The apron flew into Andrey’s face so fast he didn’t even have time to flinch. The fabric—bright and cheerful with red poppies—smacked his cheek and then slid lazily to the floor.
“Lena, have you completely lost it?” he blurted, picking it up and smoothing it out, as if pressing the wrinkles away could undo what had just happened.
“No, Andrey. For the first time in a long time, I’m thinking clearly,” I said, grabbing my bag and heading out of the kitchen. “Cook for yourself. I’m not your maid anymore. Better yet—ask your mommy. She’s the one convinced I do everything wrong.”
My hands were trembling, but inside something opened up—an odd, weightless feeling of freedom I hadn’t felt in ages. Maybe years.
It had started three months earlier, the day I landed a job at a design studio. Not a little side hustle, not “half-time for pocket money,” but real work—the kind I’d dreamed about back in college. For five years I’d poured myself into the home, my husband, the endless routine… and finally, I chose myself.
Andrey had acted calm about it then. He even said, “Good for you. Try it.” Like I’d asked permission to take yoga or learn macramé. I didn’t read into his tone. I honestly thought it meant support.
The first weeks were rough. I was up at six, making breakfast, packing his lunch into containers, throwing in a load of laundry before running out the door. After work I rushed home, ducking into the store to grab whatever we needed at the last second. Dinner, cleaning, ironing—everything had to be squeezed into impossible time slots.
“Lenochka, you understand a man should come home to a hot meal,” my mother-in-law, Galina Petrovna, would say whenever she dropped by “just to check in.” Those visits started happening more and more often. “That’s the backbone of a family. A woman is the keeper of the hearth.”
I’d nod while stirring soup with one hand and checking work emails on my phone with the other. I had a major project, and the deadline was closing in.
“And honestly, I don’t understand this modern obsession with careers,” she’d continue, sipping tea from my favorite mug. “I devoted my entire life to family—to Andryusha, to my late husband. And I don’t regret it for a second. That’s real feminine happiness.”
I kept quiet. Arguing with her was useless—I’d learned that in my first year of marriage.
“Mom’s right, Len,” Andrey would chime in, scrolling his feed. “You’re always tired, always tense. Maybe this job really isn’t worth it.”
“I’m just adjusting,” I’d say as I set plates on the table. “I’ll find my rhythm and it’ll get better.”
But it didn’t get better.
The work was more interesting than I’d imagined. I was designing interiors for corporate clients. People praised my sketches. I got invited to meetings with customers. For the first time in years, I felt like a professional—someone with a name and skills—not just Andrey Sokolov’s wife.
At home, though, the atmosphere tightened by the day.
“Lena, why isn’t my shirt ironed?” my husband would demand, standing in front of the closet in nothing but his underwear.
“Sorry, I didn’t have time. Wear a different one.”
“But I need this one. I’ve got an important meeting today.”
“Andrey, I had meetings too. I got home at ten last night. Iron it yourself—the iron’s in the storage closet.”
He stared at me like I’d suggested he flap his arms and fly to the moon.
“I don’t know how to iron.”
“Then learn. Plug it in, wait until it heats up, press it to the fabric and move it.”
He snorted, grabbed another shirt, and slammed the closet door far harder than necessary.
Then Galina Petrovna started calling.
“Lenochka, Andryusha says you’ve completely neglected the house. That you served convenience food again for dinner?”
It wasn’t true. I’d made dumplings myself and froze them over the weekend so I could boil them quickly on workdays. But I didn’t have the energy to explain.
“Galina Petrovna, I’m working. I’m trying to keep up.”
“Sweet girl, but family is what matters. Work is work, but a man must be fed and satisfied. You don’t want Andryusha to feel abandoned, do you?”
After calls like that, I’d stand in the kitchen chopping vegetables for salad, tears running down my cheeks on their own. I was exhausted. I woke up before everyone, went to sleep after everyone, spun like a hamster on a wheel—and still got told I wasn’t trying hard enough.
Andrey grew more and more critical.
“Len, pasta again? Can’t you make something more filling?”
