“I’m the one who calls the shots in this house. You’re just here enjoying the comfort,” Kostya tossed out without looking up from his phone. In that moment, Olga realized she had spent six years living beside a stranger.
She stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding the frying pan she had just taken off the stove. A thin stream of steam drifted up, while inside, she felt completely numb.
“I didn’t say anything wrong, Kostya. I just asked if you could help out with Dashka this weekend.”
“You asked,” he smirked, finally glancing at her. “But did you hear your tone? Like you’re the boss here. Olga, let’s be honest: whose apartment is this? Mine. Who renovated it? Me. So don’t get carried away.”
Olga set the frying pan down on a trivet. Her hands trembled a little, but she didn’t want him to notice.
“I work too. I contribute too.”
“At the library?” Kostya snorted. “Olga, don’t make me laugh. Your paycheck covers a single trip to the grocery store, that’s all. Don’t compare serious work to you stamping books.”
From the kids’ room, Dasha peeked out—a seven-year-old with a messy braid.
“Mom, will you come read me a bedtime story?”
“I’ll be there, sweetie. Just a minute.”
Kostya stood up from his stool, stretched, and grabbed his jacket off the rack.
“I’m heading over to see Vitka. Leave some dinner, I’ll reheat it when I get back.”
The door slammed shut. Olga was left alone in the kitchen, staring at the cooling dinner and an old enamel mug with a blue rim, which she once brought from her hometown of Pskov. The only thing from her past life that still truly belonged to her.
She remembered moving. Back then, Kostya seemed reliable and mature. He came to Pskov on a business trip, they met in a café, and things moved quickly. He invited her to Moscow and promised she’d never want for anything. She believed him. She quit her job at the school library after five years, packed her things, and left. But she didn’t start her own life—she arrived in someone else’s apartment, where she was forever reminded she was only a guest.
The next morning, Olga took Dasha to school and then headed to work. The local library greeted her with its familiar silence and the scent of old paper. She sorted the forms, turned on the computer, and began shelving the returned books.
“Olenka, you didn’t forget we’ve got a readers’ event on Thursday, did you?” The manager, Nina Arkadyevna, emerged from the back room. “We’ve invited a children’s book author.”
“I remember, Nina Arkadyevna. I already made a poster—here, take a look.”
She handed over the sheet. The manager gave it a quick glance and nodded indifferently.
“Looks nice. But maybe we should make a website or a page? Young people aren’t coming at all.”
Olga brightened.
“I can give it a try! I was just reading how to do it. There are free website builders…”
Nina Arkadyevna laughed softly, like she might at a child.
“Olenka, it’s better if you stick to shelving books. That’s an art in itself. I’ll ask my grandson—he knows about these things.”
She went back to the storeroom. Olga stood there holding the poster, feeling that familiar emptiness. Again. Always the same. No one takes her seriously—not her husband, not at work.
During her lunch break, Galya, a coworker from the neighboring department, came by—a woman in her fifties with a tired but kind face.
“Why the long face?” Galya asked as she unwrapped her sandwich and sat down next to her.
“Oh, it’s nothing. They told me again that I’m useless.”
“Who said that?”
“Everyone says it. My husband, and here at work.”
Galya looked at her closely and put her sandwich aside.
“Olya, do you know what you’re missing? Belief in yourself. You’re so talented—you draw, you come up with these creative ideas. And yet here you are, just moving books around.”
“But what should I do?”
“Learn something new. There are so many online courses right now. My neighbor took computer courses, and now she works from home drawing pictures, making more money than I do for two shifts here. Decide for yourself: do you want to spend your life just being convenient? A convenient wife at home, a convenient helper girl here? Or will you try something of your own at last?”
Those words really struck a chord. That evening, after putting Dasha to bed, Olga sat down at her old laptop. Kostya was watching TV, not paying attention to her. She opened the search engine and typed: “online graphic design courses.”
Her screen filled with links. Dozens of schools promised to teach beginners. Olga read the descriptions and looked at the work done by graduates. Inside her, a warm, long-forgotten feeling began to stir.
