Galina Sergeyevna stopped mid-motion at the sink, a plate still in her hands. Viktor Nikolayevich stood in the kitchen doorway, already dressed to head out to a job site, irritated and rushed. Behind him loomed his mother, wearing a faded, well-worn robe.
“It’s in the closet, on the shelf with the winter things,” Galina answered quietly. “And the cottage cheese… I didn’t have any money.”
“What do you mean you didn’t have any?” Valentina Pavlovna pushed past her son. “Vitenka gave you money last week!”
Galina lowered her gaze. That money had gone toward the utility bill and medicine—medicine for the very woman now scolding her. But explaining was useless. In this home, her words didn’t count.
“Stop standing there like a statue!” Viktor snapped. “I’m late for work and you’re rambling. Borrow from Ninka—she’s your friend, isn’t she?”
He slammed the closet door, yanked out the turtleneck, and vanished into the hallway. Valentina Pavlovna shook her head, wearing the expression of a long-suffering saint.
“You’re exhausting him, Galochka. The man works like an ox and gets no peace at home. In my day, wives behaved differently.”
The front door banged shut. Silence blanketed the apartment. Galina mechanically finished her sandwich with margarine—real butter was bought only when guests came or on holidays. Why did she endure it? Why couldn’t she say she taught six lessons a day at school, ran a homeroom, prepared students for exams—and then came home to wash, clean, and cook for three people? All of it on the crumbs her husband “graciously” handed over for “women’s expenses.”
The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Nina Ivanovna, a neighbor from the fifth floor, stood on the threshold with a bag of groceries.
“Gal, how are you? You look upset again.”
“I’m fine,” Galina answered automatically, letting her in.
“Oh, please,” Nina said, walking straight into the kitchen. “You’re forty-five, and you still blush like a girl every time someone snaps at you. What happened now?”
And something inside Galina finally broke. The words poured out—about the cottage cheese she couldn’t afford, the constant reproaches, the money that was never enough for even the simplest needs, the mother-in-law who treated her like household staff.
“Do you realize this apartment is half yours?” Nina asked suddenly. “Didn’t you buy it with the money from selling your parents’ place?”
“But the papers are in Viktor’s name…”
“So what?” Nina pulled her chair closer. “You were married. That means you have rights. Listen… what if you—”
She didn’t finish the sentence, but Galina understood. Her chest clenched—part fear, part something dangerously close to hope. Divorce? After thirty years? But how? How would she live? What would the children say?
“Just think about it,” Nina said softly. “Do you really want to spend the rest of your life as a servant?”
