Ilya’s voice was sharp, as if every word was a blow. “You’re a parasite! Go get a job!” he shouted, his anger bubbling over. The words hit Svetlana harder than he probably intended, but the harshness wasn’t what surprised her the most. It was the complete lack of self-awareness in his outburst. The spoon at the edge of the table jumped from the impact of his fist slamming down, and the sound reverberated in the quiet room.

Svetlana froze. Her mind swirled in a mess of emotions—hurt, disbelief, anger—but also a deep, gnawing confusion. How could he say something like that? She had always worked hard to make their life together as comfortable as possible, pouring all her energy into their home and their relationship. And now, here he was, accusing her of being a freeloader.

Freeloader.

She was the one paying the mortgage, the utilities, and even his mobile phone bill from the interest on her savings. She was the one who kept the house running, the one who cooked, cleaned, and kept the place cozy. Everything she did was for him. He didn’t see it, or worse—he took it for granted.

Before they married, Svetlana had dreams of being a housewife, of dedicating herself fully to her home and family. By the time she was 33, she had made enough money to live comfortably for the rest of her life. But when she met Ilya, she set aside her career ambitions, convinced that being a loving wife would fulfill her. She gave up on herself for him, but now it felt like that sacrifice was being thrown back in her face.

And then there was Ilya himself—seven years younger than Svetlana, ambitious, but driven by something other than love. When they got married, it seemed like he had chosen her for her success. As his career faltered, she was the one keeping things afloat. And now, just when he was having a tough time at work, he dared to accuse her of not pulling her weight.

“Alright, darling,” she said coolly, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her.

Ilya’s eyes narrowed. “So, you think I’m a freeloader,” she repeated his words slowly, letting each one sink in.

Ilya, feeling the weight of her words, shrugged uncomfortably. “Well, how else do you explain it? We don’t have much money, and you’re always at home. I’m the one working, bringing in what little we have.”

Svetlana tilted her head slightly, meeting his gaze with a cool, calculating look. “So, you’re saying you have little?” She wanted him to understand the weight of his words, to feel the irony of his accusations.

Svetlana could see it then—his desire to be the head of the household, to wield authority over her. He wanted to be the one calling the shots, the one who made the decisions. But in that moment, she realized something: he wasn’t the one who had built this life. She had. And she wasn’t going to stand for it anymore.

“Fine, Ilyusha,” she said, a note of finality in her voice. “You’ll have more money. Wait here.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel, pulled out her phone, and calmly called a taxi.

Ilya was bewildered, trying to understand what she was up to. “Where are you going?” he called after her, his voice laced with suspicion.

“Going for money, for money,” Svetlana replied, her tone cool and detached. Then she slammed the door behind her, leaving Ilya standing in the midst of his confusion.

In the taxi, Svetlana’s mind raced, the words “freeloader” echoing in her head. How could he say that after everything she had done for him? She had given up her career, sacrificed her own dreams to take care of him and make his life easier. She had even given her mother-in-law a place to stay in the city, at the cost of her own comfort.

The injustice of it all stung. She thought back to all the times she had made Ilya’s life comfortable, to all the sacrifices she had made. And now, after all of it, he dared to accuse her of freeloading?

When the taxi pulled up outside a realtor’s office, Svetlana didn’t waste any time. “I need tenants,” she said briskly as she entered the building. “Young people, preferably students, with a cat if possible. The key is to get them to pay a couple of months upfront.”

The young receptionist behind the desk blinked, taken aback by the urgency in Svetlana’s voice, but she quickly recovered. “Please go to the fifth office,” she said, gesturing down the hallway. “Igor handles tenant selection. Just tell him everything.”

Svetlana didn’t hesitate. She marched down the hall, her heels clicking against the floor, the weight of the decision she was making starting to feel lighter. She was done with being the one who gave everything. It was time to take control.

Igor, the realtor, looked up when she entered his office. After a quick exchange, he confirmed that he had a group of young tenants in mind who would be perfect for Svetlana’s apartment.

