“Have you completely lost your damn mind, Stas? Do you seriously think I’m going to drag that bag to the car like a packhorse while you and Vitalik finish your beers?”
“Oh, quit nagging, Snezhka. Why are you starting again? We were having a perfectly good time. Women are always making a scene over nothing. Is it really that hard for you? The guys and I were relaxing. We were having a man-to-man conversation. Your job is to make things comfortable.”
“Comfortable? In the woods? In a tent? I’ve spent two days making things ‘comfortable’ for you. I chopped firewood while you went looking for dry branches and came back empty-handed. I marinated the meat, cooked it, and washed the pots in an ice-cold river. And now I’m supposed to carry your leftovers too?”
“Then don’t carry them. Leave them here. The squirrels will eat them.”
“PIG. You’re nothing but a pig, Stanislav. Pick up the bag. NOW.”
“Why are you screaming? I’ve got it, I’ve got it. What a psycho. Vitalik, look at her. She’s blown a fuse. She’s about to explode.”
Grimacing, Stanislav picked up the black plastic bag, from which something sticky and smelling of sour ketchup was treacherously dripping. Vitalik, his old school friend who had invited himself along as an unwanted third wheel, gave a nasty little snicker, covering his mouth with a hand whose fingernails had been bitten down to the quick.
“You’re too tense, Snezhana,” Vitalik drawled as he tossed his backpack into the trunk of the aging crossover. “You need to relax. A woman should be soft, like… you know… cotton wool.”
“Shut your mouth, Vitalik,” Snezhana said in an icy voice as she slammed the driver’s door. “And fasten your seat belt. If I drive into a ditch, I don’t want to have to pay for your medical treatment afterward.”
The journey home passed in oppressive silence. Snezhana drove confidently, shifting gears with such force that it seemed as though she were hammering nails into the coffin lid of that disastrous weekend.
She managed an enormous logistics warehouse. Dozens of employees, tons of freight, and complicated supply systems were under her supervision. She was accustomed to order and precise procedures: receive, inspect, store, dispatch. She hated chaos.
And Stanislav, her husband, was chaos personified.
He worked as a metal etcher in a private workshop. All day long, he handled acids, alkalis, and varnishes, etching patterns into steel and brass. The acrid smell of chemicals had seeped into his skin, his clothes, and seemingly even his soul.
He was used to corroding things.
Corroding her patience, her boundaries, and her self-respect.
When they entered the apartment, Snezhana felt exhaustion settle onto her shoulders like a concrete slab. She wanted only two things: a hot shower and silence.
Snezhana had inherited the apartment from her grandmother. It was spacious, with high ceilings, and located in a quiet part of the city center. Stas had always behaved as though he owned it, despite not contributing a single kopeck toward the renovations. His involvement had been limited to criticizing the color of the wallpaper.
“I’m starving,” Stanislav announced, dropping a dirty bag directly onto the pale laminate flooring in the entrance hall. “Snezhok, throw something together quickly. Fry up some potatoes with onions or something.”
Snezhana froze while taking off her sneakers. She slowly straightened and looked at her husband.
“Stas, we walked through the door one minute ago. I drove for three hours. I spent two days waiting on you and Vitalik. I’m tired. I want a shower. There are dumplings in the refrigerator. Cook them yourself.”
“Are you kidding me?” Stanislav looked genuinely shocked. “What dumplings? I want homemade food. We’re a family, for God’s sake. When a wife comes home, the first thing she should do is feed her husband. It’s a law of nature.”
“The law of nature is that if you don’t move that bag right now, it’s going out the window,” Snezhana said quietly.
“Oh, here we go again.” Stanislav waved dismissively and dropped onto the sofa without even changing out of the shorts he had worn outside. “You’ve always got that sour look on your face. Fine, go take your precious shower, princess. But I want food on the table within an hour. I’m not waiting all night.”
Snezhana clenched her teeth. She went into the bathroom and turned on the water, but even beneath the stream she could not wash away the sticky sensation of humiliation.
He did not see her as a person.
He saw her as a function.
The “function” emerged from the bathroom half an hour later. Stanislav was lying in exactly the same position, scrolling through his phone.
“Well? Is it ready?” he asked without looking up.
Snezhana silently walked into the kitchen. Her movements were mechanical.
Take out the frying pan.
Peel the potatoes.
Chop the onions.
Heat rose from the stove, mixing with the dull irritation building inside her. Forty minutes later, she placed a plate of fried potatoes and pickles in front of her husband.
“Finally,” he grumbled, grabbing his fork. “Where’s the bread?”
“In the breadbox.”
“Bring it to me.”
“You have legs.”
