One evening, as Zhanna prepared for a family visit, she smoothed her hair and surveyed the imposing structure of her husband Max’s parents’ residence. The expansive brick home always appeared excessive for just two seniors.
“All set?” Max inquired while retrieving their bags from the trunk of the car.
“Absolutely,” she replied with a forced smile. Fifteen years of marriage had taught her the art of concealing discomfort.
Irina Vasilievna opened the door, her appearance polished in a fresh housecoat.
“Oh, you’ve arrived! Maksimka, darling!” she exclaimed, embracing Max with affection while giving Zhanna a quick nod. “Hello, Zhanna.”
“Hi,” Zhanna greeted as she extended a box of chocolates.
“You shouldn’t have brought these; your father isn’t doing well with diabetes,” Irina commented, a hint of reproach in her tone.
Max remained silent, as per usual.
Pyotr Semyonovich, seated in the living room and absorbed in the news, acknowledged them with a nod before returning his attention to the television.
“Dinner is in an hour,” Irina announced. “Maksim, assist me in the kitchen while Zhanna rests.”
Rest? As if she were incapable of helping.
Zhanna retreated to the guest room, stashing her belongings in the closet and plopping down on the bed. She could overhear Max conversing with his mother through the wall—discussing mundane matters like work, neighbors, and health.
Why did they insist on these monthly visits? Was it merely a façade? Or did Max genuinely yearn for family connections?
“Zhannochka, come to the table!” Irina called out. The meal was as predictable as ever—chicken, potatoes, salad.
“Max mentioned you vacationed in Turkey again,” she began. “When we were younger, we spent our time at the dacha, tending to the land.”
“Times have changed,” Zhanna replied.
“Change is an understatement. Back then, family bonds held more significance than leisure activities.”
Zhanna felt her hands clench in frustration. Max continued to chew quietly, opting to remain mute.
“When do you plan to have children?” Pyotr Semyonovich inquired, glancing up from his meal. “Time is passing.”
“Dad, we’ve had this conversation,” Max muttered under his breath.
“Talk and talk, yet what progress has been made?”
Zhanna abruptly stood.
“Pardon me, I have a headache. I’m heading to bed early.”
Once in her room, she shut the door and sat on the bed, trembling hands betraying her internal turmoil. This scenario was all too familiar—subtle insinuations, rebukes, and laden glances.
Max entered thirty minutes later.
“What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing, just feeling drained.”
“They mean well. They’re just concerned about us.”
Concerned? Zhanna lay back and turned her back to him.
“Good night.”
Max undressed and quickly fell asleep beside her, snoring almost immediately.
As she lay awake, contemplating the inevitable sarcasm breakfast would bring the following day, she wondered if this pattern of living would continue indefinitely.
At 3 am, Zhanna woke to a parched mouth and a buzzing head. Next to her, Max snored, taking up the bed’s entirety.
She rose, donned a robe, and tiptoed to the kitchen for some water. A nightlight flickered in the hallway, and the floorboards cracked beneath her feet.
As she approached the kitchen, she paused at the sound of voices—her in-laws were deep in conversation.
“I can’t believe he’s putting up with that barren cow,” Irina Vasilievna spat, her voice dripping with disdain. “Fifteen years! No children, no worth.”
“Hush, they’ll hear you,” Pyotr Semyonovich cautioned gruffly.
“Let her hear! She should feel ashamed. Maksimka could have any woman he wants—handsome and affluent!”
Zhanna pressed herself against the wall, her heart racing wildly.
“What do you propose?”
“Talk to him tomorrow. Have a serious conversation. Men need to grasp that time doesn’t stretch indefinitely. At forty-three, there’s still an opportunity for a normal family.”
“And what about their apartment? The car?”
“The apartment is under Maksim’s name; we covered the down payment. The car is also his. She’ll only receive what she’s earned.”
Irina laughed derisively.
“That’s small potatoes—a miserable librarian.”
“Do you believe he’ll agree?”
“Naturally, as his mother, I know how to persuade him. The key is to present it correctly. Like, you’re unhappy, son, suffering with that… What’s her name again?”
“Zhanna.”
“Exactly, her. It’s time to unload the dead weight!”
Zhanna stood there in disbelief—dead weight. Fifteen years of effort, and she was merely dead weight in their eyes.
“And if he declines?”
“He won’t. Maksim always heeds my words.”
The sound of bags rustling and dishes clattering filled the kitchen.
“All right, time for bed. A grand day awaits tomorrow.”
Zhanna dashed to the bathroom, locked the door, and sat on the toilet lid, concealing her face within her hands.
Dead weight. A barren cow.
For fifteen years, she had given her all—cooked for festive occasions, bestowed gifts, and endured countless insinuations. And now, they planned to discard her as one would old furniture.
