And my opinion doesn’t interest anyone? — Nika set the dustpan on the shelf and turned to her husband. There was pain in her voice.
— I’m a person too, Lev. I’m tired.
— You must remember that you’re a wife, not a guest! — Lev snapped, his face reddening with anger. — You have responsibilities to the family!
Nika tapped her fingers on the countertop, watching as the kettle began to bubble and fill the kitchen with steam. The Sunday morning felt especially quiet, as if the world had decided to give her a break. The sheer curtains, barely swaying in the faint breeze, allowed light to filter through, seeming to fill every crack, every speck of dust in the room. And Nika just stood there, listening to the silence that was so rare in her life.
Once, five years ago, when she and Lev moved into this apartment, the walls were bare and the decor was, frankly, on the verge of minimalism. Now, every corner exuded warmth and coziness. She remembered how long it took to choose the living room wallpaper, how she and Lev would endlessly argue over the color of the curtains, and how she rejoiced when she finally found that perfect sofa.
— Good morning, — Lev said sleepily as he entered the kitchen. — What’s for breakfast?
— Omelet with mushrooms and tomatoes, — Nika smiled as she retrieved ingredients from the refrigerator. — And some fresh coffee.
Lev came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.
— You really are the mistress of the house, aren’t you? — he remarked in a tone that immediately put Nika on guard. There was something in his voice that usually foretold something… well, not very good.
— What’s wrong? — Nika turned, squinting.
— Nothing in particular, — Lev looked away. — It’s just that Mom and Kristina are planning to come over. Well, for lunch.
Nika exhaled again. “Just for a little while” in the understanding of Lev’s relatives often stretched to a couple of hours or more. She clenched her hands, trying not to betray her anxiety.
— What time will they be here? — she asked, the tension in her voice evident.
— Around one to two. And… — Lev paused. — Kristina will bring the kids.
Nika silently counted to ten. Kristina’s children—the six-year-old twins—were not merely mischievous but genuine hurricanes. After their visits, the apartment resembled a battlefield.
— Fine, — Nika said as she grabbed a frying pan and turned on the stove, trying not to let her irritation show. — Then perhaps I’ll have to dash to the store. There won’t be enough food.
— Honey, you know how much Mom loves your dishes, — Lev attempted to approach and embrace her, but Nika, pretending not to notice, sidestepped. Why did she need that right now?
In truth, Varvara Dmitrievna never missed an opportunity to criticize her cooking. Sometimes the soup was too salty, sometimes the meat was raw, sometimes the salad was too plain.
By two o’clock, the apartment gleamed with cleanliness, and in the kitchen, the oven housed a slowly roasting potato with meat that already smelled delightful. In the refrigerator, that very cake that Varvara Dmitrievna adored was waiting for its moment.
The doorbell rang precisely at 14:15. Nika adjusted her apron and went to answer.
— Niku-sha! — Varvara Dmitrievna burst into the hallway like a hurricane, her coat billowing. — How are you, dear?
Soon after, Kristina entered with the children. The twins, as soon as they stepped into the apartment, dashed into the living room without removing their shoes.
— Kids, shoes! — Nika shouted, but Varvara Dmitrievna waved her hand dismissively and replied:
— Let them be, let them run around. You know how hard it is for them to sit still.
Nika pressed her lips together, watching the light carpet being marred by dirty footprints. She wondered every time why no one could make them take off their shoes at the door, but she never said it aloud—nobody ever listened anyway.
— What’s for lunch? — Kristina asked as she entered the kitchen. — Oh, casserole? Mom, remember last week I made one with mushrooms? It was a real masterpiece!
— Of course, I remember, sweetheart, — Varvara Dmitrievna sat down at the table, smiling. — Niku-sha, you should learn from Kristina. She has such a gift for cooking.
Nika remained silent as she arranged the cutlery. Suddenly, a loud crash resounded from the living room, as if something had fallen to the floor.
— Lev, check what your nephews have done, — Nika said calmly.
— Oh, come on, — Lev waved her off without even turning around. — Let them play; they’re just kids.
— Exactly, — Varvara Dmitrievna supported her son. — Otherwise, Nika, you’re so proper. Everything must be perfect.
— I just love order, — Nika replied softly.
— A home should be full of life! — Varvara Dmitrievna declared loudly. — You, Niku-sha, are always obsessing over cleanliness. Imagine having kids—you’d be chasing them with a rag.
Nika felt her cheeks burn. The subject of children was painful—for after two unsuccessful attempts, the doctors had advised her to wait a bit before trying again. But she remained silent, holding back all the words that were bursting to come out.
Lunch passed in the same manner. Varvara Dmitrievna handed out advice, Kristina boasted about her culinary achievements, and the twins dashed around the apartment, leaving a trail of destruction. Lev sat quietly, enjoying the moment, oblivious to the growing tension in Nika.
