Anna sat on the edge of the sofa, taut as a stretched string, ready to snap at any moment.Beneath her, the expensive, self-chosen sofa cover, which Jelena Mikhailovna had been calling “tasteless market trash” for three months, creaked slightly.
Vasily, meanwhile, lounged comfortably in the armchair, legs crossed, cracking sunflower seeds as if he were back in ninth grade on the schoolyard. Thirty-eight years old, father of two—yet in this moment, he seemed to have forgotten that grown men aren’t supposed to do that.
“Na, Annushka,” Jelena Mikhailovna began in a mocking tone, setting a steaming pot of borscht on the table with a clatter. “We’ve consulted with Vasya and decided: sell your car. You work nearby anyway, but Marina has to get to the clinic somehow. By bus, with a pregnant belly? Surely not, right?”
Anna felt a cold tension coil inside her. Consulted, she thought bitterly, as her eyes froze on her mother-in-law.“Did you ask me?” Her voice was calm but ice-cold.
“What is there to ask,” snorted Jelena Mikhailovna, spooning borscht into her mouth. “In our family, when someone is struggling, everyone helps. That’s how I raised my son. And you? You only think of yourself, always yourself…”
Vasily murmured without lifting his gaze from his phone:“Anja, you know Marina’s pregnant. It’s hard for her… It’s not forever. Once she’s back on her feet—you’ll get it back.”
“Get it back?” A bitter, mocking smile flickered across Anna’s face.“Do you write that down on paper? Or is it like the kitchen loan, which has been “safely stored” with your mother for five years?”
“What kind of person are you?” Jelena Mikhailovna snapped.“I’m not your enemy! I’m a mother! You could offer help, instead of sitting here like a sulking princess! Everything is always wrong, everything is always unfair!”
Anna stood up. Not shouting, not hysterical. Just quiet. Tired of being patient. Too long she had watched this family clip her wings.She walked silently to the bedroom.And then came the whispering and muttering:
“Is she offended?” Jelena Mikhailovna whispered loudly, as if Anna were deaf.“Anja, are you serious?” Vasily’s voice wavered.“Don’t be so harsh, Mama…”“I said it like a mother! If she doesn’t understand that—she doesn’t belong with us.”
A few minutes later, Anna returned, holding the car papers firmly in her hands. She placed them on the table.“Fine. The car is mine. The apartment, by the way, I inherited from my grandmother—none of you have anything to do with it.
This is my entire contribution to your ‘family community.’”“You want to destroy everything—for a piece of metal?!” Jelena Mikhailovna screamed.“No,” Anna said calmly, “because of you. Because of your endless control and your cowardly submissiveness, Vasya.”
“Anja, wait…”“We only wanted to help Marina? Then sell your garage with the 2003 Lada. Or take a taxi—go ahead, see if the world ends.”Jelena Mikhailovna rattled the edge of her spoon against the table.
“You’re not a wife, Annetska. You’re a businesswoman. Everything revolves around property.”“And your compassion? Always at my expense. Fascinating.”Anna retreated to the bathroom, closed the door, and took a deep breath. Not out of fear—out of anger.
Later, Vasily entered. No seeds, no phone, no pride.“Anja… let’s talk.”“Too late, Vasya. Too late to sip Borjomi when your mother has already sold my kidneys. You didn’t even flinch when she talked about my car. Are you serious?”
His voice was weak: “I didn’t want a fight…”“You don’t want anything. Peace means I stay silent while you take everything—my property, my sanity, my rights.”The next morning, Anna woke early. Sunlight forced its way through the window, bold, as if it knew today would be a turning point.
Vasily snored on the kitchen couch as if nothing had happened. Anna poured herself coffee carefully, making no noise. Clattering was emotion—and she had become steel.
Then Jelena Mikhailovna stormed in. Bathrobe, hairnet, face full of accusation.“Well, apartment owner, slept well on your rightful square meter?”Anna turned silently, her gaze so piercing that anyone with a shred of sense would have fled immediately.
“Maybe you don’t understand what family means. In my time, a wife stood by her husband like a rock. You… you’re like a notary in a cemetery.”Anna calmly took back her cup.“Wonderful comparison. Only I’m not in a cemetery. I’m—or was—in a marriage.”
Vasily scratched his head, wearing old sweatpants.“Mama, starting again?”“And you stay silent again?” Anna glared.“Choose now. Husband or Mama’s kitchen accessory?”Jelena Mikhailovna rose coldly:“Tell me honestly, son: Is she more important to you than me?”
Vasily stood like a donkey at a crossroads.Anna stepped close:“You know what hurts the most? That you defend her. Always silent. As if you’re just a spectator.”She grabbed his bag, threw his shirts in.
“Five minutes. Or I start myself. What’s closer—Mama or your life?”Vasily stared like a kitten at a closed fridge. Hopeless.Anna turned away.“Too late, Vasya. I no longer believe you’ll ever grow up. Forty years old—and still under Mama’s skirt.
I don’t need a son like that. Let alone a husband.”Fifteen minutes later, they were gone. Anna stood at the door, the air smelling faintly of borscht. She poured herself a glass of wine, looked out the window. Rain fell, fitting for a scene like this.
And then she laughed. First a smirk, then a full, liberating laugh. “I’m not a notary in a cemetery. I am the mistress of my life. Finally.”
