Andrey spoke as if it were a done deal.
“Alright then, Sveta. Start packing. Tomorrow morning we’re going to my mom’s dacha,” he said matter-of-factly, scooping up mashed potatoes with his fork and taking a bite. His tone made it sound like this had been settled ages ago—something obvious, unquestionable.
Svetlana went still. Her fork, with a piece of chicken on it, hovered halfway to her mouth, and for a second her head went completely empty. Slowly, she lowered her hand. Her legs—still buzzing after twelve hours on her feet in the sales floor—answered with a dull, aching throb. Her back, stiff from standing at the register all day, pinched with an unpleasant spasm.
All week she’d been clinging to one thought: Sunday. Her lawful, hard-earned day off—the one she planned to spend horizontal, buried in pillows, watching some brainless series.
“We’re going…?” she asked quietly, almost inaudibly, looking at her husband like she’d never seen him before.
“Of course. I promised I’d help her paint the fence. We’ll be done faster together,” he replied just as lightheartedly, not lifting his eyes from his plate. “She already bought the paint and brushes. The weather’s supposed to be great—no rain.”
Something inside Svetlana tore loose. The spring that had been tightening for six cursed workdays snapped open with a loud, ringing release.
“What dacha?! So I work six days straight, and on my one day off I’m supposed to go paint your mother’s fence? Why don’t you go help her yourself, if you’re such a caring son?”
Andrey finally looked up. His face showed honest bewilderment, as if she’d just suggested he fly to the moon.
“Sveta, why are you starting this? Mom needs help—I can’t refuse. She won’t manage alone, you know that. It’s not hard, just a couple hours. Then we’ll make шашлыки, get some fresh air. You’ll rest.”
Svetlana gave a short, joyless smile. The words you’ll rest landed like a sneer.
“Rest? Andrey, do you even hear what you’re saying? I’m on my feet from eight in the morning until nine at night. By the end of my shift the price tags are swimming in front of my eyes. I want one thing—lying down and not being touched by anyone. No fences, no brushes, and definitely no шашлыки.”
“You’re the one who should help. You’re her son. And you promised,” she said sharply, pushing her plate away. Her appetite was gone. “I didn’t promise your mother anything. And I had completely different plans for my day off.”
“We’re a family, aren’t we?” Andrey frowned, setting down his fork. His pleasant mood was draining away fast. “Families help together. What’s so terrible about that? I’m not asking you to haul cement bags. Just paint a few boards.”
“A family is when people actually consider each other,” Svetlana shot back. “When you ask whether your wife even has the strength—or the desire—after a brutal week to play painter. Not when you announce it over dinner. You planned my day off and didn’t even bother to tell me. You simply decided for me.”
The meal she’d been looking forward to cooled on their plates, turning into a grey, unappetizing mess. Andrey stared at her, stubborn and tight-browed. He didn’t get it—or refused to. In his world everything was simple: Mom asked, son does it. And the wife was an add-on to the son, meant to do the same by default.
“You have to rest intelligently, not just sprawl around,” he finally declared, his tone openly condemning. “One day on the couch isn’t rest—it’s laziness. Out in nature you’ll actually recharge.”
“Did you just call how I feel ‘laziness’?” Svetlana slid her chair back with her, putting more space between them. “You, after your comfortable five-day nine-to-six schedule, are going to lecture me about ‘proper rest’? Have you ever tried standing through a shift right before New Year’s? Or during Black Friday—when people trample everything in their path and you still have to smile and wish them a wonderful day?”
That word—laziness—hit more precisely than any other accusation. It erased her exhaustion, turned it into a whim, a mood. Andrey stood too, pressing his knuckles into the countertop. His expression hardened from confused to sharp and angry.
“Exactly. Normal wives support their husbands instead of starting scandals out of thin air. I only asked you to help. For my mother, by the way—the woman who does things for both of us, always bringing cucumbers and herbs from the dacha.”
“So, in your opinion, I’m not ‘normal’?” Svetlana stared straight at him. Inside her, everything turned to ice. “Because I don’t want to sacrifice my only rest day for your ‘duty as a son’? Did you ever think that I might need help? To lie down and recover. Or does your ‘help’ only mean fixing your mom’s problems at my expense?”
He snorted and turned away demonstratively. It was his favorite move: when he ran out of arguments, he simply stopped listening, signaling the discussion was over and he’d “won.”