“Andrey, I cooked chicken in a cream sauce. With vegetables. What’s wrong with that?”
“I don’t know… it’s kind of bland. Mom cooked tastier.”
That’s when something inside me cracked. But I stayed quiet. Counted to ten. Cleared the table. Loaded the dishwasher.
“And why is the apartment such a mess?” he kept going. “Dust everywhere. Your papers are all over the coffee table.”
“They’re my work sketches. I was working on them last night because I didn’t finish at the office.”
“Then put them away! This place is impossible to live in!”
I looked at him and suddenly the picture snapped into focus: he was sprawled on the couch with his phone. Around him—his sneakers, his jacket tossed over a chair, his mug on the table. But the mess, naturally, was my fault.
“Andrey, could you clean up yourself?”
“Len, I’m tired after work. I need to rest.”
“And I’m not tired?”
“Well… your job is easier. I’m on my feet all day, dealing with clients, solving problems.”
I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. “Easier.” My work—creative, demanding, detail-heavy, mentally draining—was “easier.”
“You know what,” I said, forcing my voice to stay level, “let’s not do this.”
I went to the bathroom and locked the door. I sat on the edge of the tub and cried quietly, covering my mouth with my hand so he wouldn’t hear.
That was two weeks ago.
Today was the final straw.
I came home late—there’d been a project presentation and everyone stayed overtime. The moment I stepped inside, I heard voices in the kitchen.
Galina Petrovna. Again.
“Andryushenka, I know it’s hard for you,” she was saying. “A wife should create comfort, and she’s running around God knows where with her designs. Look at her—acting like some career woman!”
“Mom, what can I do?” Andrey muttered. “She won’t listen.”
“And are you a man or not?” Galina Petrovna pressed. “Tell her straight: either work or family. Let her choose.”
I stood in the hallway, clutching my bag. An ultimatum. Choose between the job that made me feel like myself, like I mattered… and “family.”
I walked into the kitchen. Galina Petrovna stopped mid-sentence. Andrey, guilty, set his cup aside.
“Good evening,” I said evenly.
“Lenochka, perfect timing!” my mother-in-law smiled too brightly. “I fried Andryusha’s favorite cutlets. With buckwheat. Sit down, eat.”
I glanced at the stove. There really was a pan of cutlets and a pot of buckwheat cooling beside it.
“Thank you, Galina Petrovna,” I said. “But I’m not hungry.”
“What do you mean, not hungry? You must’ve barely eaten all day!”
“We ordered food at the office.”
I went to the bedroom, changed clothes, and sat down with my laptop to finish polishing the presentation. Galina Petrovna clattered around in the kitchen for another hour, then finally left. Andrey watched TV. Around eleven, I closed my laptop and went to the kitchen—I needed to prep something for the next day.
The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes. The table wasn’t wiped. The stove was smeared with grease.
So she’d cooked, but she hadn’t cleaned. Why would she? There was a daughter-in-law for that.
I started washing dishes, and Andrey walked in.
“Len, can you make something normal tomorrow?” he asked. “Today Mom helped out, sure, but tomorrow I want your cooking.”
Your cooking. So Mom “helped,” and I “cook”—like a service.
“Your cooking,” I repeated, drying my hands slowly. “So Mom made an effort, and I’m just the kitchen staff.”
“Oh, don’t nitpick words,” he sighed. “I just like your food better. Will you make something?”
I set the towel down carefully.
“Andrey, what exactly do you want?”
“Well… maybe braised beef? Or baked fish? Something like that.”
“To make that, I have to come home from work, go shopping, then spend at least an hour and a half cooking. I’ll get home at seven tomorrow.”
“So what?” he shrugged. “Mom managed.”
“Your mother didn’t work, Andrey!” I snapped. “She was a homemaker!”
“There you go again—freaking out.” He rolled his eyes. “I just asked for a normal dinner!”
“A normal dinner!” My voice shook. “I make normal dinners every day—after eight hours at work, after running to the store, after hanging laundry and cleaning up the mess you and your mommy create!”
“Don’t talk about my mother like that!”
“And how should I talk about someone who lectures me every day about what a terrible wife I am?” I shot back. “Who turns her own son against me?”
