Olivia had barely closed the door behind her, kicked off her shoes, and stretched—dreaming of hot tea and silence. But instead of the usual “How was your day?” she was met by Andrew, standing in the middle of the kitchen with a sheet of paper in his hands. His face was tense, as if he were bracing himself for an important conversation.
“Here,” he said, placing a printed table on the table in front of her. “I calculated it.”
Olivia frowned, studying the columns of numbers.
“What is this?”
“Expenses for the month. Your personal food spending.”
She slowly ran a finger down the lines. Buckwheat, eggs, milk, bread—even salt—everything itemized down to the last kopek. At the bottom was the total: 3,567 rubles.
“Are you… serious?”
“Completely. We agreed: shared budget—half and half. You ate my groceries.”
Olivia laughed, but it came out nervous.
“My groceries? Andrew, you’ve been living in my apartment for three years.”
He hesitated for a second, then immediately recovered:
“That doesn’t matter. We’re a family.”
“Family?” Her voice trembled. “Then why are you counting every ruble I ‘owe’ you?”
“Because it’s fair!”
Olivia took a deep breath, trying not to snap.“Fine. If we’re doing this…” She pulled out her phone and opened her banking app. “Then let’s be honest. You live in my apartment. Market rent for a place like this is 25,000 a month. Minus half the utilities—so that’s 22,500 from you.”
Andrew went pale.
“Are you messing with me?”
“No. I’m just calculating. Like you.”
Silence settled in the kitchen like a heavy weight.
“That’s totally different!” he finally blurted out.
“Why?” Olivia tilted her head. “You’re the one who wants fairness, right?”
He shifted, avoiding her gaze.
“The apartment… isn’t food.”
“Ah. Got it. Fairness only works one way.”
Andrew jumped up, shoving his chair back.
“You just don’t want to be responsible for your spending!”
Olivia stopped holding back.
“Great! Then starting tomorrow—either you pay for living here, or you move out. Choose.”
He slammed the bedroom door. Olivia stayed alone in the kitchen, staring at that stupid printout.
“How did it even get to this?”

Memories surfaced: how three years earlier Andrew—back then just her boyfriend—had moved in “temporarily,” saying he was renting out his own place and just needed a little time. How it turned out there was nothing to rent out—the one-bedroom was his mother’s. How, little by little, he started treating her home like it was his, and treating her like some kind of free service.

She crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash.
“Enough.”

Morning began with loud pounding on the door. Olivia, not fully awake yet, reached for her phone—seven a.m. Who would come at this hour?
She threw on a robe and walked barefoot to the entryway. Through the peephole flashed a familiar displeased face: Margaret Collins, Andrew’s mother.
Olivia took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Hello, Margaret. Do you ever call ahead?”
Without answering, her mother-in-law stepped inside, dragging a huge wheeled bag behind her. A sharp cloud of cheap perfume trailed after her.
“Where’s my son?” she snapped, scanning the apartment with an appraising look.

Hearing his mother’s voice, Andrew immediately darted out of the bedroom wearing only boxer shorts.
“Mom! What are you doing here?”
“Oh what, sweetheart—so now a mother can’t come see her own child?” She reached to hug him, then sharply turned to Olivia. “Though of course, in someone else’s home, even being a guest is complicated.”

Olivia crossed her arms.
“Margaret, if you’re coming to stay, giving a day’s notice is basic politeness.”
“Oh, excuse me, Your Majesty!” the older woman snorted. “Should I also ask your permission to visit my son?”

Andrew grew anxious when he saw Olivia’s lips tighten.
“Mom, no scandals. Let’s go to the kitchen—I’ll put the kettle on.”

Margaret, without even taking off her coat, followed him, clicking her heels loudly. Olivia remained in the hallway, staring at the dirty boot prints on the floor she’d just washed.

In the kitchen, it started immediately.
“Sweetheart, you’ve lost weight!” his mother wailed, grabbing Andrew’s cheeks. “Does she even feed you?”
“Mom, come on…”
“And what’s this list?” Margaret snatched the crumpled sheet from the table—yesterday’s calculations.

Olivia, standing in the doorway, felt goosebumps crawl up her back.
“Oh, what do we have here?” the mother-in-law unfolded the paper. “‘Buckwheat—56 rubles, eggs—89…’ What kind of circus is this?”
Andrew lowered his eyes.
“We just… decided to track the budget more carefully.”
“Budget?” Margaret whirled toward Olivia. “Did you make him humiliate himself like this? Counting every penny?”

Something inside Olivia boiled over.
“Your son started counting what I ‘owe’ for groceries. And when I reminded him he lives in my apartment for free, he didn’t like that.”

