“Are you kidding me or what?” Sasha’s voice rang like a tight string. “I came home and you didn’t even make anything? Nothing, Katya!”

Katya stood by the window, watching how the drizzle smeared the lights in the courtyard. Her fingers still smelled of medicine and adhesive bandages — during her shift at the infirmary she’d barely managed to sit down.

“Sasha, I told you this morning — I was on duty until eight. I just got in. There’s some pasta in the fridge, and cutlets left from yesterday. Heat them up.”

“Pasta…” he mimicked her, smirking. “Pasta, like I’m some student in a dorm.”

He threw his jacket on a chair, pulled a bottle of beer out of the bag and opened it with his hand, hissing through his teeth. Katya flinched — not from the sound, but from that rough habit itself. Once, it had seemed manly to her. Now it just looked like a sign that he didn’t care.

“Sasha, I’m tired. Really tired. I had three people with injuries come in today, one girl fainted right at the counter. My legs are buzzing, my hands are shaking. Let’s just be quiet, okay?”

“Be quiet?” He laughed shortly, bitterly. “You’re always quiet. You’re not even interesting to listen to anymore, because you’ve got nothing to say. Just complaints.”

Katya turned, leaning her hand on the windowsill.

“And you, apparently, only find it interesting when people praise you. When the place shines like a hotel, the food is like in a restaurant and your wife is always smiling.”

“And what, is that so much to ask?” he flared up. “I bust my ass so you can sit here in the warmth.”

“In what warmth?” she gave a little ironic laugh. “This is my father’s apartment, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“There we go again!” He exploded, slamming his fist on the table. “Every time you’ve got nothing to answer, you play that card. ‘My father’s apartment!’ You should be grateful I even moved in here. Anyone else would have told you to get lost long ago!”

She looked at him silently. Once she had loved that fire in him — she used to think it meant he was strong, decisive, that he would achieve anything. Now she saw only an irritated man who needed everything and everyone around him to revolve around him alone.

Her phone vibrated on the windowsill — a message from her friend:

“Where are you? Everything okay?”

She didn’t reply.

Meanwhile Sasha was already clattering around in the kitchen, yanking open cupboards, banging plates.

“Where’s the normal salt? Everything’s mixed up!” he grumbled. “You always have a mess. Even the spices stand crooked!”

Katya closed her eyes and counted to ten in her head.

“Sasha, please, don’t start. I really can’t argue right now.”

“Oh, so I’m just supposed to put up with it, huh?” He came right up to her, reeking of beer and irritation. “You’ve been promising me for six months that everything will get better. That you’ll stop staying late. That you’ll start paying at least some attention to the house. Where is all that?”

She looked him straight in the eye.

“And you’ve been promising me for six months to stop drinking on weekdays. Where is that?”

It was as if she’d slapped him. He jerked back, snorted, opened another bottle and headed for the TV.

“I’m not a drunk, if that’s what you’re hinting at,” he muttered. “I just relax after work.”

Katya wanted to answer but didn’t.

When the fridge door slammed and the stale smell of beer mixed with cigarette smoke filled the room, she quietly stepped out onto the balcony. Below, cars were passing, someone was dragging bags from the market, somewhere a child was crying. A normal October evening in the Moscow suburbs — gray, damp, sticky. And in that evening she suddenly understood clearly: she couldn’t go on living like this.

The next morning began in silence.

Sasha left without saying goodbye. On the table he left a dirty plate and a crumpled napkin with crumbs. Katya picked up her phone and wrote him a short message:

“I’m on a 24-hour shift, don’t wait for dinner.”

There was no reply.

At the infirmary the day dragged on endlessly. People coughed, someone argued over a medical note, someone else was yelling at the security guard. But somewhere inside Katya, a strange calm was already stirring. As if everything had already been decided, she just hadn’t said it out loud yet.

After lunch her colleague Natasha called:

“Katya, I don’t want to pry, but are you really okay? You look like someone who hasn’t slept for three nights.”

“I’m fine,” she answered wearily. “I’m just thinking about some things.”

“About Sasha?” Natasha asked immediately.

Katya stayed silent.

“I know you,” Natasha went on. “If you’re keeping quiet, it means it’s all built up. Why don’t you come over tonight? We’ll talk, you’ll get your mind off things.”

“I can’t. I’ll probably stay home today. I need to think everything through.”

When she got home, it was already dark outside. There was a strange umbrella lying on the doormat. Black, with a blue stripe. Katya frowned. The light was on in the apartment.

She opened the door and froze.

On the couch sat an unfamiliar girl — young, blonde, with nails longer than her fingers. Sasha stood next to her, wearing the shirt Katya had given him for his last birthday.

“Oh, there you are,” he said, as if nothing special was happening. “We’re just looking through my stuff.”

“What stuff?” Katya’s voice sounded quiet, but there was something dangerous in it.

“My things. I decided to stay at Alina’s for a while,” he nodded toward the girl. “But I need some documents, and anyway…”

Katya walked past them and stopped in the middle of the room.

“You brought her here? Into my home?”

Alina shrugged, looking at Katya like she was a boring neighbor.