— You know, Niku-sha, — Varvara Dmitrievna said while finishing a second slice of cake, — Kristina and I were thinking… Maybe we should gather at your place every Sunday? Your kitchen is so spacious, and you cook… well, with soul.
Nika froze, standing with a cup in her hand, and looked at her.
— Every Sunday? — she repeated, trying to calm herself.
— Of course! — Kristina eagerly joined in. — It’ll be wonderful! I can bring my signature dishes, Mom can share recipes. And the kids love playing here!
Somewhere in the living room there was another crash. Judging by the sound, it was a figurine Nika had brought back from a trip to Italy.
— Lev, what do you say? — Varvara Dmitrievna turned to her son.
— Great idea! — Lev smiled, ignoring the trace of displeasure on Nika’s face. — Right, darling?
With noticeable effort, Nika set her cup on the table, feeling how the thought that her opinion meant nothing was filling her mind.
— I don’t think… — Nika began, but Varvara Dmitrievna was already making plans:
— Next Sunday I’ll bring my signature pie. Niku-sha, you wouldn’t mind preparing something with meat? And more salads— you know how much the kids love your Olivier salad.
Nika got up from the table, her heart tightening with indignation. All her weeks were spent working and handling household chores, and now even Sundays turned into endless cooking and cleaning.
— Excuse me, but next Sunday I want to rest, — Nika said quietly yet firmly.
Varvara Dmitrievna froze, fork in hand:
— What do you mean “rest”? And what about the family lunch?
— I’m tired, — Nika tried to speak calmly, but her voice already carried fatigue. — I need a day off.
— Tired of what? — Kristina snorted. — Tired of wandering around the house?
Lev frowned, sitting at the table. A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the rustling of paper as Varvara Dmitrievna picked up a napkin.
— Honey, let’s discuss this later, — he said, trying to regain some control of the situation.
— There’s nothing to discuss here, — Varvara Dmitrievna snapped, placing the napkin on her lap. — The family must come together. And you, Niku-sha, are just spoiled. In my day…
— Mom, please, — Lev interrupted, noticing the rising tension. — I’ll talk to Nika.
That evening, when the guests had finally left and Nika was cleaning up the shards of the broken figurine, now only a crack remained, Lev finally approached her. He stood behind her, trying to start a conversation, but the words wouldn’t come.
— Why did you create such a scene? Mom is upset — his voice sounded weary.
— A scene? — Nika didn’t turn her head, continuing to clutch the dustpan. — I just said I want to rest.
— From the family!? — Lev sharply raised his voice, feeling his patience running thin. — You must understand, family dinners, traditions—they are important to Mom, to Kristina!
— And my opinion doesn’t matter? — Nika set the dustpan on the shelf and turned to her husband. There was pain in her voice. — I’m a person too, Lev. I’m tired.
— You must remember that you’re a wife, not a guest! — Lev retorted, his face reddening with anger. — You have responsibilities to the family!
Nika recoiled, as if she’d been spared. Her eyes stung and her heart tightened.
— So that’s how you see it? I’m just a servant for your family? — she couldn’t hold back her anger.
— I didn’t mean it like that, — Lev tried to recover. — Just try to understand…
— No, you understand, — Nika interrupted, her voice firm, her eyes filling with determination. — I’m not going to cook for your whole family every Sunday anymore. I need rest.
The next day, on Saturday, the house was quiet, yet an undercurrent of tension lingered. Lev kept trying to find the right words to make her change her mind.
— Mom called. They’re coming tomorrow at two — he said in a subdued tone, not even looking her way.
— Fine, — Nika replied calmly, refusing to be provoked. — But I won’t be cooking.
— What do you mean you won’t? — Lev banged his fist on the table, his face tense. — They expect a festive lunch!
— And I expect understanding, — Nika shrugged calmly, feeling the weight of her exhaustion. — You see, we don’t always get what we want.
On that Sunday morning, when the entire house resonated with the sounds of lunch preparation, Nika locked herself in the bedroom. Lev, judging by the noise, was handling the pots rather clumsily. The kitchen echoed with the sounds of dishes seemingly deciding to abandon their places. Nika opened a book and immersed herself in its pages.
At two o’clock, as expected, the doorbell rang. Varvara Dmitrievna was the first at the door, her loud voice soon spreading through the apartment.
— She’s in the bedroom, — Lev’s voice came from the kitchen. — She said she’s tired.
— What?! — Varvara Dmitrievna’s outrage boomed throughout the house. — Lying in the bedroom while the family is hungry? Niku-sha! Get out here immediately!
Nika turned a page, ignoring the shouts.
— This is simply outrageous! — Varvara continued. — Lev, how can you tolerate this? Your wife is completely unruly!
