“Where are you going with that suitcase? And who’s going to take care of us now?!” my husband exclaimed, noticing my firm expression.
Victoria woke up at half past six — as always, without an alarm clock and without delay. Outside the window, a gray strip of dawn was just beginning to appear, while the house already demanded attention. The coffee maker started working in its familiar way, filling the kitchen with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Mechanically, the woman took out three cups: one for herself, one for her husband, and one for her mother-in-law.
Artyom never woke up before eleven. Valentina Petrovna came to breakfast with her usual expression of dissatisfaction on her face.
“Again, oatmeal?” she grumbled, sitting down at the table. “In the old days, housewives knew how to set a proper table. Pancakes, syrniki, pies…”
Victoria silently stirred the porridge, listening to yet another remark. Her mother-in-law had moved in with them six months ago — supposedly temporarily. She had sold her apartment, flown off on a trip with her friends, and when she returned, settled herself in the newlyweds’ living room. The apartment had been inherited by Artyom from his grandfather, but maintaining it entirely fell on Victoria’s shoulders.
“Mom, good morning,” Artyom appeared, yawning, in a wrinkled T-shirt.
“My son!” Valentina Petrovna immediately brightened. “Come here, I’ll pour you some porridge. Vika, make your husband some stronger coffee.”
The woman poured the drink and placed it in front of Artyom. He didn’t even lift his eyes from his phone screen.
“Are you going to work today?” she asked carefully.
“Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after,” he answered, continuing to scroll through his feed. “There are no decent offers. Just nonsense.”
Six months earlier, he had quit his job as a manager, declaring that his boss was a tyrant and the team was toxic. He promised to find a better position within a month. One month stretched into two, then three… And now Artyom spent his time on the couch, playing games or watching videos.
“We’re almost out of money,” Victoria said quietly.
“But you work,” he shrugged. “You have a salary.”
“Part-time. It barely covers the essentials.”
“We’ll manage for a while. I’ll find something good soon.” Valentina Petrovna nodded approvingly.
“That’s right, son. You shouldn’t agree to the first job that comes along. You’re educated and intelligent. There should be something suitable.”
Victoria finished her coffee and cleared the dishes from the table. Dirty plates from the previous evening were still in the sink — as usual, no one had bothered to clean up after dinner. Turning on the water, she began washing them.
“By the way,” her mother-in-law added, “yesterday’s borscht was sour. The sour cream must have gone bad.”
“The sour cream was fresh,” Victoria objected quietly.
“Well, my stomach was upset all night. Next time, be more careful with the groceries.”
Her job at the library gave Victoria four hours of peace a day. There was silence there, books, and kind readers. The salary was small, but at least it was stable. On the way home, the woman stopped by the store and bought whatever was needed for dinner.
At home, the picture never changed: Artyom buried in a game, and Valentina Petrovna commenting on the news from the couch.
“My son must be hungry,” her mother-in-law remarked when Victoria came in with shopping bags. “You didn’t make lunch, since you were at work.”
The woman unpacked the groceries: meat, potatoes, vegetables for salad — a standard set for a family dinner.
“Maybe you could make cutlets?” Valentina Petrovna suggested. “Artyom loves them. And you could make a different salad — we’re tired of that one.”
“What kind of salad would you prefer?” Victoria asked.
“I don’t know, something tastier. You’re the housewife — you decide.”
She started cooking. She sliced the meat and onions, mixed the minced meat, and put the frying pan on the stove. Valentina Petrovna periodically looked in, giving instructions.
“Lower the heat — it’ll burn. Add more salt, they’ll be too bland.”
“Salt them yourself if you don’t like it,” Victoria answered curtly.
“You should cook properly from the start, not fix things afterward.”
They ate dinner in the living room, as always, in front of the television. Artyom took his plate, sat down on the couch, and didn’t look away from the screen.
“It’s all right,” Valentina Petrovna approved. “Only the meat is a little tough. Next time it would be better to stew it.”
Victoria silently finished her portion. After dinner, she cleared the table and washed the dishes. Her husband and mother-in-law stayed to watch a series.
“Vik, put the kettle on,” Artyom called. “And bring some cookies.”
She brewed tea, put everything on a tray, and placed it beside them.
“Thank you,” Valentina Petrovna said. “Where’s the jam? It would go well with tea.”
“There isn’t any.”
“What do you mean there isn’t? Why didn’t you buy some? Or honey?”
“I didn’t have time.”
“A housewife should think ahead. How can you feed a family if you don’t plan even the basics?”
Victoria sat down in an armchair and picked up a book. It was hard to read — the television blared without pause. There were no quiet places left in the house: the living room had been taken over by her mother-in-law, the kitchen was only two meters wide, and the bedroom was shared.
