“Oh sure, right now! I’ll just drop everything and move in with your parents! I have my own apartment, and I’m going to live in it—and I’m not renting it out!” Inga’s voice, tinged with sarcasm and frustration, cut through the air as her husband, Stas, entered the kitchen, his voice full of self-satisfaction, as though he had just solved the world’s most complex problem.

She was in the middle of making a salad, the sharp blade of the knife gliding effortlessly through the crisp cucumber, the rhythmic slicing punctuating the tension in the room. The scent of fresh vegetables mixed with the faint smell of Stas’s cheap cologne and the street air that clung to him like a second skin. Without turning around, Inga threw over her shoulder, “If your brilliant idea is another loan for a bigger car, I’m not even listening.”

“No, no, this is much bigger! This is it, Inga. We’re moving,” Stas replied, his voice carrying the excitement of someone who had just uncovered the secret to eternal success. He leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen, crossing his arms in a self-assured manner, preparing for what he surely believed would be her delighted applause.

Inga didn’t respond immediately. She paused, the knife hovering above the cutting board. Slowly, deliberately, she placed the knife down, her movements calculated, her expression unreadable. She turned to face him, her eyes calm but searching, trying to measure just how far gone he was today.

“And where exactly are we moving? Did you find a job in another city?”

Stas’s smile widened, not even a hint of hesitation in his voice. “Even better! We don’t have to go anywhere. We’re moving in with my folks. In Maryino.”

Inga’s mind went blank for a split second, processing the absurdity of his words. She stared at him, the knife still in her hand, unable to hide her confusion.

“You’re joking,” she said, her voice flat, her mind racing as she mentally ran through every possible reason why this idea should be impossible.

“No joke! Just listen to the plan,” Stas continued, beaming as though he were giving her the greatest gift. “We move in with them. They’ve got a three-room place, plenty of space. Dad hardly even goes into his room. He just sits by the TV all day. And Mom’s always complaining about her back, saying everything’s hard for her. We’ll be there to help! No utilities to pay, Inga — think of the savings! And now the best part: Your apartment, the one-room place you’re so fond of?” He gestured toward the ceiling as if the flat were up there, somewhere beyond the stars. “We rent it out! Prices are great right now. Forty-five, maybe fifty thousand! We can throw all that into the common pot. Think about it, Inga. In a couple of years, we’ll have enough for the down payment on our own bigger place!”

He finished his pitch, his eyes wide with expectation. He was waiting for her to express joy, to thank him for what he thought was a brilliant, selfless plan. Instead, there was silence.

Inga’s mind flashed with visions of the future. Her mother-in-law’s critical gaze, the unsolicited advice about everything — the way she made borscht, the way she folded towels, the way she wore her clothes, even the way she sat at her desk. She imagined endless days with no privacy, where every move she made would be scrutinized and dissected. The idea of living in a three-room Khrushchyovka, stuck with a woman who already resented her, was unbearable. And the thought of her own apartment — her sanctuary, her private space — being rented out to strangers, taken over and invaded, made her feel like she was suffocating.

“Oh sure, right now! I’ll just drop everything and move in with your parents! I have my own apartment, and I’m going to live in it, and I’m not renting it out!” The words exploded from her, and she could feel the anger and disbelief rising in her chest.

Stas’s smile faltered for a moment, then slid off his face completely. He looked at her, confused, his eyebrows shooting up in offended surprise.

“You don’t get it,” he began, his tone hardening. “This is for us. For our family. What are you, selfish? I’m thinking about our future here, and you…”

Inga shook her head, not giving him the satisfaction of answering immediately. Instead, she picked up the knife again and started chopping the vegetables with more force than necessary. The rhythmic clack of the blade against the cutting board sounded like a drumbeat, signaling the tension building between them.

“What future, Stas?” Her voice was cold, cutting through the charged air like the knife in her hand. “The future where I become free labor for your mother? The future where I don’t have my own corner, my own place, because you decided that I could be monetized on the side? No thanks. You can live in that future yourself.”

Stas stiffened, his face reddening with indignation. He straightened up, folding his arms across his chest. “Oh, so I’m the bad guy because I want us to live better? I came up with a plan to get us out of this shoebox, to start saving, and all you do is get defensive. How ungrateful.”

Inga picked up the knife again, this time more deliberately, her movements jerky as she continued chopping, the sound now sharp and abrasive. “Your plan, Stas, is brilliant for you and your mother. You get the money and free labor from me, and she gets full control over our home. And what do I get? A room in an apartment where I’m not wanted, with daily lectures about how I’m not doing things the ‘right’ way. What a stunning plan, Stas.”