She remembered school—how she made wall posters, how her teacher praised her drawings, how they trusted her to decorate for every celebration. After graduation, she had dreams of going to art school, but her mom, who raised her alone, just threw up her hands: no money, go where it’s stable. So Olga went into library science. Drawing got left behind.
And now there was design. It was still drawing, just digital—color, composition, form. Maybe she could do it?
She filled out the registration form for the course. Clicked ‘send’ and closed the laptop. Her heart was pounding like she’d done something forbidden.
Late at night, as she was working through her first lesson with headphones on, Dasha peeked into the kitchen, barefoot and in her pajamas.
“Mom, why aren’t you sleeping?”
Olga took off her headphones and smiled.
“I’m learning, sweetie. Go back to bed or you’ll catch a cold.”
“What are you learning?”
“I’m learning to draw. On the computer. Look,” she said, showing the screen where there was a greeting card design.
“It’s beautiful,” Dasha climbed into her lap and yawned. “Are you a magician, Mom?”
Olga hugged her daughter and held her close.
“I used to be good at magic. Then I forgot how. But now I’m learning again.”
A few days later, Kostya happened to look at the laptop she had forgotten to close.
“What’s all this drawing stuff?” he jabbed a finger at the screen.
“I signed up for courses. Design courses.”
Kostya whistled in surprise.
“A designer? You? Olya, just look at yourself. What kind of designer are you? All you’ve ever known are your books.”
“But I draw well,” she said quietly. “I’ve always drawn.”
“Yeah, wall posters in school,” he waved dismissively. “Olya, do you know how tough the competition is? People study for years, and you think you can do it in three months? Don’t make me laugh.”
“I just want to try.”
“Try,” he shook his head. “You’re already living off me, and now you want to chase some silly dream?”
He went off to the other room. Olga stayed in the kitchen—but for the first time, instead of her usual hurt, a stubborn determination began to grow inside her.
The day she came back from the library, her mother-in-law was already sitting in the apartment. Tamara Ivanovna had her own key and would come and go whenever she pleased. She was settled in an armchair, casting a critical eye over the room.
“Olenka, what’s all this dust on your shelves?” she said instead of hello. “And Dasha’s toys are scattered all over the floor.”
“I haven’t had time to tidy up, Tamara Ivanovna. I just got home from work.”
“What work? You just sit in the library sorting books. It’s not like you’re chopping wood.”
“I’m studying too. I’m learning a new profession,” Olga said as she made her way to the kitchen and started stacking dishes.
Her mother-in-law pursed her lips and turned in the armchair.
“You should be thinking about your family, not professions. My Kostya takes after me—he likes order, a clean house, a hot borscht on the table. And what are you busy with? Painting pictures?”
Olga quietly turned on the water. Her hands were shaking, but she didn’t look back.
“Are you listening to me, daughter-in-law?” her mother-in-law’s voice grew harsher.
“I hear you,” Olga replied softly.
Tamara Ivanovna left after an hour, leaving behind a heavy, sticky feeling of guilt. Olga sat in the kitchen, hands wrapped around an enamel mug. She wanted to quit everything, forget about the courses, and go back to the old routine—familiar, if unpleasant. But something inside just wouldn’t let her give up.
The next day she told Galya everything.
“My mother-in-law came over. She said I was wasting my time.”
“Wasting your time?” Galya scoffed. “Olga, have you ever thought they might just be afraid of you? Afraid that if you spread your wings, you’ll fly away. That’s why they try to hold you down.”
“Maybe I really should quit?”
“Don’t even think about it,” Galya said sternly, giving her a pointed look. “Or you’ll spend your whole life being told you don’t matter.”
That evening, Kostya came home looking grumpy. He opened the fridge.
“No proper dinner?”
“There’s soup. Want me to heat it up?”
“Soup,” he snapped the fridge door shut. “I run around all day, and when I get home, I can’t even expect some cutlets. What do you actually do all day? Stuck on that computer again?”
Dasha peeked out from the kids’ room, staring fearfully at her father.
“Daddy, don’t yell at Mom.”
“Go to your room,” Kostya said sharply.
Olga closed her laptop and stood up.
