Polina slowly sat up, wiped her hands on her apron, and looked at Sergej as if a third hand had just grown on his forehead. Sergej didn’t notice her gaze and meticulously placed the sausages in “his” territory in the fridge, which he had marked with painter’s tape since the morning.
— Are you serious, Sergej? — she asked softly.— Absolutely, — he said, chest out. — I’ve been listening to your whining for six months about not having enough money for vacation. I did the math: my salary is one and a half times yours. Why should I pay for your cosmetics and endless yogurts? From today:
full freedom. We each pay half for the apartment, everything else is up to the individual.Polina just nodded, saying nothing.The first week was a dream for Sergej. He bought expensive imported beer, mountains of smoked goods,
and a huge cake that he devoured in front of the TV while Polina and Dimka ate porridge with meatballs.— Don’t drool, Dimka! — Sergej called to his son, who was staring at the cake. — When you grow up, you’ll buy your own. We’re living by honest economics now.
But on the tenth day, the first cracks in the “honest economics” appeared. Sergej came home expecting steaming food on the stove — but there was nothing. Only an empty stove and his breakfast plate in the sink.— Polya, where’s dinner?
Polina flipped through her book without looking up.— Cottage cheese on the menu. Dimka has cocoa. Your food? In the freezer. You bought it yourself, remember?Sergej cooked his sausages in a fit of rage, noticing there was no clean dishware.— Why are the plates dirty? — he shouted from the kitchen.
— Because I load the dishwasher, — Polina explained dryly. — The tablets cost money. My time does too. Want clean dishes? Wash them yourself. One drop of dish soap = one ruble.Sergej just snorted. “She’s angry out of frustration,” he thought, unaware that the real blow would come from Tamara Igorevna.
On Saturday, she appeared in the kitchen unannounced. Naturally, she expected tea and Polina’s famous pancakes, but instead she saw Polina drinking tea while Sergej desperately scrubbed a burnt pot.— What kind of apocalypse is this? — Tamara Igorevna exclaimed,
peeking into the fridge where painter’s tape marked the shelves. — Are you really sharing the apartment now?— Mom, we’re paying separately now, — Sergej said proudly. — Modern people, you know? No more freeloading.The mother-in-law sat down, first looking at her son, then at her daughter-in-law.
Polina fiddled with her fingernails.— I see, — she muttered finally. — Polya, pen and paper.— For what? — Sergej frowned.— Accounting, my dear. — Tamara Igorevna quickly began making a list of all household services: meatball portions, cooking, stove rent, pan wear and tear. Sergej grew nervous.
— Mom, really…— Pay up if you’re so honest! — she shouted, and Sergej felt like a child confronted with a debt ledger. “Housework for free? Shirts hang themselves? Dream on.”Polina quietly added:— And I calculated everything. Three thousand rubles for last week alone. Just for “household services.”
Silence. Sergej looked back and forth between his mother and Polina. Words about “family values” stuck in his throat as he remembered the painter’s tape in the fridge.Then fate struck: Sergej was fired. In a single day, his department and salary disappeared.
Arriving home, he sat down in the hallway, still wearing his shoes.Polina came over, knelt beside him, and tied his shoes.— Change clothes. Soup’s on the stove. Shared.— I don’t have money, next week…— You fool, Sergej, — she said softly, tired and tender at the same time.
— Dimka needs a jacket, I’ll buy it. You find a job. A real one.He ate the hot soup, each spoonful burning his throat and his conscience. Four months later, Sergej finally understood what life really costs. He saw Polina saving to buy him a suit for a job interview.
Finally, he got an offer. At home, he laid his new card in front of Polina:— Password? Your mother’s birthdate. Take it.— And the “European model”? — she smiled.— Europe is enough for me. I want a shared wallet. A shared life. And Mom… we’ll call her. Thanks for the accounting.
Two years later, Tamara Igorevna was in the hospital. Sergej was on a business trip. Coming home, he found Polina at the bedside, patiently feeding his mother.— Quiet, she’s sleeping, — said Polina. — Doctors say the crisis is over. She needs care. I cleared space in the living room.
Sergej looked at her. No money, no bills could cover this. This was family. Real, priceless.When Tamara Igorevna came home a week later, she murmured, holding Polina’s hand:— Am I freeloading again? How much do I owe according to your list?
— You’re priceless, Mom. Like Polya. The bills? We burned them. And so Sergej opened the door to a home without painter’s tape, but with the smell of fresh, hot bread — cozy and real.