“Snezhana, what the hell is wrong with you today?” He glared at her angrily but stood up to get the bread, slamming the cupboard door.
When he finished eating, he pushed the plate away, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stretched out on the sofa again. The dirty plate, covered in grease and pieces of onion, remained on the table.
Snezhana stared at it as though it were a personal insult.
“Clean up after yourself,” she said.
“I’m tired. I’ve eaten, and now I need to digest,” Stas replied lazily. “You’re hanging around in the kitchen anyway. Is it really that hard to rinse one plate? Don’t be so petty.”
“I’m not being petty. I’m not your servant. Clean it up.”
“Listen, don’t piss me off.” Stanislav’s voice grew harsher, acquiring the same metallic edge that usually made everyone at his workshop hide from him. “I’m the man. I’m the provider… I mean, I have a job. I’ve just come back from a vacation, and I have the right to relax. And you’re nagging me over one plate. Wash it and stop yapping.”
Snezhana walked toward the sofa.
“I earn three times more than you, Stas. I solve every problem we have. The apartment is mine. The car was bought with my money. You’re not the provider here. You’re a parasite.”
Stanislav jumped to his feet. His face flooded with blood.
“What did you call me, you stupid cow? Who are you calling a parasite? If it weren’t for me…”
He raised his hand, making a show of it, intending to frighten her and put her back in her place.
But Snezhana did not flinch.
Her hand flew up even faster.
A sharp, ringing slap cut through the air. Stanislav’s head jerked to one side.
Silence fell.
Absolute, ringing silence.
Stanislav clutched his cheek and stared at his wife in dull astonishment.
“I married a man,” Snezhana said clearly, looking directly into his eyes. “Not a petty tyrant who is incapable of taking care of himself. Raise your voice at me again, and you’ll be out of here faster than aluminum dissolves in one of your acid baths.”
She turned and walked into the bedroom, firmly closing the door behind her.
Stanislav remained standing in the middle of the room, feeling his cheek burn. Anger, thickly mixed with wounded pride, slowly ignited in his eyes.
Several days passed. Stanislav walked around sullenly, giving her the silent treatment, but he washed his own dishes—deliberately loudly, splashing water everywhere.
Snezhana pretended that nothing was happening and threw herself into her work. The warehouse was preparing for an inventory count, and it occupied all her thoughts.
On Wednesday evening, Stanislav waited until his wife had poured herself a cup of tea before entering the kitchen. He wore an expression that was half conciliatory and half insolent.
“So, Snezha, here’s the thing. Inka called. She, Oleg, and the kid want to stop by on Saturday. We haven’t seen each other in ages and all that.”
Inna was Stanislav’s sister, a woman seemingly woven from complaints and cheap pretension. Snezhana could not stand her, and the feeling was mutual.
“Stas, I’m working until noon on Saturday. I don’t have the energy to prepare a feast for your relatives.”
“Oh, come on. I’ll help. I’ll genuinely help. We’ll do everything together, and it’ll look great. You’re such a good homemaker. Inka just wants to see how we live and spend some time together. Don’t be so gloomy.”
Snezhana sighed. Refusing would be impolite, and she did not want another argument.
“All right, but on one condition. You buy the groceries on the list, clean the living room, and prepare the vegetables. I’ll come home from work and make the main course and salads. Agreed?”
“NO PROBLEM.” Stanislav broke into a wide smile. “Everything will be perfect. Don’t worry.”
Saturday arrived far too quickly.
Snezhana returned home at two in the afternoon, exhausted after counting pallets. The apartment was suspiciously quiet. Bags of groceries stood unpacked on the kitchen table. Socks were scattered across the living-room floor.
Stanislav was sitting at the computer wearing headphones, enthusiastically shooting monsters.
“Stas?” Snezhana stopped in the doorway.
He jumped and removed his headphones.
“Oh, you’re home already? I kind of lost track of time. I’ll do it now. They’re coming at five. We’ve still got time.”
“You promised to clean and prepare the vegetables!”
“What’s there to clean? Wipe off a little dust? I’ll be done in no time. You start cooking, and I’ll join you in a minute.”
Snezhana clenched her teeth.
Again.
More empty promises.
She changed her clothes in silence and went into the kitchen. Stas lazily wandered around the living room with a cloth for a while before looking into the kitchen.
A faint but still visible reddish mark remained on his left cheek where she had slapped him several days earlier. The skin there was still sensitive.
“Snezhok, how come there’s no beer? I forgot to buy it.”
“Drink water,” she muttered as she sliced the meat.
At five o’clock, the doorbell rang.
They had arrived.