The kitchen froze for a beat.
Margaret slowly rose from her chair.
“So… you’re blackmailing my son?”
“That isn’t blackmail,” Olivia answered coldly. “That’s called fairness.”

“Oh, fairness!” the mother-in-law laughed fake and sharp. “Do you know how much my Andrew could be earning if he hadn’t gotten involved with you? He had an offer from a developer’s daughter! And you…” She looked Olivia up and down with contempt. “You can’t even give him children.”

Olivia inhaled as if she’d been struck.
Andrew jumped between them.
“Mom, stop it!”
“What ‘stop it’?” Margaret pressed toward Olivia. “You’ve lived with her three years—where are the grandkids? Where’s your career? She’s accusing you of something? Then let her prove she’s even a woman!”

Olivia couldn’t stay silent anymore.
“Get out of my apartment.”
“What?!”
“You heard me. Out.”

Margaret froze, then turned slowly to her son.
“Did you hear how she’s talking to me?”
Andrew looked back and forth between his mother and his wife, lost.
“Liv… maybe don’t be so harsh?”
“Harsh?” Olivia laughed. “Your mother comes into my home, insults me, and I’m supposed to smile?”

She stepped toward her phone.
“I’m giving you five minutes to pack up. Or I’m calling the police.”

Margaret went pale.
“You… you wouldn’t dare!”
“Try stopping me.”

Andrew grabbed his mother’s hand.
“Mom, let me walk you out…”
She yanked free, but headed for the door. On the threshold she turned back.
“Remember this, Olivia. You’ll regret it.”

The door slammed.
The apartment fell silent. Andrew stood with his head lowered.
“Sorry… I didn’t know she would…”

Olivia didn’t answer. She turned and went into the bedroom, clicking the lock loudly.
“Now I see where he gets his manners,” she thought, staring up at the ceiling.

But the worst was still ahead.

Three days after Margaret Collins’s visit, Olivia came home from work dreaming of a quiet evening with a book and tea. But the moment she opened the door, she was hit by loud laughter from the living room and the smell of beer.

On her couch, sprawled like the owner, sat Kevin—Andrew’s younger brother. On the table in front of him were three empty bottles, a bag of chips, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.

“Oh, Olivia’s here!” Kevin waved lazily, not even trying to stand. “We thought you might be spending the night somewhere else.”

Olivia stopped in the doorway, gripping her bag.

“Andrew,” she said, her voice unnaturally calm. “Explain.”

Andrew appeared from the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel.

“Kevin’s here for a couple days. He’s got housing problems.”

“A couple days?” Olivia pointed at the suitcase by the door—packed for at least a week.

“Well… maybe a little longer,” Andrew shrugged.

Kevin reached for a fresh bottle.

“Oh come on, Liv, why so tense? You’re a feminist, right? You should be for equality. So I can live here too.”

Olivia walked to the table, took the beer bottle, and poured it down the sink.

“First: I’m a feminist, not a maid. Second: equality means everyone contributes.”

Kevin snorted.

“Here we go…”

“Do you pay rent?” Olivia continued. “Help around the house? Or do you just sit on my couch and trash my apartment?”

Andrew tried to cut in.

“Liv, he’s family…”

“Family?” Olivia snapped toward him. “Then let him pay like family: five hundred a day. Or he cleans, cooks, and washes up for everyone.”

Kevin rolled his eyes.

“Oh, screw you…”

He reached for Olivia’s laptop on the coffee table.

“Move,” she warned.

“Relax, I just want to put music on…”

With an awkward motion he knocked a mug of tea. Dark liquid poured straight onto the keyboard.

Dead silence.

Olivia walked over, flipped the laptop. Water dripped from the casing.

“That’s it,” she whispered. “That’s it.”

Kevin gave an uneasy laugh.

“Well, it happens…”

Olivia slowly raised her head.

“Andrew. Either he packs his things and leaves right now. Or you both leave.”

Andrew blinked, stunned.

“But…”

“Choose.”

Kevin stood up, finally realizing how serious it was.

“Come on, Liv, it was an accident…”

Olivia pulled out her phone.

“I’m counting to three.”

“Liv!” Andrew pleaded.

“One.”

Kevin started frantically grabbing his stuff.

“Two.”

“I’m going, I’m going!”

When the door slammed behind his brother, Andrew sank onto the couch.

“You’ve totally lost it…”

Olivia said nothing. She picked up the damaged laptop and went into the bedroom.

An hour later she put Kevin’s things out in the hallway.

And in the evening she sent Andrew the bill for the laptop repair.