“By the way, pay for the internet tomorrow,” Artyom remembered. “And the utilities too. The bills came.”
“All right.”
The bills always went through Victoria — electricity, water, gas, phone. Logical, according to Artyom, because she was the one working. He was merely “searching.”
He never applied for unemployment benefits: first he forgot the documents, then the line was too long, then he stopped talking about it altogether. Six months had passed — not a penny from the state.
“I have an interview tomorrow,” he announced that evening.
“Where?” Victoria asked, perking up a little.
“At a trading company. Sales manager.”
“That’s good. What are they offering?”
“I haven’t looked yet. First I’ll pass the interview — then I’ll find out the conditions.”
His mother supported him.
“That’s right. First let them evaluate you, and then you can choose. You are a valuable person. Let the employer fight for you.”
The next day, Artyom got up earlier than usual and put on a suit. Victoria ironed his shirt and made breakfast. Her husband left a little after ten, in high spirits.
He returned at three, his face covered with a mask of disappointment.
“How did it go?”
“Complete nonsense. The salary was ridiculous, the schedule was killer, and the requirements were exaggerated.”
“How much were they paying?”
“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t suit me.”
He threw off the suit, pulled on his house T-shirt, collapsed onto the couch, and picked up the game controller again. Work, as always, could wait.
That evening, a conversation took place that Victoria would remember for a long time. After dinner, she cleared the dishes and sat down at her laptop to check her email.
“Maybe you could still find some temporary work?” she asked her husband. “At least something for now, while you’re looking for the main job.”
Artyom tore his gaze away from the screen.
“Why would I need temporary work? It would only distract me from the real search.”
“But we need money. I can’t carry this alone.”
“You’re exaggerating. We’re living normally.”
“I’m tired. I work, clean, cook, and pay for everything. And you lie there and play.”
“I’m not lying around. I’m looking for work.”
“One interview a week is a job search?”
Valentina Petrovna looked away from her series and turned her gaze toward her daughter-in-law.
“Victoria, you’re going too far. My son isn’t lazy. There’s a crisis right now. Not everyone can find work.”
“And seven months — is that a crisis?”
“You think it’s easy? You got married — endure it. Family isn’t all flowers.”
Victoria fell silent. The conversation wasn’t going anywhere — they saw reality differently. For them, everything was normal. For her, it was a gradual draining of strength.
Several days passed. One morning, Victoria woke up with the feeling that she couldn’t go on anymore. She looked up at the ceiling and began counting the cracks in the plaster. Then she got up and prepared for work.
At the library, it was quiet and cozy. No one asked for tea, no one criticized the sour cream. She suddenly realized that those four hours were the only time when she felt like herself, not a servant.
She didn’t want to go home. She went into a café, ordered coffee, and sat by the window. She watched passersby and remembered how she had gotten married three years earlier. Back then, Artyom worked, cared for her, and dreamed. Her mother-in-law lived separately and came only for holidays.
The changes had begun gradually. Her husband became colder and started going out with friends more often. Then came his mother’s frequent visits, and then her permanent presence. Criticism of food, clothes, and household routines. The sale of her apartment and her move-in had become the point of no return. Now Valentina Petrovna ruled the living room, and Victoria ruled the kitchen.
Artyom’s resignation became the final chord. He stopped searching and left everything on her shoulders. And his mother fully approved of such an arrangement.
Victoria finished her coffee and went outside. It was getting dark; it was time to go home. But her legs wouldn’t move. She didn’t want to return to a place where dirty dishes, criticism, and the constant feeling of being unwanted were waiting for her.
At home, as expected, she was greeted by the usual scene: Artyom with the controller, his mother with her knitting.
“Where have you been so long?” Valentina Petrovna asked. “We were waiting for you. Artyom is hungry.”
“I was delayed at work.”
“You’ve been delayed often lately. The library closes at five.”
Without a word, Victoria went to the kitchen and began cooking. She sliced vegetables and put water on them for pasta.
“Pasta again?” Valentina Petrovna looked in. “For the third time this week. My son needs a proper diet.”
“What would you like to eat?”
“I don’t know, think of something,” her mother-in-law crossed her arms over her chest. “A housewife should plan the menu, not serve the same thing over and over.”
Victoria continued silently cutting vegetables. The knife tapped evenly against the cutting board, turning tomatoes and cucumbers into neat cubes. These movements calmed her — they were mechanical, almost meditative.
During dinner, Valentina Petrovna was especially talkative.