Inna, a heavyset woman with brightly painted lips, entered first. Behind her came her husband, Oleg, a tall, stooped man, and their five-year-old son, who immediately began shouting and demanding cartoons.
“Hellooo!” Inna burst into the hallway, surrounding Snezhana with the smell of her heavy, sugary perfume. “Oh, Stasik, my dear brother! I’m so happy to see you!”
She kissed her brother and suddenly froze.
“What happened to your face? Did you fall? Or is it an allergy? It looks so red.”
Stanislav’s face turned a deep crimson, making the mark even brighter. He cast a quick, frightened glance at Snezhana.
“It happened… at work. Some acid splashed on me. You know, safety procedures and everything… It’s nothing. It’ll heal.”
“How awful!” Inna threw up her hands. “Snezhana, are you at least putting something on it? The man works in a hazardous environment. He needs someone to take care of him!”
“He’s a big boy. He can put something on it himself,” Snezhana replied calmly. “Go through to the living room.”
The guests settled in. Oleg immediately reached for the television remote. Inna began inspecting the apartment, running her finger along the shelves.
Stanislav bustled around, pretending to be a welcoming host, although the only thing on the table was a plate of sliced meat and cheese that Snezhana had managed to prepare in five minutes.
“Where’s the hot food?” Oleg asked, rubbing his stomach. “I came straight from work. I’m starving.”
“It’s coming, it’s coming,” Stanislav said hurriedly. “Snezha is working her magic in there. You know women. They have to decorate everything before they serve it.”
Twenty minutes passed.
The guests finished the sliced sausage.
No smell of roasting meat came from the kitchen.
Having lost patience, Oleg stood up.
“I’m going to get some water. My mouth’s dry.”
He entered the kitchen and froze.
Snezhana was sitting at the kitchen table with one leg crossed over the other, calmly reading a book titled Logistics in Times of Crisis. The stove was cold.
On the countertop stood a mountain of dirty, unpeeled potatoes, a bag of unwashed apples, and an untouched whole chicken.
“Uh… Snezhana?” Oleg blinked in confusion. “We’re all sitting in there… waiting.”
“Then wait.” She turned the page.
Oleg shot back into the living room.
“Stas! She’s reading a book in there! Nothing’s being cooked!”
“What do you mean?” Stanislav jumped up so abruptly that he nearly knocked over the coffee table.
Inna’s eyes widened.
“I mean exactly what I said! Nothing has even been started!”
Red with fury and humiliation in front of his relatives, Stanislav stormed into the kitchen.
“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed.
Snezhana slowly lowered the book.
“Stanislav, we had an agreement. You were supposed to peel the vegetables, wash the fruit, and prepare everything. I was supposed to cook. The vegetables are dirty. The fruit is still in the bag. I’m waiting for you to complete your part of the agreement so that I can complete mine.”
“Are you insane?” he shouted in a fierce whisper. “Get up and do it right now!”
“NO. I’m not doing it. Peel the potatoes. Right now. Or order pizza with your own money.”
“I don’t have any money on my card right now, and you know that! Inka is sitting in there!”
“Then pick up the knife.”
Stanislav stared at her with hatred. He understood that she was not going to move.
His nephew could be heard whining in the living room.
Grinding his teeth, Stas grabbed the knife. Furiously, cutting away half the potatoes along with their skins, he began peeling them. Potato peels flew in every direction.
“Faster,” Snezhana remarked coldly. “And wash them afterward. Wash the apples too.”
Ten minutes later, sweating and furious, he threw the bowl of potatoes into the sink.
“There. Choke on them.”
Snezhana stood, calmly washed her hands, and began cooking.
Dinner was delayed by an hour. The tension at the table was so intense that the air itself seemed electrically charged.
Stanislav remained silent, viciously chewing his chicken. Inna kept glancing at her sister-in-law with pursed lips.
“Snezhana, why did everything take so long?” she asked venomously. “It’s not as if you were making foie gras. Poor Stasik was beside himself.”
“Stasik was having some difficulty with his fine motor skills,” Snezhana said with a smile. “He worked very hard to help me. Didn’t you, darling?”
Stanislav shot her a look filled with the promise of revenge but remained silent.
When the guests finally left, abandoning behind them a mountain of dirty dishes and sticky stains on the floor where their son had spilled juice, Stanislav closed the door and slowly turned toward his wife.
“You. Humiliated. Me.”
“I taught you responsibility,” Snezhana replied as she gathered plates from the table.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” He stepped closer, looming over her. He smelled of the beer Oleg had brought. “You think that because the apartment belongs to you, you can control me? I’m a man! I’m the head of this family! You’re a woman, and your place is…”
“Where?” Snezhana did not retreat. “At the stove? At your feet? Wake up, Stas. You live at my expense, in my apartment. I do all the housework, and you can’t even peel potatoes without starting a scandal. What kind of head of the family are you?”
