathering at your place on Saturday. Grandpa would have been eighty, we must remember in a family circle. Prepare for twelve people. Properly set the table. Meat, hearty salads, cold cuts.
— Valentina Igorevna, — I tried to intervene, holding the phone between my shoulder while finalizing my plans. — I wanted to work this weekend, deliver a big project…
— Work comes later! — she cut in. — Family comes first. Pavol said you’d be home. Done, don’t distract me from my work.
Pavol sat in the kitchen, scrolling through the news.
— Why are you deciding for me? — I asked, feeling the muscle twitch under my eye.
— Oh, Inn, can’t you go one day without fuss? — he didn’t even look at me. — Buy groceries, make a salad. Why do you always make a problem out of nothing?
Saturday at six in the morning I jumped out of bed. I ran to the market, spending almost all my savings on a new orthopedic chair. By noon, my kitchen had turned into a battlefield. I cleaned, chopped, cooked.
My legs ached so much I could barely stand, and a fresh red streak appeared on my wrist from hot oil.
The guests arrived at two. Loud, cheeky. They stomped in their dirty shoes in the hallway, chatting loudly, then went straight into the living room. No one stepped into the kitchen to help.
There I stood in the hallway with the hot cast-iron pan, listening as my husband nodded to his mother, who called me “pale hands.”
Slowly, carefully, so the pan wouldn’t tip, I placed the old, heavy dish on the hallway cabinet. I stretched, relaxing my tense shoulders. Fatigue vanished as if it had never been.
I turned and headed straight for the bedroom. From the top shelf of the closet, I pulled out my gym bag. My movements were automatic but incredibly precise.
I folded the clothes, a pair of jeans, my toiletry bag, the laptop. From the bottom drawer of the desk, I retrieved the plastic folder with the apartment documents — title deeds, account statements.
I stuffed it into the side pocket of the bag, zipping it up tightly.
I entered the living room. The feast was at its peak. Valentina Igorevna was just reaching for a piece of sausage when she saw me with the bag on my shoulder. She froze.
The conversation stopped. Twelve pairs of eyes stared at me in complete confusion.
— What is this play? — squinted my mother-in-law. — Where are you going? Where’s the hot food?
I approached the table. From my jeans pocket, I took out the keyring, heavy with keychains. And I threw it hard onto the empty plate in front of my mother-in-law. The metal clanged against the porcelain, sharp and unpleasant.
— Here, — I said in a completely even tone, looking her in the eye. — Since you called me lazy and a bad servant, I resign. The shop is closed. From now on, it’s your problem.
Valentina Igorevna’s face flushed red.
— Inn, what are you saying?! — Pavol jumped up, almost toppling the chair. — What worker? Put down the bag and don’t embarrass me!
He tried to grab my elbow, but I pulled my hand away suddenly.
— You’re the one embarrassing yourself, Pavol, — I said with disgust I had never felt for my husband before. — Sitting there, enjoying while they treat me badly.
— What do you mean?! — screamed my mother-in-law. — You’re husband and wife! Everything is shared! You have no right to throw us out!
— I’m not throwing anyone out, — I smiled politely. — Sit as you wish. This apartment was bought two years before we went to the registry office with your son.
It’s mine, from the first to the last square meter. Since you’ve made yourselves at home, I won’t disturb you. Rest. The meat will cool on the hallway cabinet.
A dense silence settled over the table. The fridge hummed in the kitchen. Uncle Misi cautiously moved his glass.
— Rent is due by the tenth, — I added as I headed for the door. — The bill is in the mailbox. Pay yourselves if you are the masters of the house. No need to stock the fridge anymore. Good luck!
I didn’t wait for their reaction. I stepped into the hallway, jumped over the pan, opened the door, and slammed it behind me as if dropping a ton of weight from my shoulders.
Outside, the smell of damp earth and exhaust filled the air. I pulled out my phone and called Rita, an old friend.
— Ritu, hi. Do you have a free couch in the kitchen? — I asked, trying to suppress the tremor in my voice.
— You can even have my bed, — she answered immediately. — What happened? Pavol did something stupid with his mom again?
— Worse. I left the house. Or rather, I left the apartment for them to wreck.
— Come over. I’ll order pizza and bring out the red dry wine. I’ll wait.
We spent the whole evening in Rita’s cozy kitchen. I poured everything out. My phone kept ringing. Pavol kept messaging: first accusing me of being abnormal.
Then playing the victim: his mother felt bad about my words. Then he cried, asking me to come back immediately because Uncle Misi broke the bathroom tap and water was dripping onto the laminate floor. I just switched the phone to airplane mode.
Exactly a week later I returned. Wednesday afternoon. Pavol sat on the couch, crumpled T-shirt, blankly staring at the turned-off TV. The apartment smelled of sour, unwashed dishes and leftover food.
— Inn! — he jumped up when he saw me at the door. — You’re back! I knew you’d calm down.
— I came for my remaining things and to read the meters, — I snapped. — Where is your parental squad and all the chaos?
Pavol’s face contorted:
— They left. Sunday morning already. My mom got offended. She said she doesn’t stay in such a messy place. No one wanted to cook.
— What a difficult test for her nature, — I smiled, pulling the suitcase from under the bed. — Pack your things, Pavol.
— What?! — he looked at me, confused.
— Literally. I’m filing for divorce. I’ll clean and rent out the apartment, and I’ll rent my own flat.
You have two days to pack. If your clothes aren’t out by Friday evening, I’ll call cleaners, and everything will go into the container on the street.
He tried to argue. Pleaded. Whined that he had nowhere to go, no money for a normal flat.
I didn’t even listen. I just silently packed the shoes. For two years, I was the convenient, always-available girl. My patience had run out.
We divorced quickly. Pavol tried with the help of his friends to claim that since he bought the microwave, he deserved a share. My lawyer completely rejected all his claims in court. Pre-marriage assets cannot be affected by anyone.
The apartment was eventually rented to a nice family couple, and I moved into a bright studio in a new complex. I threw myself into work, taking on exciting projects.
About a year after the painful breakup, I met Yegor. He ran a small architectural studio I collaborated with. Yegor was completely different. A man who solves problems, not hides behind others.
When it came time to meet his parents, my stomach tightened.
But Yegor’s mother, a kind university professor, welcomed me as if I had known her all my life. She never gave unwanted advice and never dropped by uninvited.
— Yegor is an independent man, — she said once over tea. — If he chose you, Inn, then you are his destiny. We can only be happy.
My eyes welled up. I remembered that hot cast-iron, the yelling at the servant, and the cheeky relatives’ faces.
Sometimes I hear news about my ex-husband. Pavol still struggles in cheap rentals. Normal women don’t stay; Valentina Igorevna quickly drives anyone away who dares contradict her.
Without free service, she started terrorizing the neighbors, though two strong men soon explained the rules, and now she’s afraid to go into the stairwell.
Now, watching Yegor build the playpen for our child, I return in my mind to that spring day. Yes, it was terrifying to overturn the established order.
It was hard to admit the mistake. But sometimes, to truly be happy, it’s enough to simply throw the keys onto the table for those who regard nothing as important and close the door behind you forever.
