Freeloader

“You know, darling, Mom’s got a point. You’re a freeloader here—go get a job!”

Ilya’s voice cracked through the small kitchen like a whip.

He slammed his palm on the table so hard that the spoon on the edge jumped, clattered, and hit the tiled floor with a sharp sound.

Svetlana froze. She stared at her husband, certain she must have misheard him. The air thickened; the world seemed to go silent, except for the ringing in her ears.

Freeloader.

That word echoed in her head, slicing through her like a blade.

She — the one who paid the mortgage every month, who covered the bills for water, electricity, gas, even her husband’s phone plan. The one who washed his clothes, cooked his meals, cleaned, and made their home warm and livable.

She — the one who kept everything afloat.

Before marriage, Svetlana had dreamed of being a full-time homemaker. After ten years in finance, she’d built up a solid savings account — enough to quit, to live comfortably, to stop worrying about money. At thirty-three, she finally allowed herself to “live for herself.”

And then came Ilya.

Seven years younger, charming smile, confident eyes. He told her she was inspiring — “a woman who knows what she wants.” She believed him, foolishly blind to what hid behind that admiration.

He hadn’t married her out of love. He’d married her out of convenience.

Now that same man was shouting that she was a freeloader.

Svetlana inhaled slowly, trying to keep her voice steady.

“So I’m a freeloader, am I?” she repeated coldly.

Ilya shifted, uneasy under her stare.

“Well… you’re home all the time. I’m the one working, and we’re short on money. What else would you call it?”

Svetlana tilted her head, her eyes glinting.
“So money isn’t enough for you?”

“I’m just telling the truth.”

The truth.

A small, razor-sharp smile crept onto her lips.

“Alright, Ilyusha. You’ll have more money. Just wait a minute.”

She turned on her heel, pulled out her phone, and calmly ordered a taxi.

“Where are you going?” he asked, already worried.

“For money,” she said simply. “You wanted me to get some.”

The door slammed shut.

In the taxi, Svetlana sat tapping her nails against her phone, her thoughts churning.

Freeloader.

The word burned in her chest.

She — the one paying for everything.
She — the one who had let her mother-in-law live rent-free in her second apartment, out of nothing but kindness.
She — the one who’d endured endless complaints about aching joints, the city air, and the “terrible youth of today.”

And now, the son of that same woman dared to call her an eater of crumbs.

She laughed bitterly.
“To the ‘Your Home’ real estate office,” she told the driver. “And wait there.”

The neon sign glowed faintly above the entrance. Svetlana walked in — tall, calm, her expression unreadable.

“Good afternoon, how can I help you?” chirped the receptionist with a standard plastic smile.

“I need to rent out my apartment. Immediately. Preferably to students, pets are fine. As long as they pay a few months upfront.”

“Of course, ma’am. Please see Office Five — Igor handles rentals.”

Igor — slick hair, ironed shirt — quickly understood what she needed.

“You’re in luck. I’ve got two young tenants looking right now. Just need you to sign our cooperation agreement.”

“Give it here.”

She signed without even glancing at the papers.

“So they’ll move in tomorrow?”

“Most likely, yes. I’ll make sure of it,” he promised, smiling.

“I’m counting on that.”

Svetlana left without another word. Ilya’s voice was still echoing inside her skull.

Half an hour later, she stood before the door of her second apartment — the one where Irina Arnoldovna, her mother-in-law, had been living for over a year.

The door opened to reveal a woman in an old blue housecoat with white flowers, hair in curlers, face flushed from the kitchen heat.

“Sveta, dear! You didn’t call! Is something wrong? You look pale. I’ve just made borscht — come eat with me!”

“No need,” Svetlana said flatly. “Please gather your things. Your time living here is up.”

Irina blinked, stunned.

“What do you mean, ‘up’? You said yourself, ‘Stay as long as you want.’ I even bought a wardrobe for my clothes! What’s going on, Sveta?”

Svetlana smiled sweetly. “I remember what I said. But your son Ilya says we’re short on money. So this apartment will be rented out starting tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

Before the older woman could answer, Svetlana began collecting her things — swiftly, efficiently, tossing them into garbage bags.

“Sveta, stop this madness!”

“I’m just taking care of my family’s finances,” Svetlana replied calmly.

Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang.

“I’m the locksmith you called?”

“Yes, come in,” she said without hesitation.

Irina gasped. “Sveta, what are you doing?”

“Optimizing expenses,” Svetlana said dryly.

The drill whirred loudly as the locks were changed.

“Sweet Svetočka, what about me? My borscht, my begonia? I’ve gotten used to this place!”

“You can take the pot with you,” Svetlana said briskly. “And the begonia will grow just as well in the village. The air there is much healthier.”

Irina stared, speechless.

“Don’t worry,” Svetlana added. “There’s a taxi waiting downstairs. The driver will take you home — borscht and begonia included.”

When Svetlana returned home, Ilya was slumped on the couch, phone in hand. His mother had already called.

“Where were you?” he muttered darkly.

“Looking for money,” she said, hanging her coat. “And I found it. Starting tomorrow, your mother’s apartment will be rented.

“And since we’re apparently short on cash, we’ll live modestly: you’ll walk to work, take lunch from home, drink coffee from a thermos. No beer, no take-out. Mostly porridge and vegetables until your finances recover.”

Ilya jumped up, furious.
“Sveta! Are you insane? Did you throw my mother out?”

“Calm down. She’s on her way to the village. With her things. And her begonia.”

“You’re a monster! She’s my mother, an old woman!”

“Nothing terrible will happen,” Svetlana replied smoothly. “Country air is good for her. The nurse there told her once: ‘Hoe potatoes three times a day, and your back pain will vanish.’”

Ilya sat down again, as if the ground had disappeared beneath him.

Meanwhile, in the taxi packed with bags, Irina was frantically calling her relatives:

“Lyuba, dear, can I stay with you for a few days?”
“What do you mean, two rooms and three people already? My God…”

“Alya, sweetheart, what about you?”
“You’re flying to Turkey? Oh, how lovely. I love the sea too.”

The driver stared out the window, bored but paid.

Finally, after half an hour of phone calls, Irina sighed and told the driver to take her back to her village.

A week passed.

Ilya, unable to forgive Svetlana’s “cruelty,” quietly packed and left.

He didn’t even slam the door — just vanished, leaving behind a short note:
“I can’t live with someone who treats my mother like that.”

Svetlana read it, expressionless. Then she whispered:

“So you wouldn’t get on my nerves anymore.”

She stood by the window, watching the city fade into dusk.
Alone. But peaceful.