His frustration flared, and he walked over to her, stepping into her space, trying to catch her gaze. But she refused to look up, her focus entirely on the vegetables.

“What are you making up now? Nobody dislikes you,” he said, his voice becoming patronizing. “Mom’s just old-school, you know? Blunt. But she cares about us. She just wants everything to be done properly. You’ve never tried to understand her.”

Inga’s lips curled in a bitter smile, though she kept her eyes on the task at hand. “Understand? I understood her perfectly. That time she threw out my spices because they ‘stank of foreign poison.’ Or when she told me my remote job was ‘just idling,’ and I’d be better off mopping the stairwell so I’d actually be useful. I understand everything just fine, Stas. I understand that to her, I’ll always be the outsider — lazy, the wrong kind of daughter-in-law. And I’m not going to lock myself in that cage just to please her.”

Stas’s hands clenched at his sides, his irritation turning into a full-blown tantrum. He started pacing around the kitchen, from the sink to the window and back again, like a caged animal. “Trifles! You’re nitpicking over trifles! So she said something, big deal, right? She’s blunt, but we’re talking about serious things here. Our financial well-being! The chance to buy our own place! And you’re going on about spices? That’s selfishness! A wife should support her husband’s initiatives, not sabotage them!”

“Support — yes,” Inga said, cutting him off as she finally raised her eyes to meet his. “But not at the cost of my own humiliation and comfort. This apartment…” she gestured around the room, “is my comfort. It’s my place. The only space I have to get away from your ‘blunt’ mother and everyone else. And you’re proposing that I give it up for strangers, just to get myself locked in a perpetual battle with her? And for what? An illusory ‘common pot’ where your mother will immediately start telling you how to spend the money?”

His eyes widened in disbelief, and he stood right in front of her, towering over the table, his chest heaving with anger. “This isn’t your apartment, Inga,” he spat, his voice low and threatening. “It’s ours. We’re a family, and everything we have is shared. We should make decisions together — for the common good.”

Inga set the knife down slowly on the countertop, the sound of metal against wood echoing in the silence that had fallen between them. She wiped her hands on a towel, moving slowly, deliberately, as though to emphasize every moment of their conversation. “Exactly, Stas. Together. But you came to me with a pre-made plan, one where my role is the voiceless sacrifice. You didn’t even ask my opinion. You just presented me with a fait accompli. To you, this apartment isn’t my home. To you, it’s just an asset. A resource to be exploited.”

He looked at her, his face flushing with anger. His voice turned desperate. “It’s not an asset, Inga. It’s bricks! Just bricks and concrete! But it can work for us. Instead of just sitting there. You’re clinging to it like it’s the only thing you’ve got. What about me? What about us? A family means everything is shared. People make compromises for the common good!”

Inga took a step aside, making room for him to pass, but her voice was ice. “Compromises, Stas? A compromise is when I agree to go to your parents’ dacha on my only day off. A compromise is when I cook your beloved greasy carbonara even though I can’t stand it. What you’re proposing isn’t a compromise. It’s capitulation. You’re asking me to give up my home, my peace, and my personal space for your mother. And you call that ‘the common good’?”

He stood there, furious, unable to respond. Finally, he threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. “So that’s it? You’re going to hold onto your ‘precious little apartment’ and make me the bad guy? You think you’re the only one who works hard for this family?”

Inga’s expression was calm, controlled. “My parents gave me this apartment, Stas. Not to ‘us.’ To me. And I won’t let you turn their gift into a source of your income and my humiliation.”

His face contorted with rage. “You’re throwing me out? You’re actually throwing me out?”

Inga didn’t flinch. “You made the decision to move. You’ve already told your parents. Now, you can pack your things. The essentials, just like you planned. You’ve got an hour, Stas.”

The air seemed to freeze. In that moment, Stas realized she wasn’t bluffing. She wasn’t crying, she wasn’t pleading — she was simply cutting him out of her life, with a cold precision he couldn’t have expected.

He stumbled backward, confused, as the weight of what had just happened began to sink in. “You… you can’t just throw me out…”

Inga didn’t respond. She turned and walked toward the bedroom, leaving him standing there, stunned, in the middle of the kitchen. He stared at the gym bag on the floor, and for the first time, he realized that the life he had imagined, the comfortable future where he called the shots, had evaporated.

A minute later, Inga returned, holding his gym bag — the one he used for business trips and the gym. She dropped it at his feet with a finality that echoed in the room.

“Pack your things, Stas,” she said flatly, her voice a mere whisper of the woman he once thought he knew. “Your parents are waiting for you.”

Stas stood frozen, his anger swirling inside him, but it was too late. He had no choice but to gather his things and face the consequences of his decisions. Inga had closed the door on him. And there was no turning back.