And Max would comply. Why wouldn’t he? He had never disobeyed his mother.
Zhanna returned to her room, where Max still lay sprawled, snoring. She climbed into bed, cocooned herself in the blanket, and awaited dawn’s arrival.
At seven, she arose, dressed, and started packing her belongings. The noise of her hurried movements stirred Max awake.
“Zhanna, why are you up so early?”
“I’m heading home.”
“Home? We’re meant to stay until the evening.”
“I want to leave. Now.”
Max sat upright, rubbing his eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong. I simply want to go home.”
“And my parents? They will be upset.”
“Your parents,” Zhanna echoed, grabbing her bag.
“Tell them I said hello and make sure to mention my headache.”
“I’ll join you.”
“No. Stay. Spend time with your family.”
In the hallway, she donned her jacket, removing her phone to order a taxi.
“Zhannochka, where are you off to?” Irina Vasilievna emerged from the kitchen. “Breakfast is served.”
“I’m leaving. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“But why the early departure?”
Zhanna studied her, taking in the displayed surprise and feigned concern.
“I have errands to attend to at home.”
Ten minutes later, her taxi arrived. Zhanna sank into the back seat, eyes closing as she began to drift away.
The dead weight is casting you aside on its own.
Once home, Zhanna brewed a strong cup of tea and settled at the kitchen table. The apartment felt oddly silent. Typically, they shared evening meals and headed directly to bed, exhausted.
However, it was Saturday morning, and she found herself alone at eleven o’clock.
Her phone rang. It was Max.
“Zhanna, did you make it back alright?”
“I did.”
“What’s up? Mom believes you were acting strangely.”
Strange. Zhanna chuckled quietly.
“Everything’s well. How are your parents faring?”
“They’re fine… Hey, I’ll come by tonight. We need a real chat.”
“Okay.”
She ended the call, surveying their shared apartment. Together, they had chosen wallpaper and furnishings, but the down payment had come from Max’s parents. So, by their reasoning, the apartment wasn’t hers.
Zhanna rose, fetched a folder of documents, and examined their titles—marriage certificate, property papers. Everything was under both their names.
Another deception from the old hag.
On Monday, she took a leave from work and visited a lawyer—a young woman around thirty, dressed casually in jeans and a sweater.
“Are you looking to file for divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Children involved?”
“No.”
“Expecting any disputes over property?”
Zhanna paused in thought.
“Perhaps.”
“Then the case will need to be presented in court. We will file a motion and you will be notified about the hearing. If your husband disagrees, there may be multiple sessions.”
“And if he agrees?”
“It will be expedited. One and a half to two months, and that’s it.”
Zhanna completed the paperwork and settled the filing fee, feeling an inexplicable release, as if a heavy backpack had been lifted from her shoulders.
Max arrived that evening around eight, looking weary and irritable.
“What a day… Mom’s been relentless, insisting you screamed at her.”
“I didn’t yell.”
“Then what? Why did you storm off?”
Zhanna placed a bowl of borscht before him.
“Max, do you love me?”
He nearly choked on his food.
“What’s with the sudden inquiries?”
“Just curious. Do you love me?”
“Of course I do. We’ve been together for fifteen years.”
“That’s not an answer. Habit can manifest over fifteen years.”
Max set down his spoon, agitated.
“Zhan, what’s happening? You’ve been… different for two days.”
“So answer the question.”
“Well… I do love you. So what?”
“How would you respond if your parents suggested divorce?”
Max’s demeanor shifted as he averted his gaze.
“That’s absurd. Why would they?”
“And if they do?”
“They won’t.”
“Max, I’m asking—what would YOU say?”
Silence enveloped the room, with Max crumpling a napkin in his grip.
“Zhan, why bring this up? We were fine just two days ago, and now… what’s changed?”
Zhanna stood her ground.
“No changes occurred. I merely came to a realization.”
“Realization about what?”
“That I’ve played the fool for fifteen years.”
She retrieved the documents folder from the bedroom and placed the divorce petition on the table.
Max paled as he skimmed the contents.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“On the contrary. I finally see things with clarity.”
“Why? Because of my mother? She didn’t mean any harm!”
“I realize that. She didn’t intend harm. She merely regards me as dead weight.”
Max stood frozen, processing her words.
“How did you overhear my family’s strategy session?”
“I overheard everything during the kitchen conversations last night.”
“Zhan, it’s not as you perceive… ”
“How is it then?”
He fell into silence, turning the divorce proceeding paper over in his hands.
“Say something,” Zhanna urged, sitting across from him.
Max returned the document to the table.
“Mom really did suggest the need for children. That time is running out.”
“And did she not mention the dead weight?”
“Zhan, she’s old. She often spouts foolishness.”