“I’ll heat it up now.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll take care of it myself,” he walked past without looking at her.
Olga returned to the table, her fingers refusing to obey. From the children’s room came the quiet sound of Dasha crying—she’d heard her father raise his voice. Olga went to her daughter and hugged her.
“It’s okay, bunny. Daddy’s just tired.”
“It’s not your fault, Mom,” Dasha whispered, burying her face in Olga’s shoulder.
Those words hurt more than any reproach ever could.
A week later, Olga registered on every freelance platform she could find. She put together her student projects into a simple portfolio and set the lowest price—everyone has to start somewhere. Galya helped her write her profile description.
She didn’t have to wait long. The first response came from Andrey, the owner of a small flower shop. He needed a simple page with a bouquet catalog. Olga showed him examples and he agreed.
She worked through the night while everyone else slept. She searched for the perfect fonts, sketched layouts, and hunted for flower photos. Dasha would sometimes sit beside her with her own album and markers, drawing pictures as her mom typed away. Kostya came into the kitchen a couple of times, drank water silently, and left.
Once the page was finished, Andrey sent her the payment. Twelve thousand. Olga stared at the notification in disbelief. Her first earnings made with her own mind, her own hands. Not for shelving books, not for stamping library cards—but for something she imagined and brought to life herself.
Two days later, a second order arrived. Then a third. And that’s when she realized—she couldn’t do everything at once. Daytime was the library, evenings at home, and at night, more orders. Dasha hardly saw her, and Olga’s head ached from lack of sleep. She sat down with a notebook and calculator to add everything up. If there were at least four or five orders a month, it’d be enough for a room, food, and to support Dasha. It was worth the risk.
The next morning, she handed in her resignation. Nina Arkadyevna looked up in surprise, eyebrows raised.
“So where are you off to?”
“To freelance. I’m going to be a designer.”
“Well, well,” the head librarian smirked. “Just be careful, Olenka. If you want to come back, there might not be a spot for you.”
Olga left the library and, for the first time in a long while, felt not fear but lightness. Like a weight she’d carried for years had finally been lifted.
She got home around lunchtime. Kostya was sitting on the couch with his phone.
“I quit,” she said, taking off her coat.
He slowly lowered his phone.
“What did you say?”
“I quit. Today was my last day. I’m going to work as a designer. I already have three orders.”
Kostya stood up, his face stony.
“Are you out of your mind? How are you planning to live? On those peanuts you get for your little pictures?”
“On my own money. Money I’ve earned myself.”
“With your own labor,” he moved closer, looming over her. “Olga, do you even hear yourself? Three orders! What if tomorrow you don’t get any—then what?”
“There’ll be more. People are recommending me.”
The doorbell rang. Kostya opened the door—it was Tamara Ivanovna on the threshold. She stepped inside, took off her coat, and came into the room.
“Why do you both look so frazzled?”
“She quit,” Kostya turned to his mother. “Decided to be a designer. Drawing little pictures for the internet.”
His mother-in-law sat down in an armchair and folded her hands.
“Olenka, do you even know what you’re doing? Family means responsibility. Kostik works so hard for you, breaks his back, and here you are running around with your fantasies.”
“These aren’t fantasies,” Olga clenched her fists. “I studied for three months. I already have orders, people are paying for my work.”
“Paying, are they?” her mother-in-law shook her head. “Who pays the rent then? Who buys the food? Who gets the clothes for the child? It’s all on Kostik, and instead of being thankful…”
“Thankful?!” Olga’s voice cracked. “I cook, I clean, I take Dasha to school, I worked! And all I get in return is being told I’m a guest, a freeloader!”
“Worked, sure,” Kostya snorted. “Putting books on shelves. Some job that is.”
“It was still a job!” she burst out, turning sharply to him. “And now I’m going to have a real career!”
Kostya took a step closer, looking down at her.
“You’ve been living the easy life in my apartment for years, and you still dare to raise your voice?”
“Exactly,” Tamara Ivanovna nodded. “Kostya’s right. You should be grateful.”
