— Have you gone mad during your maternity leave? Who am I telling, take that pan off the stove!Ilja nodded reluctantly toward the pot, where vegetables for eight-month-old Matvey were simmering. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, belt in hand, sizing up his wife more as an inconvenient obstacle than a partner.
— By six o’clock everything must shine. And make a proper dinner! Roast the meat in the oven, cut some salads. Ludmila Markovna is coming; she’s not a fan of diet zucchini.Natalia froze, clutching a towel in her hands. Ilja’s strong, masculine scent filled the kitchen,
and Matvey’s calm movements in his playpen made her almost afraid he would start crying again.— Ilja, the little boy is sick — Natalia whispered, trying to keep her voice calm. — I’ve been up all night, on my feet since three. I simply cannot cook a banquet and scrub the floors at the same time. Just order food from a restaurant.
The man suddenly stepped forward, his face turning a dark red with anger. He snatched the towel from her hands, slammed it onto the table, and raised his hand. Natalia instinctively ducked her head into her shoulders, closing her eyes. But Ilja didn’t stop; he grabbed her shoulders roughly, crumpling her shirt.
— I don’t care that you can’t handle it — he hissed. — I bring the money into this house, I support you all. So work! And your face… make it simpler. These are my square meters. If you don’t like it — pack up and go to your father!The front door slammed so loudly that Matvey jumped. The lock clicked, echoing in the silence.
Natalia slowly sat down, her shoulders numb. Inside, everything had burned out. No tears, no trembling. Only a cold, resolute awareness: this is over.
“I support, so… these are my square meters…”This apartment had belonged to Ilja’s grandmother. When they married, everything here had been cold and rundown: stained ceilings, old floors, constant smells of dust and medicine.”The apartment is mine, so live and be grateful,”
Ilja had thrown the words at her before the child was even born.His salary was enough for bills, gas, food. But every comfort had been created by someone else: her father, Grigoriy Ivanovich. Natalia looked around: built-in appliances, solid wood furniture, a huge sofa, modern bathroom.
All paid for by her father, with transfers ensuring the grandson’s well-being.Ilja enjoyed lounging on the sofa, scolding Natalia for every speck of dust. He truly believed all the comfort was his doing. But this morning, he had crossed every line. Natalia knew: if she stayed silent now, tomorrow would be worse.
She grabbed her phone:— Dad, hi.— Hi, Natasa. How’s your grandson?— He’s asleep. Dad… I need your crew from work. And a few trucks.— Are we taking something to the summer house?
— No. We’re restoring Ilja’s apartment to its original state. I’m taking back everything that’s mine and filing for divorce.
Silence on the other end. Grigoriy Ivanovich never intervened when he heard determination in his daughter’s voice.— Alright. They’ll be there within an hour.The workers quickly and methodically dismantled everything: first Natalia’s personal belongings,
dishes, toys, then furniture and cabinets. Walls, floors, interior doors—all disappeared into the past. In the kitchen, Natalia unscrewed the light bulbs from the chandeliers with her own hands, leaving only a faint glow.By five o’clock in the afternoon,
only the smell of construction dust and dampness remained in the apartment. This was Ilja’s reality.The phone rang: Ilja.— So, is dinner ready?— Yes. I made a little surprise.Natalia quietly hung up, handed the child to her father, and placed the keys on the dusty windowsill.
They went one floor up to wait for the finale.Ilja and Ludmila Markovna arrived exactly on time. The door opened. Nothing was in its place: the sofa, furniture, curtains—all gone, leaving bare concrete walls. Ilja stumbled, his mother-in-law slammed into a wall.
— They’ve been robbed! — Ludmila Markovna shouted. — Call the police!Ilja stood in the middle of the empty kitchen, holding a piece of paper:”I only took my own things. Your precious square meters remain. Divorce filed. Keys nearby. Good evening.”
Six months later, Natalia sat in a cozy café, Matvey now a young boy by her side. A notification about child support: negligible. A message from a former neighbor: Ilja had rented out the apartment; fifteen people were living there, constantly arguing over the money.
Natalia smiled. She had taken the most important things: herself and her son. And Ilja? He sat there in his bare concrete prison, locked in his own rules.