On Sunday mornings, the apartment usually woke slowly, as if reluctant to leave the calm of night. Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, and dust motes floated lazily in the air. Mira liked those hours best. They were the only time of the week when nothing demanded her attention yet. There were no deadlines, no phone calls, and no expectations.
She was standing at the stove, whisking eggs in a bowl, when she heard the familiar shuffle of footsteps in the hallway.
“Morning,” Artyom said, his voice thick with sleep as he wandered into the kitchen. “What are we having?”
“Omelet. Mushrooms, tomatoes. Coffee’s almost ready,” Mira replied, smiling out of habit as she poured the eggs into the pan.
He came up behind her, rested his hands on her shoulders, and leaned down to kiss her temple.
“You really are the queen of this house, you know that?” he said lightly.
Something in his tone made her pause. It was not affection. It was anticipation, the kind that always preceded news she would not like.
“What’s going on?” she asked, turning slightly.
“Nothing serious,” Artyom said with a shrug, avoiding her eyes. “My mom and my sister are thinking of stopping by. For lunch.”
Mira exhaled slowly.
“Today?”
“Around one or two. And…” He hesitated. “Lena will bring the kids.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and counted silently. Lena’s twins were seven now. They were loud, restless, and completely unmanageable. After their visits, the apartment always looked as if a small tornado had passed through.
“I’ll need to go to the store,” Mira said evenly. “There won’t be enough food.”
“You know how much Mom loves your cooking,” Artyom said quickly, trying to hug her again.
She stepped aside, pretending to reach for a towel.
The truth was that his mother, Galina Sergeyevna, rarely missed an opportunity to criticize her meals. The soup was bland. The meat was overcooked. The salad was “too modern.” Mira had long stopped taking it personally, or so she told herself.
By two o’clock, the apartment was spotless. The table was set. The oven filled the kitchen with the comforting aroma of roasted potatoes and herbs. A honey cake, Galina Sergeyevna’s favorite, waited patiently in the refrigerator.
The doorbell rang at exactly 2:10.
“Mirочка!” Galina Sergeyevna burst inside, already speaking loudly as she removed her coat. “You look thin. Are you eating at all?”
Before Mira could respond, Lena entered with the twins. They rushed past everyone straight into the living room, shoes still on.
“Shoes, please,” Mira called after them.
“Oh, let them be,” Galina Sergeyevna said with a dismissive wave. “Children shouldn’t be constrained all the time.”
Mira pressed her lips together as muddy footprints appeared on the light rug she had cleaned that morning.
“What did you make?” Lena asked, peering into the oven. “Oh, potatoes? Mom, remember the casserole I made last week? Everyone loved it.”
“Of course I remember,” Galina Sergeyevna said proudly. “Mira, you really should learn from Lena. She has a natural talent.”
A crash echoed from the living room.
“Artyom, could you check on the boys?” Mira asked.
“Let them play,” he replied without looking up from his phone. “They’re fine.”
“You’re too strict, Mira,” Galina Sergeyevna added. “A home should feel alive, not like a museum.”
The comment stung more than Mira expected. She said nothing.
Lunch dragged on. Advice flowed freely. Comparisons were made. The twins chased each other around the table and knocked over a vase. Artyom laughed along with them, oblivious to the tightness growing in Mira’s chest.
“We were thinking,” Galina Sergeyevna said as she sliced herself another piece of cake, “maybe we should start gathering here every Sunday.”
Mira froze.
“Every Sunday?”
“Why not?” Lena chimed in. “You have space, and the kids love it here.”
Another crash followed. Something ceramic this time. Mira knew immediately what it was. The figurine she had brought back from Florence.
“Artyom?” His mother turned to him. “Isn’t that a lovely idea?”
“Of course,” he said easily. “Right, Mira?”
She set her cup down carefully.
“I don’t think I want that,” she said quietly.
Galina Sergeyevna blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I work all week,” Mira replied. “I need at least one day to rest.”
“Rest from what?” Lena scoffed. “From walking around the apartment?”
The silence that followed was thick.
“Let’s talk later,” Artyom said quickly.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Galina Sergeyevna snapped. “A family sticks together. And you, Mira, are becoming selfish.”
That night, as Mira swept up the broken pieces of the figurine, Artyom stood behind her with his hands in his pockets.
“You embarrassed me today,” he said.
“I said I was tired.”
“You’re a wife, not a guest!” he snapped. “You have responsibilities.”
The words landed like a slap.
“To whom?” she whispered. “To your family, but not to myself?”
The next morning, he informed her that his family was coming again. She nodded.
“I won’t be cooking.”
Sunday arrived. Mira stayed in the bedroom with a book while the sounds of chaos drifted in from the kitchen. Pots clanged. Voices rose.
“She’s resting,” Artyom explained awkwardly.
“Resting?!” Galina Sergeyevna thundered. “While guests are here?”
Mira turned the page.
An hour later, the door slammed.
“Satisfied?” Artyom asked bitterly. “You humiliated me.”
Mira looked at him calmly.
“I finally understand something,” she said. “I will always come last.”
She packed that evening.
“I’m leaving,” she told him.
“Where will you go?”
“To my friend Vera’s.”
He begged. He promised. She left anyway.
Vera welcomed her without questions.
For the first time in years, Mira slept deeply.
The messages came next. Accusations. Pleas. She ignored them.
A week later, Artyom appeared at her office.
“I’ll talk to my mother,” he promised.
“Too late,” Mira said.
She filed for divorce.
Three months later, she moved into a small apartment of her own. It was not grand, but it was quiet. It was hers.
One evening, her phone buzzed.
“I miss you. Can we try again?”
She deleted the message.
As the moonlight filled the room, Mira smiled softly. For the first time, she was not living for approval.
She was living for herself.
And that, she realized, was freedom.