“SHUT UP!” he screamed, spraying saliva. “I’ve had enough of your constant self-righteousness! You think you’re some great manager? You’re nothing but a warehouse rat! I’ll show you who the master is here!”
He grabbed her shoulder, painfully digging his fingers into her flesh. His eyes revealed his desire to hurt her, break her, and force her into submission.
Fear flashed through Snezhana’s heart, but her anger was stronger.
The second slap was harder than the first.
She put into it all her resentment over the ruined weekend and the evening he had just spoiled. The sound of the blow was dry and brutal.
Stanislav staggered backward, clutching the already injured cheek. Pain shot across his face, and his vision darkened.
He was stunned.
He had not expected her to dare to do it again.
“If you thought I was going to tolerate your behavior, you were wrong,” Snezhana said, her voice trembling. “You gave me your word. You broke it. And now you’re putting your hands on me. Remember this, Stas: I’m not a servant, and I’m not your punching bag.”
She turned and went to take a shower.
Standing beneath the water, she trembled. She felt disgusted.
But when she emerged wrapped in a bathrobe, she saw Stanislav sitting in the kitchen. He was holding a bag of frozen peas against his cheek. A bright red mark was clearly visible on his face—the seal of her anger.
She walked over to him and spoke quietly, but with such force that every word seemed to eat into his brain like acid into metal.
“That was the second one. The third slap will be the last. I’m not joking, Stanislav. And you are not going to like the consequences.”
She did not say what would follow the third slap, but there was so much cold determination in her gaze that Stanislav felt genuinely frightened.
He was ashamed. His pride was wounded. Anger boiled inside him like scalding water, but his fear of losing his comfortable life was stronger.
He said nothing and looked away.
A plan was already forming in his mind.
Leave?
Where would he go?
To his mother’s cramped old apartment, where his parents occupied one room and Inka and her family occupied another?
Absolutely not.
He would keep fighting.
He would find a way to put his wife back in her place.
A week passed.
Stanislav behaved as quietly and meekly as possible. He even took out the garbage by himself a couple of times.
Snezhana watched him cautiously, not believing in his miraculous transformation.
On Sunday, they went to his mother Tamara Pavlovna’s anniversary celebration.
His mother’s apartment resembled a beehive. It was a cramped three-room apartment packed to the ceiling with possessions and people. There was hardly enough room to turn around in the hallway.
The sound of a sick grandmother coughing came from the back room. She had recently been brought from the village because she could no longer walk.
Inna’s son raced around the living room, crashing into corners. Oleg sat in front of the television wearing only his underwear and an undershirt because of the heat.
The kitchen was tiny and suffocating.
Tamara Pavlovna, a heavyset woman with an authoritarian face, bustled around the stove.
“Oh, Snezhana, you’re here!” she exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron. “Come into the kitchen. The salads need chopping. I’m running out of time. Inka is busy with the little one, and my back is killing me. Come on, daughter-in-law, get to work.”
Snezhana had only opened her mouth to answer when something unexpected happened.
Stanislav, who had just removed his sneakers, suddenly stepped between his wife and the kitchen entrance.
“No, Mom,” he said loudly. “Snezhana is tired. She’s going to sit down and rest. I’ll help. Give me a knife.”
Tamara Pavlovna dropped her spoon.
“You? Help? Stasik, are you ill? The kitchen is a woman’s place, and a man should…”
“I said I’ll do it!” Stanislav snapped, seating the astonished Snezhana on the old, sagging sofa in the living room. “Sit down and rest. I’ll handle it.”
Snezhana was stunned.
She watched her husband—the lazy despot—put on an apron and begin chopping cucumbers.
Could it be?
Had he finally understood?
Had the “stick” method worked and made him begin to appreciate her?
Hope flickered in her heart.
Perhaps all was not lost.
Perhaps it really was possible to turn him into a decent human being.
Stanislav behaved perfectly throughout the evening. He waited on his wife, served her food, and smiled.
Inna hissed sarcastic comments, and her mother-in-law watched suspiciously, but Stas maintained the performance.
When they returned home, Snezhana felt almost happy.
“Thank you, Stas,” she said in the hallway. “For standing up for me in front of your mother. That was… manly of you.”
Stanislav smiled smugly. He entered the living room, sprawled in an armchair, and put his feet on the table.