“Today I spoke with Tamara Ivanovna, our neighbor. She was telling me what a daughter-in-law they have — a real treasure! She cooks perfectly, cleans every day, and gives all her money to the family. She says she doesn’t buy anything unnecessary for herself.”
Artyom nodded without looking up from his plate.
“She’s doing the right thing. Family is more important than personal whims.”
“Exactly,” his mother picked up. “And some wives think only of themselves: new dresses, cosmetics… while the husband and children make do with leftovers.”
Victoria raised her eyes.
“What do I spend money on? Clothes or cosmetics?”
“Well, I don’t know… I’m just saying how things should be.”
“And how should a husband behave? Work or lie on the couch?”
Her mother-in-law tensed, her brows drawing together.
“My son is looking for a suitable position. He won’t grab the first job that comes along, like some people.”
“He’s been looking for seven months?”
“So what? A good position can’t be found that quickly.”
“Then he can take something temporary while looking for the main one.”
“Why? We have your income.”
“That’s my income. And family is a shared responsibility.”
“What nonsense are you talking?” Valentina Petrovna raised her voice. “A family is one whole. Whoever can provide, provides.”
“Then let Artyom go to work.”
“He is working — he’s searching. When he finds something, everything will change.”
“And until then I carry everything alone?”
“You work, we live. What else is needed?”
Victoria put down her fork and looked attentively at her mother-in-law.
“So my role is to support you?”
“You are married to my son. That means you have the corresponding duties.”
Artyom finally looked away from his phone.
“Mom is right. It’s hard for men to find decent work right now. Women find jobs more easily.”
“Part-time at a library?”
“So what? There’s a salary. It’s enough for us.”
“It’s not enough for me.”
“What isn’t enough?” he asked in surprise. “We’re living, aren’t we?”
“Yes, we’re living. Only I’m the one paying for everything.”
She stood up from the table and began gathering the dishes. Her hands trembled from accumulated tension.
“Victoria, what’s wrong with you?” Valentina Petrovna spoke again. “You’ve become so irritable. Maybe you should see a doctor?”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re making scenes for no reason.”
“I’m not making scenes. I’m just tired of doing everything alone.”
“How are you alone? We’re a family!”
“Yes, a family. But only I work. The apartment is paid for by me. I cook, clean, keep order. And you simply use it all.”
Her mother-in-law came closer and looked into her eyes.
“You married my son. That means you must support him. He’s going through a hard time because of work — and you’re upsetting him even more.”
“And who will support me?”
“We support you. A home, a family, relatives.”
“I pay for the roof over our heads myself.”
“Don’t be so mercenary. That’s not what matters in a family.”
“If it doesn’t matter, why am I the only one earning money?”
“Because you have a job, and Artyom doesn’t yet.”
“Maybe he should search more actively?”
Valentina Petrovna turned to her son.
“Son, do you hear what your wife is saying to you?”
He finally got up from the couch and approached the women.
“Vik, what’s wrong with you? You used to be understanding.”
“You used to work.”
“I worked and I will work again. I’m just being selective right now.”
“You’ve been choosing for seven months?”
“What, in your opinion, should I throw myself at the first job that appears? Just because it pays?”
“Yes, just because it pays. So you can feed your family.”
“You want me to become a janitor or a loader?”
“Even a loader, as long as you take responsibility.”
“I am taking responsibility. I’m looking for a good position so I can provide for everyone.”
“When will you find it?”
“Soon.”
“You’ve been saying that for seven months.”
His mother interfered again.
“Stop pressuring my son. You can see he’s suffering. And you’re upsetting him even more.”
“I’m asking him to take responsibility.”
“He is taking it. He’s just looking for a worthy position.”
“Responsibility isn’t searching. It’s working. Not living at my expense.”
“And what are you doing?” Valentina Petrovna asked. “You’re also supporting the family.”
“Yes, I’m supporting it. And my husband is lying on the couch.”
“He isn’t lying, he’s resting and looking for work. A man needs rest.”
Victoria looked at her husband, then at her mother-in-law. She understood — the conversation was pointless. They lived in their own world, where everything was fine as long as there was food on the table and the bills were paid.
“All right,” she said shortly. “We’ve talked.”
The woman went into the bedroom and closed the door. She sat down on the bed and looked out the window. Streetlights glowed behind the glass; cars passed by. People were returning home to their families. Perhaps some of them were even happy about that meeting.
She wanted to disappear anywhere.
The next day, something happened that became the last straw.
Victoria returned from work, stopped by the store, and bought groceries. At home, she made dinner and set the table. Everything as usual.
“The salad is tasteless,” Valentina Petrovna declared immediately after the first bite. “Not enough salt, or maybe it needs pepper.”