“She’s not turning me against you! She’s worried about us!”
“About us? Or about your comfort?”
Andrey opened his mouth, but I didn’t let him interrupt.
“Do you know what I ate for lunch today? A vending-machine sandwich—because I didn’t have time for anything else. And do you know why? Because all morning I was fixing a project I worked on last night at home, because during the day I ran around buying groceries for the week, and in the evening I cooked, washed, and ironed—while you sat on the couch watching football!”
“I’m tired after work!”
“And I’m not?!”
Silence fell between us—heavy, thick, suffocating.
“You know what,” I said, and pulled the apron that still hung on its hook. “Cook for yourself. I’m not your maid anymore.”
And I threw it straight at his face.
I slammed the bedroom door behind me, fell onto the bed, and stared at the ceiling. Inside me, a storm raged—anger, hurt, and an odd sense of relief. I’d done it. I’d finally said what had been boiling inside me for months.
Andrey didn’t come into the bedroom. I heard him call his mother, complaining in an angry whisper. Then the front door slammed—he went to her, apparently.
Fine.
In the morning, I got up, got ready, and left for work without breakfast. I didn’t even step into the kitchen.
At the office, it was easier to breathe. My colleagues praised yesterday’s presentation. My boss hinted at a promotion. I smiled and nodded, while thinking: what happens now at home?
When I came back that evening around eight, the apartment was dark and silent. Andrey wasn’t there. In the kitchen, there was chaos: an empty pan in the sink, crumbs on the table, a half-eaten sandwich. So he’d tried to “make something” for himself.
I didn’t clean it.
I changed clothes, ordered sushi delivery, and sat down to work on a new project.
Andrey came home late, muttered a cold “hi,” and locked himself in the office we used as a guest room. He was sleeping there, apparently.
Two days passed like that. We barely spoke. I ordered food or cooked something simple—just for myself. He made sandwiches or ordered pizza.
On the third day, I came home and found Galina Petrovna in my kitchen again. She was hovering over the stove, making borscht.
“Oh, Lenochka,” she turned with a fake smile. “Don’t worry. I came to help Andryusha—since you’ve decided he should take care of himself.”
Her voice dripped with both reproach and smug satisfaction.
“Great,” I said calmly. “Thanks for taking care of him.”
And I went to shower, refusing to participate in her little performance.
After that, Galina Petrovna started coming regularly. She cooked—but every time she found a reason to jab at me: the towels were “wrong,” the fridge was “a mess,” the flowers weren’t watered.
I let it go in one ear and out the other.
My life suddenly became lighter. I came home from work and rested. I did my own things. No two-hour cooking marathons, no ironing until midnight.
Andrey grew gloomier by the day.
One evening, while I was reading in the bedroom, he knocked on the door.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, fidgeting, searching for words.
“Len… we can’t keep going like this.”
“I agree.”
“I… I want to apologize.”
I set my book aside and looked at him. He looked tired and genuinely lost.
“For what, exactly?” I asked.
“For not appreciating you. For taking it all for granted. You cooked, cleaned, washed, ironed—and I thought it was just… how it’s supposed to be. Like it’s easy.”
“It isn’t easy, Andrey.”
“I know.” He swallowed. “Mom comes and cooks, but… it’s not the same. She makes what she likes. I can’t stand her fried potatoes, but she makes them every other day. Her borscht is tomato-based, and I like mine with beets. She bakes pies with cabbage and egg, and I want meat and onions.”
I almost smiled. So the “perfect” mother-in-law wasn’t so perfect when he had to live by her rules.
“And also,” he continued, “she… she talks. About you. About what kind of person you are. And I realized it’s wrong. She’s my mother and I love her—but you’re my wife. I should’ve protected you, not nodded along.”
I stayed quiet, letting him finish.
“Lena, I’m sorry. Please. I was selfish. I demanded the impossible. You work just like I do, you come home tired just like I do… and somehow I still thought you should also carry the entire household alone. That’s not fair.”
“No,” I said softly. “It’s not.”