“It’s useless talking to you. You only hear yourself. Selfish.”
The accusation hung heavy in the air. Without looking at her, Andrey walked into the living room and picked up his phone from the table. Svetlana watched him, already guessing what would happen next.
This wasn’t just a call. It was calculated—cruel. The next act in the same old play. He was bringing in the heavy artillery.
Andrey dialed with exaggerated calm and put it on speaker.
“Mom, hi,” his voice instantly softened, taking on the tired nobility of a wronged hero. “Yeah, everything’s fine. About tomorrow—there’s a small change.”
On the other end came Tamara Igorevna’s brisk, energetic voice.
“What is it, Andryusha? Did something happen?”
“No, nothing special. It’s just that Sveta isn’t in the mood to go,” he said, like he was quoting a moody child rather than a grown woman. “Says she’s really tired and wants to stay home. So I’ll probably come alone. It’s fine, I’ll manage somehow. It’ll just take longer.”
Svetlana stared at him without blinking. He didn’t mention she’d worked six days straight. He didn’t say she was barely standing. He simply presented her as a lazy egoist who “wasn’t in the mood.” He complained to his mother like a little boy who’d been wronged in a sandbox—and punished Svetlana at the same time, because he knew what would come next.
“Oh, she’s tired…” Tamara Igorevna drawled, and steel was already creeping into her voice. “Well, what can you do. Of course, come alone, son. We’ll handle it.”
Andrey ended the call and set the phone down with the air of offended virtue. He still wouldn’t look at his wife. He waited—waiting for her reaction, her apology, her surrender.
But Svetlana stayed silent. She looked at the cooling food, at her husband who had just humiliated her in the smallest, meanest way possible, and understood that this had stopped being about a fence a long time ago.
She didn’t say a word. She gathered the plates, carried them into the kitchen, turned on the water, and began washing up in slow, methodical motions—focusing on the sponge, on the way warm water dissolved grease. It was the only thing she could do right then: something simple and mechanical that kept her from exploding.
Andrey remained in the other room, and his silent presence weighed heavier than shouting. He waited, convinced his little tactic had worked and that she’d soon come back, properly repentant.
Her phone, left on the kitchen windowsill, buzzed and started playing its ringtone. Svetlana knew who it was before she even looked.
Tamara Igorevna. His mother didn’t waste time.
She dried her hands on a towel and picked up. Her fingers trembled slightly, but when she answered, her voice was even and cool.
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“Svetochka, hello, dear,” her mother-in-law purred, her voice dripping with syrupy sweetness that barely masked the poison underneath. “I’m calling, and you sound like you’re not happy to hear me. Andryusha said you’re feeling unwell? So tired, our poor thing.”
Svetlana closed her eyes. This performance—the “concerned mother” routine—was so familiar it made her nauseous.
“I’m not unwell, Tamara Igorevna. I really am tired. I had only one day off this week, and I’d like to spend it at home.”
“Oh, that job of yours… you don’t spare yourself at all,” her mother-in-law sighed sympathetically—and then, immediately, her tone shifted. “But that’s exactly why, Svetochka! You should come to the dacha, breathe fresh air. I would feed you, you and Andryusha could sit in the sun while the paint dries. That is rest! And the dacha is for you as well, we’re not doing it only for ourselves. It doesn’t look good when the husband is struggling alone and the wife is lying at home.”
Every word was carefully chosen. Every sentence was a small, precise jab: not just for ourselves, husband struggling, wife lying at home. Tamara Igorevna was a master of this kind of pressure.
“I understand what you’re trying to say,” Svetlana answered calmly, deciding not to bite the hook. “But I’ve already made my decision. I’m staying home. Andrey will help you—he’s a strong man, he’ll manage.”
A short pause followed. Her mother-in-law clearly hadn’t expected such a direct refusal. She was used to the daughter-in-law giving in after a few moral lectures.
“Well, if you’ve decided…” metal creaked into Tamara Igorevna’s voice. “It’s your business, of course. It’s just that Andryusha is upset. He was counting on you. He always said his wife was his helper, his support… and now…”
“He was counting on me without asking me,” Svetlana cut in, feeling her patience drain away. “I think Andrey and I will handle this ourselves, without your involvement. All the best.”
