— Put it on, don’t embarrass yourself. Your jeans are fine for the city, but here people are actually working.
A clump of gray fabric flew into my face. I instinctively caught it. It was a robe — old, flannel, with a musty smell, possibly mixed with mouse droppings.
A hole gaped at the elbow, stitched roughly with black thread, every stitch feeling raw and crude.
— Valentina Zakharovna, I’ll stay in my own — I placed the ragged garment on the edge of the bench. — I brought a tracksuit.
My mother-in-law pursed her lips, as if she disdained every word I said. She stood on the porch of her summer house: hands on her hips, eyes scanning me, critical, looking for faults in every move.
— Oh, you little doll — she hissed, not looking at me, but turning to my husband. — Pasha, look at this. I prepared for their visit, washed the robe, and yet she says the style is not right.
Pavel, who just a minute ago was cheerfully carrying bags from the trunk, immediately lowered his gaze.
— Olga, come on. It’ll make Mom happy. Put it on, you won’t regret it, right? Everyone here is family.
I looked at my husband. In his eyes was the usual plea: “Just do what she wants, just don’t make a scene.”
We had been married three years, and all three years I played this game called “Respect your elders.”
— Fine — I exhaled, feeling an invisible string tighten inside me. — For you, then.
Three hours later, I could feel neither my legs nor my back. The sun, gentle in the morning, now burned mercilessly. Sweat poured into my eyes, mingling with the dust.
Valentina Zakharovna had assigned me the “women’s front”: three endless rows of carrots overrun with pigweed up to my waist, and a gooseberry bush, thorny as her temper.
— More carefully, Olga, more carefully! — her voice rang from the terrace. — Pull the weeds out by the root, don’t just pinch the tops! I’ll check!
She herself didn’t step into the garden. “I’m not feeling well,” she said briefly and settled into her wicker chair with her crossword puzzles.
Pavel… well, Pavel “did men’s work.” That meant he lazily banged on the crooked fence for half an hour and then lay in the hammock under the apple tree.
In one hand, a cold kvass, in the other, a smartphone. Sounds of a game came from it — he was saving a virtual world.
— Pash, — I straightened with a crack in my spine. — Maybe you could help? I won’t finish by sunset alone. The gooseberries still need picking…
He didn’t turn his head.
— Olga, don’t start. Mom said it’s women’s work. I’m tired, I’ve been driving all week. Let a person relax.
I clenched the prickly bunch in my hand. I wanted to throw it straight into that peaceful hammock. But I stayed silent. Again.
By six in the evening, my stomach began to cramp. We hadn’t eaten — my mother-in-law said, “Snacking only spoils your appetite before dinner.”
I finished with the carrots, collected two buckets of berries, my hands scratched red from the thorns, and trudged toward the house.
The terrace was cool. The table was covered with a starched tablecloth. In the center, a huge pan of fried potatoes on lard steamed.
Next to it, a chilled glass bottle of kvass, lightly salted cucumbers, fresh greens. The smell made my head spin.
Pavel and Valentina Zakharovna were already sitting at the table. My husband was piling himself a second helping, generously covering it with sour cream.
— Oh, finished? — he nodded toward me with his mouth full. — Sit, have some potatoes! Mom’s cooking is excellent.
I silently went to the sink, washed the black dirt off my hands, wiped them on that stinking robe, and sat down. I reached for the pan.
And then something happened that I didn’t expect.
My mother-in-law’s dry, wrinkled hand grabbed my wrist. Hard, unpleasantly.
— Where to? — Valentina Zakharovna’s voice grew stern.
— To eat, — I replied, looking at her. — I’m hungry.
— Did you earn it? — she released my wrist but pushed the pan to the other side of the table, closer to Pavel. — I checked. Poor work in the rows. The roots are still there. And the gooseberries? The berries on the lower branches are still hanging!
— Valentina Zakharovna, I worked five hours without a break…
— You worked poorly! — she shouted. — In our family, the rule is: “Who doesn’t work, doesn’t eat!”
She looked triumphantly at her son, waiting for support.
I turned to my husband. Now. Now he should slam his fist on the table, say: “Mom, what are you doing? This is my wife!”
Pavel froze with the fork in his hand. His eyes darted. He looked at his red-faced mother, then at me, then back to the plate.