A week after the Kevin incident, Olivia noticed Andrew acting strangely—staying late at work, whispering on the phone, going silent the moment she entered the room. On Saturday morning, while he was showering, his phone lay on the kitchen table and lit up with a notification from “Katie.”

Olivia wasn’t planning to check his phone. But a minute later a second message arrived:
“Thanks for the transfer, darling! God, I miss you so much…”

Her hands moved on their own.

She knew the password—they always used the same date, their wedding day. The chat opened, and Olivia saw weeks of messages: photos of Katie half-dressed, talk of their meetings, and—most of all—confirmed bank transfers: fifteen thousand, twenty thousand, another twenty-five thousand… In one month Andrew had sent this “Katie” almost seventy thousand.

The bathroom door opened. Andrew, wrapped in a towel, froze in the doorway when he saw his wife holding his phone.

“What are you doing?” His voice shook.

Olivia lifted her head slowly. Tears stood in her eyes, but her voice was steady.

“I’m curious— is this the developer’s daughter your mother mentioned? Or just the first random girl you found?”

Andrew went pale.

“Liv, it’s not what you think…”

“Then what is it?” she held up the screen. “An investment? Or a down payment on Katie’s new breasts?”

He lunged for the phone, but Olivia jerked back.

“Don’t touch me! For three years you kept saying we didn’t have money for a vacation, for repairs, for my courses! Turns out we did—we just didn’t have it for me.”

Andrew started babbling excuses.

“She just got into a hard situation… she had nowhere to live…”

“How touching!” Olivia laughed, and it sounded frightening. “You’re sending money to your mistress while living in my apartment? While I pay your bills? While your brother destroys my things?”

She stood up so abruptly the chair clattered to the floor.

“Pack your stuff. Now.”

“Are you serious?” Andrew forced a nervous laugh. “Over some stupid mistake?”

“A stupid mistake is not turning off notifications when you cheat,” Olivia said coldly. “You have an hour. Then I call the police and report illegal residence.”

Andrew’s face changed.

“You don’t have the right! This is my home!”

“No,” Olivia took out her own phone. “This is my home. And I’m about to prove it.”

She called the bank on speaker. Within five minutes, all of Andrew’s transfers from the past month were frozen, and his access to their joint account was cut off.

“How…” he stared at her in real horror. “How could you?”

“Learn from the best,” Olivia said. “Now you have exactly one hour to disappear. And I suggest you hurry—I can already picture how happy your Katie is to see her ‘darling’ back.”

When the door slammed behind Andrew, Olivia dropped onto the floor and sobbed.

But only for a minute.

Then she stood up, washed her face, and started making a list—of everything she needed to do so she would never end up in this situation again.

First: “Divorce.”
Second: “Change the locks.”
Third: “Lawyer.”

But the most important thing she’d already done—she stopped being a victim.

A year later, Olivia stood on the balcony of her—now entirely hers—apartment, enjoying the first spring sunlight. The renovation she’d started during the marriage was finally finished. Light wallpaper, new floors, a spacious kitchen—everything breathed freshness and peace.

On the living room table sat a laptop with her blog open. Her latest post was collecting hundreds of likes and comments:
“How I learned to value myself: the story of one divorce.”

Olivia reached for her coffee when the doorbell rang. A courier with a bouquet—huge white lilies. She frowned at the card:
“Happy anniversary of our meeting. I understood everything. A.”

“What nerve,” Olivia muttered, and immediately threw the flowers into the dumpster by the entrance.

Back inside, she sat down at the computer and began typing a new post:
“Why charging your husband rent is normal.”

The words came easily—one year of therapy and work on herself had done its job.

Her phone rang. Unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Liv… Liv, it’s me…” The familiar raspy voice made her freeze for a second. “I… I wanted to apologize. For everything.”

Olivia exhaled deeply.

“Andrew, there’s nothing to talk about.”

“I changed, really! Maybe we meet? As friends?”

Olivia looked at her laptop screen where new comments flashed—women sharing their stories, thanking her for support, asking advice.

“You know, Andrew,” she said at last, “I only date sane men now. And you, unfortunately, aren’t on that list.”

She hung up, added the final paragraph to her post, and hit “Publish.”

At the doorway Olivia paused, taking in her apartment. Quiet. Order. No one counting her money, throwing socks around, demanding an account for every dollar.

She smiled and closed the door.

A new day.
A new life.
A real life.

And in the dumpster by the entrance, the luxurious lilies slowly wilted, never getting the recipient they were meant for.

Beside them lay the crumpled card—the last cry of someone drowning who realized too late what he’d lost.