“Salt it yourself,” Victoria answered.
“No, the housewife should cook it properly right away, not fix it afterward.”
“All right, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“And the meat is tough. You probably didn’t cook it enough.”
“I stewed it for half an hour.”
“Not enough. It needs at least an hour to become soft.”
Artyom silently chewed, nodding along with his mother. Sometimes he glanced back at his phone.
“And besides,” Valentina Petrovna added, “you made my bed badly today. The sheet was all crumpled.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t notice.”
“You need to be more attentive. A housewife should keep track of everything.”
“I’ll try.”
“And there was dust on the nightstand. I asked you yesterday to wipe it.”
“I wiped it.”
“You didn’t wipe it properly.”
Victoria finished eating, gathered the plates, and took them to the kitchen. Out of habit, she began washing the dishes, though she no longer felt any strength.
“By the way,” her mother-in-law suddenly added when Victoria returned, “what would you do without my son? Alone, you’d be lost.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you have a husband — a family. And without that, what is there? Loneliness.”
“What’s so bad about being alone?”
“Everything. A woman without a family is like a tree without roots. Who would she try for? Who would she live for?”
“You can live for yourself.”
Valentina Petrovna laughed.
“For yourself? That’s selfishness. A woman must live for her family, have children.”
“And if the family doesn’t value her efforts?”
“We value them. Artyom loves you, and I treat you like my own.”
“Then why do you constantly criticize me?”
“We don’t criticize you — we help you become better. Without criticism, there is no growth.”
Artyom raised his head.
“Mom is right. Criticism is care.”
“I see.”
Victoria went into the bedroom and sat down at her laptop. She wanted to distract herself, but her thoughts wouldn’t leave her alone.
Half an hour later, there was a crash in the kitchen. Victoria ran out — shards of a plate lay on the floor. Valentina Petrovna stood nearby, holding a towel.
“It slipped,” she said. “I was washing the dishes, and then it just went bang — and that was it.”
“It’s all right, I’ll clean it up,” Victoria replied.
“Only it was a good plate from the set.”
“I’ll buy a new one.”
“Next time, you’d better wash the dishes yourself so they don’t slip.”
“All right.”
“And get a different dish soap. This one clearly doesn’t remove grease.”
“I will.”
“Son, explain to your wife how to wash dishes properly,” her mother-in-law said to Artyom, who had just entered.
“Vik, be more careful,” her husband said. “Dishes aren’t made of rubber.”
“Your mother broke it, and I’m the one who should be careful?”
“So what? You could have warned her that the dishes were slippery.”
“How could I warn her if I didn’t know someone else was going to wash them?”
“You could have guessed. A housewife should think of everything.”
Victoria collected the shards, threw them in the trash, and washed her hands.
“All right, don’t be upset. I’ll buy a new plate.”
“That’s not the main thing,” Valentina Petrovna looked sternly at her daughter-in-law. “The main thing is that it doesn’t happen again.”
“I’ll try.”
The woman returned to the bedroom and lay down on the bed. The incident seemed small, but something inside her clicked. The broken plate became a symbol of everything that was happening. Another person broke it — but once again, she was the one at fault. Because she hadn’t dried it, hadn’t warned them, hadn’t thought ahead.
Everything around her was built that way: Artyom didn’t work — his wife was to blame. Her mother-in-law was dissatisfied — the housewife was to blame. The money ran out — the salary was to blame.
And suddenly a thought came to her, simple and clear:
What if I just leave?
Pack her things, rent an apartment, take her documents — and go. Lonely, but free. Cook what she wanted. Wash the floors when it suited her. Work not for someone else, but for herself.
Victoria sat up in bed. Why hadn’t this occurred to her before? No one was holding her by force. No one was threatening her. She had simply allowed them to live this way.
Going to the wardrobe, she took a suitcase from the top shelf and placed it on the bed. She opened it and began carefully folding her things inside. Blouses, jeans, underwear. From the bathroom — her makeup bag. From the nightstand — her passport, documents, keys.
Even before fully realizing how decisively she had stepped forward, she understood: it was time. She would no longer endure, no longer justify herself, no longer feel like a stranger in her own home.
Artyom was lying in the living room, buried in the console screen. Valentina Petrovna sat beside him, knitting socks and commenting on what was happening on television. An ordinary evening in their home.
Victoria carefully placed the last sweater into the suitcase and snapped the lid shut. She looked around the room — she didn’t need anything else. She could take the books later; the furniture could stay here. The main things were her documents, money, and a couple of changes of clothes.