And… he put a piece of potato in his mouth. Chewed quietly. Without looking at me, he muttered:
— Olga, seriously. Go finish. It’s not hard. Mom’s strict but fair. Then you can eat.
Inside me, everything froze. The resentment disappeared, the exhaustion disappeared. Only absolute clarity remained.
I slowly got up from the table.
— Enjoy your meal, — I said in a steady voice.
— Go, go — waved my mother-in-law, moving a plate of cucumbers closer to her son. — Work therapy clears the nonsense from your head.
I went into the house. Took off the robe, threw it on the floor by the doorway. Put on my jeans, T-shirt. Grabbed my bag. The keys were in my pocket.
It took me forty minutes to get to the city. I wasn’t shaking. My hands weren’t trembling. I entered our apartment, our, as he liked to call it, our apartment. I breathed in the smell of my home and began to act.
I brought down his old checkered trunk. The one he had brought three years ago when he moved in.
In the closet, he had few belongings: jeans, shirts, a couple of sweaters, socks. I threw everything into a pile, not folding. Toothbrush, razor, TV console.
As I zipped the trunk, the lock clicked. Of course, he had his own set of keys.
Pavel burst into the hallway, red, sweaty, furious.
— Have you lost your mind?! — he shouted from the doorway, not even taking off his shoes. — Do you know how much a taxi from there costs? Two thousand! Your mother got sick, they called the ambulance! What have you done?!
— Two thousand? — I asked calmly. — Not expensive for a lesson.
— What lesson? You’re insane! — he kicked his shoe into the corner. — Tomorrow you call my mom and apologize. On your knees! Or…
— Or what? — I rolled the trunk out to the hallway.
He stared at the bag. Then at me.
— What is this?
— Your things, Pasha.
— You… are kicking me out? — he laughed, nervously, tearfully. — From my own apartment? I’ll call the police! I’m registered here!
— You’re not registered, only temporarily — I corrected. — The term ended last week. You forgot. And the apartment is mine. Bought three years before I made the mistake of marrying you.
He went pale. He remembered. He always tried not to recall, calling the apartment “our nest.”
— Olga, wait… — his tone changed instantly. Anger vanished, fear appeared. — Why? Why did you overdo it? You can’t throw a husband out in the middle of the night. Where should I go?
— Where they serve good food — I opened the door. — To your mother.
— Olga!
— Out.
I placed the trunk on the landing. Pavel stepped back, his eyes full of childish hurt, disbelief: how could she put him, the beloved husband, outside the door?
— Keys — I held out my hand.
He frantically searched his pockets and handed me the bunch.
— You’ll regret this — he hissed when he realized the door was about to close. — Who’s going to want you, divorced? You’ll crawl back.
— Whoever doesn’t work on the relationship, Pasha, doesn’t live in the family. That’s my rule.
I slammed the door. The click of the lock was sharp, the final period in our story.
I leaned back against the door, sat on the floor, and for the first time that day, I cried. Not from sorrow. From relief.
Four years passed.
I stood in line at the Children’s World* checkout, holding a box of building blocks. My two-year-old son sat in the cart, seriously examining a plush bear.
— Olga?
The voice was familiar, but strained. I turned.
Pavel. He was in the next line, holding a bag with cheap kefir and a loaf of bread.
He had changed drastically. Balding, bags under his eyes, his jacket worn, clearly too small.
— Hi — I said simply.
He looked at me, at my new haircut, my expensive coat, at my son.
— Yours? — he nodded toward the child.
— Mine.
— And a husband… do you have one?
— Yes, Pasha. He’s parking the car right now.
Pavel swallowed hard.
— I was just bringing groceries to my mom. She’s completely sick. She barely moves. You know her… difficult. No nurse can manage. I have to do it.
At that moment, his phone rang. Loud, commanding. He flinched, snatched it up.
— Yes, Mom! I’m at the checkout! There was no cottage cheese! I’ll be there soon!
He looked at me guiltily. Hunched, pitiful almost.
— Well, goodbye, Olga. Be happy.
My son tugged my sleeve.
— Mom, who was that?
— Nobody, sweetheart. Just a passerby who chose the wrong door.
I smiled, hugged my son, and walked toward my husband, already waving at us. Everyone lives the life they choose. Pasha made his choice back then, at the potato-laden table. And for that, I am even grateful.