“I actually didn’t even want to come,” she said to Sasha, pouting. “You insisted.”

Katya turned to her:

“Then leave. Now.”

“Hey, take it easy!” Sasha butted in. “This is my home too! I lived here, for your information!”

“No, Sasha,” Katya said evenly. “This is my home. My apartment, bought long before you showed up. And now you’re nobody here.”

“Have you completely lost your mind?” he raised his voice. “You think you can just throw me out?”

She stepped right up to him, looking straight into his eyes:

“I already have. You’ve got three minutes to pack your things. Then I’m calling the police.”

He snorted, staring into her face as if checking whether she’d flinch. But Katya stood like stone.

“Fine,” he ground out. “I’ll pack. But you’ll regret this.”

“Maybe,” she replied. “But not more than I’ve been regretting everything all this time.”

Alina hovered by the door, clearly not knowing what to do with herself. In the end, Sasha grabbed a couple of bags, muttered something and rushed out after her. Katya closed the door. Turned the lock. Then the chain.

Only then did she let herself sink to the floor and exhale.

After that, everything happened quickly.

The next day she called a locksmith, changed the locks, packed the rest of Sasha’s things into garbage bags and put them out by the entrance. She called her mother.

“Mom,” she said into the phone. “That’s it. It’s over.”

Her mother was silent for a second.

“I knew it would come to this,” she said at last. “And I’m proud of you. Just don’t let him come back. No matter what.”

By evening she and her mother, Valentina Pavlovna, were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea and making a to-do list: lawyer, application to the registry office, close the joint account. Katya listened to the advice, nodded, but in her head only one word was ringing: freedom.

But Sasha didn’t give up. Two days later he called.

“Katya, I get it now,” he said into the phone. “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. We can start over, right? I swear, it was all a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding is when you mix up salt and sugar,” she replied calmly. “What you did was a choice.”

“I just got confused! I feel awful without you!”

“Sasha, enough. Don’t call me again.”

She hung up.

But in the evening he was standing by her building.

“Katya, I won’t leave until you hear me out!”

“Then I’ll call the police.”

He stepped closer, trying to grab her hand.

“Listen, I love you!”

“No, Sasha,” she said, pulling away. “You only love yourself.”

He stood there in the drizzle, and she walked away without looking back.

A week later the doorbell rang. On the threshold stood a woman of about sixty, with a pinched face and a haughty look.

“Good evening,” she said without even trying to smile. “I’m Sasha’s mother. We need to talk.”

Katya nodded.

“Come in.”

The woman inspected the apartment like an inspector.

“It’s small here,” she remarked. “My son has always been used to order and comfort. And you’ve driven him to nerves.”

“Really?” Katya asked calmly.

“Of course!” the woman went on. “He worked, and you only complained. Besides, a woman should know how to forgive. You’re destroying the family for nothing.”

Katya gave a short laugh.

“A family isn’t destroyed by the one who leaves, but by the one who lies. Your son made his choice. And believe me, it’ll be easier for him without my forgiveness than with me.”

“Oh, so you’re sassing me now too!” Her mother-in-law turned pale with indignation. “We’ll see who wins in the end! This apartment isn’t yours — you’re just living here!”

“Want to see the paperwork?” Katya offered calmly. “If you like, I’ll show you a copy of the prenuptial agreement. Everything’s official.”

“You insolent little…” the woman started, but Katya had already opened the door.

“Goodbye, Vera Ivanovna. The door is right there.”

The woman left, loudly sniffing. Katya closed the door and, for the first time in a long while, laughed. Quietly, but genuinely.

The divorce was finalized a month later.

Sasha didn’t show up to the hearing. His lawyer tried to mention “renovations paid for with joint funds,” but Katya’s lawyer — an older, reserved man — laid out the documents point by point, and the case was closed in her favor.

After court she stepped outside. The air was cold, autumnal, smelling of wet leaves and something fresh. Katya stood looking at the gray sky and felt, for the first time in many years — not pain, not fear, but lightness.

In November she rearranged the apartment.

She moved the couch, bought new bedding, put a rubber-plant on the windowsill — green, sturdy, alive.

Sometimes Natasha would call:

“Well, have you gotten used to being alone?”

“Not alone,” Katya would answer. “With myself. And for the first time, it’s not boring.”

And once, coming back from the store, she happened to see Sasha. He was standing at the bus stop, holding a bag, talking on the phone — loudly, irritably. Next to him stood that same Alina, smirking, arms crossed. They were arguing. Sasha barked something sharply, Alina threw the bag on the ground and walked off.

Katya walked past. He didn’t notice her. And that was good. Because inside she felt no anger, no pain. Just calm. It was all over.

At home she made tea, took a new mug out of the cupboard — a blue one with the words “Live the way you want” written on it.

She sat by the window. Outside, the drizzle fell, the neighbors’ windows glowed, someone was swearing, someone laughing.

She drank her tea, listened to the rustle of water along the windowsill and thought:

Now this is silence. Not empty. Real. Alive.

Katya smiled.

She no longer had anything to prove to anyone.

She simply lived — in her own home, in her own life, by her own rules.

And it wasn’t a victory.

It was a homecoming