“And what was your response?”
Max rubbed his forehead anxiously.
“I… didn’t say anything.”
“Exactly. As per usual.”
Zhanna poured herself a cup of tea, her hands steady. Peculiarly, she lacked the anticipated hysteria or tears; instead, calmness settled within her.
“For fifteen years, I anticipated you would finally assert yourself with them,” she remarked. “That you would proclaim I’m your wife, not a temporary visitor.”
“They’re accustomed to being in charge…”
“And you’ve always followed their lead, pushing me to comply.”
Max lost his temper.
“I never compelled you to comply! I simply dislike conflict.”
“Conflict?” Zhanna scoffed. “It’s called standing up for your spouse. Instead, you preferred I stayed mute.”
“What do we do now? You can’t undo what’s happened.”
“There’s nothing to resolve. It’s already settled.”
Max clutched the petition fiercely.
“I will not sign this!”
“You’re not required to. The court will grant the divorce.”
“Zhan, regain your composure! Where will you go? What will you do?”
“I’m uncertain. But I’ll figure it out without you three.”
Max paced the kitchen, arms flailing wildly.
“This is madness! To shatter a family over an old woman’s remarks!”
“Family?” Zhanna interjected bluntly. “What family exists, Max? Where do you perceive a family?”
“Well, we… we coexist…”
“Coexist. Like roommates in a crowded apartment. You work, I work. We greet each other in the evenings to watch television, and on weekends, we visit your parents, feigning gratitude for their tolerance.”
Max muttered, lost in thought.
“What’s so wrong with that? It’s a normal existence.”
“Normal for you. I’m weary of being a nonentity.”
The phone buzzed again—Irina Vasilievna’s name flashing.
“Do NOT answer,” Max implored.
Zhanna picked up the call.
“Hello.”
“Zhannochka, my dear! Is Maksimka home? I was reaching out to learn how things are going.”
“Things are unchanged. I’m filing for divorce from your son.”
Silence lingered on the line. Then came the stunned response:
“What? What are you asserting?”
“What you wished to hear. I am freeing myself for you.”
“Zhanna, I’m not grasping…”
“You will. Send my regards to Pyotr Semyonovich.”
She disconnected the call, gazing at Max’s horrified expression.
“Why on earth did you reveal it?”
“What’s the point in concealment? Let her rejoice.”
Shortly after, Irina Vasilievna bolted into their apartment, bursting through the door without a knock.
“What on Earth is happening? Maksim, clarify this immediately!”
“Not now, Mom…”
“Zhanna!” she turned towards her. “What game are you playing? Have you lost your sanity?”
Calmly, Zhanna seated herself at the table.
“On the contrary, I have regained my senses.”
“Over what? Did Maksim mistreat you?”
“Maksim neglected me; you were arranging my dismissal.”
Irina flushed in indignation.
“Who imparted this to you?”
“You did, last night in the kitchen.”
“You were eavesdropping?”
“I was parched and merely seeking water. I caught your conversation.”
“Zhannochka, you took this in the wrong context. My concern is Maksim—he’s in distress…”
“That’s sufficient, Mom,” Max interjected sharply.
Irina blinked in surprise.
“What do you mean, sufficient?”
“Sufficient with the falsehoods! Yes, you wished for us to separate. And yes, I kept silent. Like I always do.”
“Maksim!”
“And now Zhanna has made a choice for herself. It’s the correct decision.”
Surprised by her husband’s assertiveness for the first time in fifteen years, Zhanna felt a mix of hope and apprehension.
“But it’s too late now,” she added, gently
Max nodded, his resolve firm.
“I comprehend.”
Irina darted between them.
“You’re both deranged! Zhanna, I apologize if I overstepped!”
“Thank you. However, my decision stands.”
After a month, the divorce was finalized in court. The apartment was equally divided, and Zhanna sold her share to Max, providing enough funds for a small studio in a different area.
The new apartment, though modest, was suffused with light. Zhanna arranged flowers on the windowsill and hung her own photographs.
For the first time in years, she pursued her desires—watching films she loved, dining when it suited her, without facing any condemnation.
Max attempted to reach out in the weeks that followed, requesting her return and promising to discuss matters with his parents. Zhanna’s responses remained polite yet brief. Eventually, the calls ceased.
Friends expressed disbelief—how could she leave a well-to-do spouse? Zhanna’s reasoning was simple: wealth did not equate to respect.
At the age of forty-one, she embarked on a new chapter devoid of her mute father-in-law, her unrelenting mother-in-law, and her indecisive husband.
Was it challenging? Yes. Was she lonely at times? Absolutely.
Yet, for the first time in years, Zhanna was not dead weight—she was just being herself, and that was invaluable, irrespective of the struggles it might entail.