“Well, I’m not a monster, Snezha. I understand everything. Speaking of understanding, I was thinking about something while I was chopping those salads. There’s a situation we need to discuss. Grandma’s doing very badly in the village, and it’s difficult for Mom with everyone crammed into that apartment. Inka and Oleg are practically living on top of one another.”
“And?” Snezhana tensed.
“Well, our place is large. Three rooms, right in the city center. The two of us live here like royalty. So I told my mother that we would bring Grandma here. She can have the small bedroom. And Inka can temporarily stay in the living room until she and Oleg get a mortgage. We’ll remain in our bedroom. There’s enough space for everyone. WE’RE FAMILY.”
There it was.
That was the price of his “heroic” salad chopping.
It had not been an act of care.
It had been a bribe.
He had been softening her up so that he could drag his entire tribe into her territory. He had decided that because he had “helped” her once, he now had the right to dispose of her property.
The audacity.
Boundless, cosmic audacity.
“You… you invited them to move in here? Without asking me? Into my apartment?”
“What’s the big deal?” Stas frowned, sensing that his plan was beginning to fail. “You need to be understanding. Don’t be selfish. You have extra space. You should share it.”
“I don’t owe anyone anything, Stanislav. This is my home. Neither your sister nor your rude brother-in-law is going to live here.”
“Listen, don’t get things twisted!” Stanislav jumped to his feet. The mask of the “good husband” instantly fell away, revealing his familiar ugly face. “I’m registered here! I have the right to bring over anyone I want! I’m the man, and I’ve made the decision! They’re moving in tomorrow, and that’s final! And if you object…”
“What?” Snezhana approached him. “What will you do? Hit me?”
“Maybe I will if that’s the only way to make you understand!” he shouted, losing control. “You think you can intimidate me with your slaps? Who the hell are you? I’m the authority here! You’ll come CRAWLING to me to beg for forgiveness!”
He raised his hand.
And at that moment, Snezhana understood.
This was the end.
He would never change.
There would be no family.
There was only a greedy, shameless stranger who wanted to devour her entire life.
She did not hit him.
The third slap was never supposed to be physical.
Snezhana calmly took her phone from her pocket, pressed a couple of buttons, and showed him the screen.
It had been recording.
The entire conversation.
Everything from the salads to the threats.
“Now listen to me, Etcher,” she said, her voice quiet and terrifying, like metal grinding against metal. “You are not registered here. You have failed the test.”
“What do you mean?” Stanislav turned pale. “What kind of nonsense is this?”
“I mean exactly what I said. There are your clothes.” She nodded toward the tracksuit lying over the chair. “You have a couple of minutes to pack your things and GET OUT.”
“You wouldn’t dare… Where am I supposed to go? It’s nighttime!”
“Go to your mother’s place. Back to that cramped apartment. You can sleep on the mat beside Inna. That’s where you belong.”
“I’m not leaving!” He tried to grab her, but Snezhana deftly dodged him and stepped back into the hallway.
At that moment, the doorbell rang.
Two strongly built men wearing the residential complex’s security uniforms were standing outside.
Snezhana had summoned them earlier, when Stas began his speech about relocating his entire family. She had sensed that something was wrong.
“Gentlemen, there is an unauthorized person in my apartment who refuses to leave and is threatening me with physical violence. Please help this citizen locate the exit.”
Stanislav stared in disbelief, first at the security guards and then at his wife.
“Snezha, what are you doing? We’re a family… Snezhana!”
“GET OUT,” she said, enunciating every syllable.
The guards politely but firmly took him by the arms.
“Come with us, sir.”
Five minutes later, Stanislav was standing outside with a hastily packed bag.
The entrance door slammed shut behind him.
He stared at the illuminated windows of the third-floor apartment.
He could not understand how this had happened.
He had thought he had cornered her, intimidated her, and outsmarted her with his performance involving the salads.
But she had simply thrown him away like the bag of garbage in the woods.
His phone beeped.
It was a message from Snezhana:
“Send someone other than yourself to collect the rest of your things tomorrow before noon. If no one comes, everything will be thrown away. I will file for divorce myself. Goodbye.”
Stanislav howled with powerless rage.
He would have to go to his mother’s apartment, sleep on the kitchen floor, listen to his sister complain, and endure his mother’s reproaches for losing such a valuable apartment.
It was a catastrophe.
He had wanted to be a king, but he had ended up as a pathetic lackey left with nothing.
He called his friend.
“Vitalik, brother, can I stay at your place for a while?”
“No, Stasyan. My mother-in-law is visiting. Sorry.”
The call ended.
Stanislav sat down on the curb and covered his face with his hands. His cheek twitched.
The third slap had been the most devastating one of all.
It had not shattered his face.
It had shattered his entire life.