— Yes, — Kristina agreed, joining in the commotion. — I would never allow myself to treat my husband’s family like that.
After an hour, when it was clear that a festive lunch would not happen, the guests began to leave. Varvara Dmitrievna loudly declared that her son deserved a better wife.
When the door closed, Nika emerged from the bedroom. Lev stood in the kitchen, looking at the mess left from the attempted festive lunch.
— Happy now? — his voice was tired, yet edged with discontent. — You’ve humiliated me in front of everyone.
Nika stared at his back, and suddenly everything became painfully clear. Five years of marriage, endless compromises, trying to please everyone—it had all been in vain.
— You know, Lev, — she said quietly, — I finally understand one thing.
— And what is that? — Lev turned sharply to her.
— That I mean far less to you than your mother and sister do. And that will never change.
Nika turned away without another word and went back to the bedroom. Her hands trembled slightly, but her decision had been made, and nothing could stop her. Packing her suitcase slowly, as if bidding farewell to this home, to this world.
— What are you doing? — Lev’s voice echoed at the door.
— I’m leaving, — Nika replied without looking back. — I can’t do this anymore.
— But where? — Panic laced his voice.
— To Alina’s. She offered for me to stay with her a long time ago.
Lev nervously ran his hand through his hair, trying once more to regain control of the situation.
— You can’t just leave! Let’s talk, let’s find a compromise.
— Five years of compromises, Lev. — Nika zipped up her suitcase, squinting slightly. — Do you know what I got in return? The role of a free cook and maid for your family.
She took her phone and dialed a number.
— Alina, hi. Remember, you offered that I stay with you? Is the offer still on?
An hour later, a taxi whisked Nika away, and she watched Lev’s reflection in the rearview mirror. He stood frozen by the entrance like a stone statue, and Nika no longer felt any guilt.
Alina greeted her warmly, arms outstretched.
— Finally you’ve decided! I told you it couldn’t go on like this.
In the cozy apartment of her friend, Nika suddenly felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her. No one demanded family lunches, no one criticized, no one dictated how she should behave.
Her phone kept buzzing with calls and messages. Lev wrote that he missed her. Varvara Dmitrievna sent angry letters about ingratitude, and Kristina bombarded her with condemnatory messages for supposedly abandoning the family.
Nika silenced her phone and slept peacefully, as she hadn’t in many years.
The next morning, heading to work, Nika noticed how her look had changed. She seemed more confident, as if she had shed a heavy weight from her shoulders.
— You look different, — her boss remarked, looking at her intently. — As if something important has left you.
Nika smiled.
— That’s exactly it. I’ve finally started living for myself.
A week later, Lev appeared at Nika’s office. He stood by the door, a bag full of nervous words in his pocket.
— Please, come back. I understand everything now, it will be different. — His voice was insistent, but Nika no longer felt any regret or desire to return.
— Really? — Nika looked at him cautiously. — And what exactly will change?
— I’ll talk to my mom, — Lev began. — They’ll come less often…
— And then everything will just go back to the way it was, — Nika shook her head. — You still don’t understand what the problem is.
She walked past him without looking back and got into Alina’s car, which was waiting by the entrance.
At home, while unpacking her things, Nika opened a folder with documents. Divorce. It was a hard but necessary step. Five years—enough time to realize that sometimes everything ends, and it’s not worth continuing.
— Are you sure? — Alina asked, always caring.
— Absolutely, — Nika nodded. — I should have done this long ago.
Varvara Dmitrievna unleashed a real terror. She called, came to work, threw tantrums. She couldn’t understand how her son could be so rejected.
— How can you treat my son like this? — her mother-in-law screamed. — He loves you!
— No, — Nika answered calmly. — He loves being convenient for you. And I don’t want to be convenient anymore.
The divorce proceedings went surprisingly smoothly. Lev didn’t contest the decision. Perhaps he too realized that the marriage was doomed. The apartment had to be put up for sale.
Three months later, Nika moved into her new apartment—a small one, but her own. As she arranged her belongings, she felt a lightness settling in her heart. For the first time in a long while, she truly felt at home.
That evening, sitting by the window with a cup of tea, Nika reflected on the past. On how she had tried to be the perfect wife, how she lost herself trying to please everyone, how she was afraid to disappoint.
Her phone chimed—a message from Lev: “I miss you. Maybe we can try again?”
Nika looked at the screen and, for the first time, felt neither pain nor regret. She simply took the phone and deleted the message. The past was behind her. Now she had a new life—one in which she set the rules.
The moon illuminated the room with a gentle light, and Nika felt at peace. She was where she was meant to be—in her own space, in her own life.
In the morning, she woke up feeling light. A new day lay ahead—her day, in her life, on her own terms. And that was beautiful.