Anna slowly wiped the droplets of water from the kitchen counter, glancing up at the clock.
It was half past eight. Dmitri was still sound asleep, wrapped in his blanket, completely unaware that the quiet of the morning had long vanished, replaced by a tense stillness, a mixture of anticipation and suppressed frustration.
With a heavy sigh, Anna poured herself a cup of coffee, the steam curling upward, carrying its bitter aroma that immediately stirred her mind.
Five months had passed since Dmitri had lost his job. Back then, he was certain he would find a new position within two or three weeks. “I have experience, qualifications, references,” he repeated proudly, tapping his fingers on the table.
But weeks had stretched into months, and Dmitri remained at home, comfortably entrenched in idleness.
Anna sipped her coffee slowly and began gathering her bag. Another twelve-hour shift awaited her at the clinic. The workload had grown heavier, patients arriving more frequently, and extra shifts had become unavoidable.
Money was also urgently needed: utilities, groceries, the car loan—mostly used now by Dmitri as he roamed the city searching for the “right” job.
“Dimi, I’m leaving!” she called toward the bedroom.
Silence was her only reply.
She closed the door almost soundlessly, as if afraid to wake the anger and disappointment that slept inside her.
It wasn’t just her husband’s idleness that weighed on her; it was the entire situation—the constant uncertainty, the financial and emotional strain that made every day feel heavier.
By evening, Anna returned home exhausted. Her legs throbbed, her back ached with every step. She kicked off her shoes in the hallway and heard the sound of the television from the living room. Dmitri sat on the couch, absorbed in a program about animals.
“Hi,” Anna said wearily.
“Hi,” Dmitri answered without lifting his gaze from the screen.
Anna went to the kitchen and opened the fridge, but it was empty. She closed it and turned to her husband.
“Dimi, couldn’t you go to the store?”
“Oh, I forgot. Sorry, I had a job interview today.”
It was the first real news in the past two weeks.
“And?” Anna asked, wary of the answer.
“Nothing special,” Dmitri waved dismissively. “They’re offering peanuts. I won’t work for that. It’s humiliating.”
Anna sank slowly into a chair. The words came out heavy and hesitant.
“Humiliating? Dimi, do you understand that we live on my salary? That I barely have time to eat between shifts?”
“I won’t accept the first offer that comes along,” Dmitri replied calmly, as if stating the obvious. “I have experience. I won’t work for scraps.”
Anna bit her lip. She wanted to shout, but the fatigue had drained all her strength.
“Then at least help around the house,” she murmured. “Go to the store, cook dinner, clean up. Something.”
“I’m not a housekeeper, Anna,” Dmitri grumbled. “I’m looking for a job. That’s work too, you know.”
She went silently to the bathroom, letting the hot water wash over her and finally allowing her tears to flow. The suppressed tension, exhaustion, and constant burden poured out.
The following week, Dmitri went to another interview, this time in a different part of the city, requiring two hours of commuting daily. At dinner, he announced:
“No, that’s not an option,” he said. “Two hours on the road every day. I can’t live like that.”
Anna ate her soup silently. There was no point in arguing anymore.
The situation grew more complicated when Ludmila, Dmitri’s mother, called unexpectedly. On a Saturday morning, when Anna finally tried to sleep, the phone rang.
“Dimi, why haven’t you sent me money for two months?” her voice rang with anger and desperation. “Have you forgotten your mother?”
Anna heard every word. Dmitri tried to explain, apologizing for being unemployed, for the difficult situation. But Ludmila only shouted, demanded, and accused. The conversation dragged on, Dmitri repeatedly promised, but there was no money.
One evening, when Anna returned from work, Dmitri sat on the couch with a guilty expression.
“Anna, I need you to help me with something…” he began.
“No,” Anna said firmly. “We have no money. I’m taking extra shifts, and you expect me to support your mother too?”
“She’s my mother,” Dmitri said quietly.
“And that’s your responsibility! Not mine!” Anna shouted, dropping her bag to the floor. “Find a job, any job, and help her, but don’t put this on me!”
When Ludmila appeared unannounced, Anna finally stood her ground. The confrontation was sharp, words cutting, but Anna did not back down. She demanded Dmitri not defend his mother so she could assert her boundaries.
Eventually, Anna prevailed: Dmitri left to stay with his mother, and Anna remained alone in the apartment. The silence now felt different—not oppressive, but liberating.
Anna sensed that something had changed: she no longer had to support a grown man who wouldn’t work, nor constantly face the demands of others.
Sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea, watching the city lights outside, the phone rang again.
An unknown number. A woman, Ludmila’s neighbor, informed her that Dmitri’s mother had been hospitalized, though it was nothing serious.
Dmitri was worried, but Anna didn’t call back. She felt no guilt. For the first time in a long while, she could sleep peacefully, without carrying someone else’s burdens.
She was alone, and for the first time, she felt good. Because sometimes solitude is not emptiness—it is freedom.