“You know,” he said, “I think your place will be perfect for them. Just sign this cooperation agreement, and I’ll make sure it’s all taken care of.”

Svetlana signed without a second thought, barely glancing at the contract. “They’ll be here tomorrow?” she clarified.

“Yes, absolutely,” Igor replied confidently. “I’ll make sure it happens.”

Satisfied, Svetlana stood and left the office, her mind already turning to the next phase of her plan.

Fifteen minutes later, Svetlana arrived at the apartment where her mother-in-law had been staying. The door opened to reveal Irina Arnoldovna in a shabby countryside robe, her hair in curlers, her face marked with surprise.

“Sveta, why didn’t you call first? Are you alright?” Irina Arnoldovna’s voice was soft, full of concern, but also a hint of suspicion. She could sense something wasn’t right.

“The borscht is almost ready,” she said, stepping aside to let Svetlana in. “You must be hungry. Come sit down.”

But Svetlana wasn’t interested in small talk. “Please pack your things. Your stay here is over.”

Irina Arnoldovna blinked in confusion. “What do you mean? You said I could stay as long as I needed. What’s going on?”

Svetlana’s smile was sweet but cold. “I remember what I said. But, you see, Ilya is having a tough time right now. So tough that he raised his voice at me today. So, Irina Arnoldovna, I’m afraid you need to leave. Starting tomorrow, this apartment will be rented out.”

Irina’s shock was palpable as Svetlana started packing her things into trash bags. The older woman opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out.

Before she could react, Svetlana was on the phone again, calling a locksmith. “I’m taking care of my family’s future,” Svetlana said matter-of-factly, as the sound of drilling filled the apartment. She smiled, knowing that everything she was doing was a step toward securing a better life.

Irina Arnoldovna stood frozen, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What about me?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Where will I go?”

“Don’t worry,” Svetlana replied cheerfully. “The car is waiting downstairs. It will take you to the village. Don’t forget your begonias.”

With the locks changed and the apartment ready to be rented out, Svetlana returned home. Ilya was sitting on the couch, sulking, the weight of his mother’s call still hanging in the air.

“So where have you been?” he asked darkly.

“I’ve been looking for money, my dear,” Svetlana replied, her tone flat. “And I found it. Starting tomorrow, your mother’s apartment will be rented out. That’s my decision.”

Ilya’s face turned red with outrage. “You kicked out my mother?” he exclaimed. “Where did you send her?”

“Calm down,” Svetlana said coolly. “She’s on her way home now. Her things are halfway to the village.”

Ilya’s jaw dropped as he realized the full extent of what Svetlana had done. “You really kicked out my mother.”

“No,” she replied, “I just optimized our expenses and increased our income.”

Ilya grabbed his head in disbelief. “Sveta, you’re a monster. She’s my mother. She’s elderly.”

Svetlana smiled sweetly, almost serenely. “Nothing bad will happen to her. The village air will do her good. The local nurse once told her, ‘Hill potatoes three times a day, and all diseases will go away like magic.’”

Ilya sank back onto the couch, defeated. Svetlana was no longer the woman he had married. She was someone different—someone he couldn’t control or manipulate.

Meanwhile, Irina Arnoldovna, still processing the events, called her relatives in desperation. “Lyuba, come pick me up. I can’t stay there. It’s hell.”

The taxi driver, unmoved by her complaints, waited until he had his full fare before taking her to the village.

Svetlana was left in peace. For the first time in years, she felt like she had control over her life. Ilya, now relegated to a smaller role in her world, asked her one last question before he quietly withdrew.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because, my boy,” Svetlana replied with a cold smile, “so you don’t upset your aunt.”

And with that, she looked at him not with love, but with contempt. Ilya had finally become a nuisance she no longer needed.

Svetlana was alone, but for the first time in a long while, she felt a calmness she had never known before. No one called her a freeloader anymore. She had reclaimed her life, and it felt better than she had ever imagined.