“Can we… start over?” he asked. “Can we make an agreement—something that works?”
I met his eyes. He seemed sincere. And I realized I still loved him. But I wasn’t going back to the old version of us.
“We can,” I said. “But on new terms.”
“What terms?”
“I’ll cook,” I said. “I actually like it, and I’m good at it. But I won’t do it every single day. Two or three times a week we order food. One day you cook. The rest—me.”
He nodded.
“And you’ll handle cleaning. Vacuuming, dusting, washing floors—and once a week, the bathroom.”
“Okay,” he said, swallowing hard.
“Laundry is split,” I continued. “I do delicate items, you do the rest. And each of us irons our own things.”
“Agreed.”
“And one last thing.” I paused. “Your mother does not get to criticize me. If she starts, you stop her. Immediately. It’s your responsibility to protect me from her attacks—even if they’re coming from your own mother.”
Andrey lowered his head.
“I understand. I’ll talk to her.”
“If you don’t,” I said evenly, “I will. And you won’t like how I do it.”
He gave a weak, nervous smile.
“Got it.”
We sat in silence for a moment. Then he reached out and carefully took my hand.
“I missed you,” he admitted. “So much.”
“I missed you too,” I confessed.
“Can I come back to our bedroom tonight?”
“You can,” I said. “But first go wash the dishes you’ve piled up for a week.”
He laughed for the first time in days and went to the kitchen.
I heard plates clink and water run. I got up and stood in the doorway. Andrey was at the sink in rubber gloves, scrubbing a pan with intense concentration.
“How do you even do this?” he muttered. “Seriously—how do you get it clean?”
“With a rough sponge,” I said, leaning on the frame. “And dish soap.”
“Oh. Right.”
He kept washing, and I watched him and thought: maybe this is what a real beginning looks like. Not perfection—but two people willing to change. Two people willing to meet each other halfway.
Half an hour later, we sat in the kitchen with tea. Andrey awkwardly tried to describe his week—how he’d attempted to cook for himself and kept burning eggs, how his mother had come every day, and how he’d realized he didn’t actually want “everything like before.” He wanted it fair.
“I really get it now, Len,” he said. “How much you did. I just… didn’t see it. It was normal to me—like the air. And then I spent one week trying to keep a house running and realized it’s work. Real work.”
“Yeah,” I said, taking a sip of tea. “Hard work. The kind nobody values until they try it themselves.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “And I’m sorry about my mom too. I’ll have a serious talk with her.”
“Do it,” I nodded. “And if it doesn’t help, I’ll handle it my way.”
He smirked, like he understood exactly what that meant.
“Message received.”
That night we slept wrapped around each other, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like things could be okay. Not instantly, not magically—but slowly, step by step, we could find a new balance.
And the apron with the red poppies? I washed it and hung it back on its hook. Let it stay there—as a reminder: I’m not a servant. I’m a partner. And I deserve respect.
The next morning Andrey woke up before me and made breakfast. The pancakes came out crooked, uneven—but they were made with love, and I ate them with real pleasure.
“Tasty?” he asked, unsure.
“Very,” I smiled. “You did great.”
He practically glowed—like a schoolboy praised by a teacher.
And I thought: maybe that’s how a family should be. Not one person carrying everything, while the other relaxes. But both sharing the joy and the responsibilities. Both valuing each other.
Two partners—not a master and a servant.
Two months passed. Galina Petrovna truly took our serious conversation to heart. She came rarely now, and—most importantly—without the snide remarks. Andrey vacuumed every Saturday, and he even learned to iron his own shirts. I cooked with pleasure, because it was no longer an obligation—it was a choice.
And one evening, as we sat in the kitchen with glasses of wine, Andrey said quietly:
“You know… I think we got closer. Like we met each other again.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Only this time, we actually know each other for real.”
He raised his glass.
“To us. To a new beginning.”
“To us,” I echoed.
We clinked glasses, and in that sound was a promise: we’ll manage. Together. As equals.
And the apron with the red poppies still hung in the kitchen—an everyday reminder of the day I finally found the strength to say, “Enough.” And I was right to do it.