She ended the call without waiting for a reply. Her hands shook with contained fury. She placed the phone face down on the table, as if trying to block out the whole world.
Almost immediately, Andrey walked into the kitchen. His face was twisted with rage.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, stepping close. “Why are you talking to my mother like that? She called you like a normal human being, wanted to talk, and you snapped at her and hung up!”
“Like a normal human being?” Svetlana straightened, meeting his eyes. “Your mother called to lecture me and blame me for being a bad wife—after you ran to her and tattled, making me sound like a spoiled idiot. That’s what you call ‘human’?”
“She’s just worried! About me, about the family! Unlike some people,” he shouted. “You were openly disrespectful! She’s older than you, she’s my mother! You should’ve at least pretended to listen!”
“I’m not going to pretend anything!” Svetlana’s voice rose too. “Not for you and certainly not for her. This is my home and my day off! And I won’t let either of you decide for me how I’m allowed to spend it. You crossed every line the moment you called her and staged that circus.”
“You’re going to call her right now and apologize!” Andrey jabbed a finger toward the phone on the table. His face went red, a vein bulging in his neck. This wasn’t a conversation anymore—it was an order.
Svetlana looked at his finger, then at his face warped by anger. In that moment she didn’t see her husband, or a close person. She saw a stranger—a petty, cruel boy who, when he couldn’t get his way, ran to Mommy to punish a disobedient wife. And now he demanded a humiliating confession simply because she dared to have her own needs.
“I’m not apologizing to anyone,” she said, surprisingly calm and steady. The storm inside her suddenly settled, replaced by a cold, crystal clarity. “You’re the one who should apologize. For not seeing me as a person. For thinking I’m your property—something you can loan out to your mother. For being a coward who hides behind her skirt the second there’s conflict.”
Each word was measured and aimed straight at the target. She saw him flinch when she said coward. He opened his mouth to fire back, but she didn’t let him.
“You think this is about a fence? About that stupid dacha? It’s not. It’s about you. About the fact that you still haven’t grown up. Your main goal is still to be a good little boy for your mom. And I’m just a function that helps you do that—cook, clean, smile at your relatives, and, of course, paint fences on command. No right to be tired. No right to an opinion. No right to a life of my own.”
She took a step back toward the kitchen doorway. Being trapped in the same small space with him suddenly felt unbearable. The air seemed thick, saturated with his anger and her disappointment.
“I didn’t ask much from you, Andrey,” she continued, her voice almost detached, as if she were speaking about someone else. “I just wanted to rest. One day. So tomorrow I can go back to my job again and keep smiling at people while I earn money we spend together. And instead of understanding and giving me that, you put me on trial. First you, then your mother. The two of you decided I’m guilty. Guilty of what—being exhausted?”
He said nothing—just breathed heavily, staring at her with hatred. His arguments were gone; all that remained was raw, powerless rage. He’d lost this fight on every front and he knew it.
“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Svetlana said, still cool, still distant. “Tomorrow you’ll take your brushes and your paint and go to your mother’s. You’ll paint that damn fence. Paint it three coats if you want. And after that, you can stay there. Since she matters more to you.”
She turned and walked toward the bedroom. No dramatic door slam. No final scream. She simply left the kitchen, leaving him alone among the cold plates and the wreckage of their marriage.
Andrey stood there, staring after her. He’d expected anything—shouting, accusations, hysterics. But that cold, contemptuous calm disarmed him and humiliated him far more than a tantrum ever could.
Svetlana went into the bedroom and closed the door. She wasn’t packing or storming out into the night—she didn’t need theatrics. She took a book from the shelf, lay down on her side of the bed, switched on the night light, and opened to the first page.
She wasn’t planning to read. She just wanted to show—him, and more importantly herself—that he no longer had power over her.
His world—his mother, the dacha, the fences—no longer existed for her. He could shout, bang on the door, beg, threaten—it wouldn’t matter anymore.
Andrey remained in the kitchen, staring at the closed bedroom door, realizing something irreversible had happened. He hadn’t gotten his way. He hadn’t forced her to submit. Worse—he’d lost her respect, and maybe he’d lost her altogether.
And it wasn’t the fence. And it wasn’t Sveta’s “selfishness,” like he tried to tell himself.
It was him.
But he didn’t have the strength to admit it. It was easier to hate her for turning out to be stronger.