She changed into comfortable clothes, put on sneakers, and checked her bag with the documents and money. She placed the suitcase by the bedroom door. Now came the hardest part — walking through the living room, where her husband and mother-in-law were waiting. They would surely start asking questions, trying to convince her to stay. But the decision had been made. It was too late to step back.
Victoria took the suitcase, opened the bedroom door, and slowly walked down the corridor toward the exit.
“Vik, where are you going?” Artyom’s voice rang out.
The woman stopped and turned around. Her husband was already standing in the living room doorway, looking at her in confusion.
“What do you have with you?”
She set the suitcase down and answered calmly.
“I’m leaving.”
“What do you mean, leaving? Where?” Artyom took a step forward, his voice becoming sharper.
Valentina Petrovna came out after him, narrowing her eyes.
“What’s going on? Are you making something up again?”
“I’m leaving this house,” Victoria looked straight at them. “Before I lose myself completely.”
“Wait, let’s talk!” Artyom almost rushed toward her. “Don’t do this so suddenly!”
“What is there to talk about?” she asked calmly. “You’ve been promising for seven months to find a job. Keep looking without me.”
“And how are we supposed to manage without you?” he exclaimed. “Who will cook? Who will pay for everything?”
“Work, Artyom. You know how to search, don’t you? So try finding yourself a new life.”
Her mother-in-law came closer and stood beside her son.
“Victoria, have you lost your mind? This is your family!”
“No,” the woman answered coldly. “This is your family. In it, I’m only a free maid, cook, and breadwinner. I don’t want to live like this anymore.”
Artyom turned pale and began tugging at the edge of his T-shirt.
“Vika, wait… Let’s sit down and talk. Maybe something will change…”
“What will change? You say that every day. Then you lie down on the couch and play.”
“I’m not just looking for any job! I need the right job!”
“And I need a husband who cares, not one who demands that I bring him tea.”
Valentina Petrovna took a decisive step forward.
“Victoria, you must understand your place! A wife is the homemaker, a husband is the provider. Those are family rules!”
“Except you don’t have a provider. You have a consumer. And his mother, who protects him.”
Artyom reached for his wife again and grabbed her by the hand.
“Wait! I’ll go to work tomorrow! Honestly!”
“Tomorrow you’ll say again: ‘Today doesn’t suit me, I’ll go tomorrow.’”
“Come on, Vik, where will you go? We lived together for three years!”
“Three years in which I became a stranger in my own home.”
“We love you!” he shouted.
“No, Artyom. You use me. Love isn’t just words. It’s actions. It’s gratitude. It’s participation.”
Her husband fell silent and lowered his gaze.
“When was the last time you cooked dinner? Cleaned? Made coffee without asking me?”
He could not find an answer.
Valentina Petrovna didn’t give up either.
“You’re abandoning us? Just like that?”
“I’m not abandoning anyone. I’m leaving. Because I can no longer be the only one holding this home together.”
“This is family!” her mother-in-law almost screamed. “It’s built on sacrifices!”
“Yes, I’ve been making those sacrifices for seven months. Enough.”
Victoria put on her jacket and took the suitcase.
“Goodbye. I won’t be coming back.”
“Vika, don’t go!” Artyom’s voice trembled. “Without you I’m helpless…”
“Then learn to be independent.”
“I don’t know how to cook, I don’t know how to clean…”
“You’ll learn. Everyone can. It was just more convenient for you when I did everything.”
“And Mom?”
“Let her help. If she wants you not to need anything.”
Valentina Petrovna swayed as if she had been struck.
“I’m an elderly woman…”
“And I’m young, but I’m tired of being a slave in someone else’s home.”
She opened the front door and stepped out onto the landing. Artyom and his mother remained standing in the doorway, as if unable to believe this was really happening.
“Vik, think about it some more!” Artyom wheezed. “We’re family…”
“No,” she said, going down the stairs. “You are his family. And I am finally my own.”
Outside, the air was fresh, but not cold. The lights in the stairwell flickered, illuminating the way. Victoria stepped outside and took a deep breath of the autumn air. It smelled like freedom.
She took out her phone and called her friend.
“Lena, hi. Can I stay at your place for a couple of days?”
“Of course! What happened?”
“I’ll tell you later. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
After ending the call, Victoria walked to the bus stop. Her heart was beating fast, but not from fear — from the realization that she had really left. After three years of marriage, after months of exhaustion, humiliation, and sleepless nights — she had chosen herself.
The bus arrived. The woman sat by the window and looked back. Their building was visible in the distance. A light was on in one of the windows. They probably still couldn’t understand why she had left.
But she no longer needed their understanding.
Tomorrow, a new life would begin. Unclear, uncertain, but her own.
And for the first time in a long while, Victoria felt that she could breathe easily.