And at that moment, something inside Olga snapped. All those six years, all the “you’re just a guest here,” “my apartment,” “living off us”—it all rushed up in one fiery wave.
“What do you even know about me?!” she nearly shouted, making Dasha peek nervously from the kids’ room. “All these years, you’ve just crushed me and bossed me around—you and your mother! I cooked, cleaned, raised the child, worked—and it was never good enough! Always my fault!”
“Watch your mouth,” Kostya raised his voice. “Or you’ll be out of here like a shot, right now. Where will you go?”
Olga looked him straight in the eyes and, for the first time, didn’t look away.
“I wasn’t planning on staying. You two can live here—mother and son. Dasha and I are leaving.”
Tamara Ivanovna rose from her chair.
“Olenka, don’t overreact. It’s just a fight. Stop, don’t do anything rash.”
“I’ve been making a mistake for six years,” Olga answered calmly. “I’ve put up with enough. No more.”
She went to the bedroom and pulled a big bag from the top shelf. Papers, her clothes, Dasha’s things, albums with children’s drawings, her enamel mug. Dasha stood beside her, holding onto her skirt.
“Mom, are we really leaving?”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“For good?”
“For good.”
Kostya stood in the doorway in silence. Her mother-in-law tried to say something, but Olga was done listening. She packed up, then called her friend Sveta, the one she’d known since she moved here.
“Sveta, can we stay at your place for a couple of days? Just until I find a room.”
“Come right over,” Sveta said instantly, not even needing to ask questions.
The next morning, Olga and Dasha rode the metro with a bag and a backpack. Sveta met them at the door and threw up her hands.
“Did you actually leave home?”
“I did.”
“For good?”
“For good, Sveta. I just can’t take it anymore.”
Sveta hugged her tightly.
“Oh my god, finally. Come on inside, I’ll make some tea.”
That evening, after Dasha fell asleep on the couch, Olga gave a short version of everything—the firing, her mother-in-law, Kostya’s threats. Sveta listened, shaking her head.
“Should’ve done this long ago. Listen, I have an acquaintance renting out a room. It’s cheap and in a nice neighborhood. Want me to connect you two?”
“Yes, please. Thank you so much.”
“Don’t mention it. You’d have managed on your own anyway. It’s just a little easier with a friend.”
A week later, Olga rented that room—small, with one window, but bright, with a balcony overlooking a linden-filled courtyard. She bought a soft, fluffy rug and spread it on the floor. She hung up Dasha’s drawing—’Mommy is sunshine.’ Her laptop went on the desk, alongside a blue-rimmed enamel mug.
More and more jobs started coming in. Andrey recommended her to his friends, and they told theirs. Olga worked in the evenings while Dasha did her homework or drew nearby. In the mornings, she took her daughter to school, cooked during the day, settled at her computer at night. She felt tired, but it was a different kind of tiredness—not the exhaustion from humiliation, but from doing something she loved.
Two months later, Kostya sent a message: “Olga, let’s talk. I’ve thought everything through. Come back, let’s start over.”
She stared at the screen, rereading the message. There was a time she would have agreed—out of fear, habit, or the hope that Dasha would have a father nearby. But now, she simply replied, “No. We’re happy here.” Then she blocked the number.
That evening, she and Dasha sat together on the balcony, wrapped up in a cozy blanket. The sound of linden trees rustled below, and the wind played with the leaves.
“Mom, are you happy?” Dasha asked, munching on an apple.
Olga kissed her daughter on the top of her head.
“Yes, sweetheart. For the first time in a long while—I am happy.”
A new email had arrived. A longtime client had recommended her to the owner of a coffee shop chain—they were offering a long-term partnership, a complete redesign of all their websites. Good money, stability.
Olga put her phone away and looked around their small room. It was cramped, but everything in it was truly theirs. She noticed the fluffy rug where Dasha loved to run barefoot. She saw her daughter, who no longer flinched at raised voices.
She finally understood something simple: home isn’t about walls or square meters. Home is the place where no one shames you for who you are. Where you can breathe freely and not be afraid to make mistakes.
She’s no longer a guest in someone else’s life. At last, she’s truly home.