"Freeloader"

"You know, dear, Mom is right. You're a freeloader—go get a job!"
Ilya barked at his stunned wife. He slammed the table with such force that a spoon clattered to the floor.

Svetlana froze. For a moment, she couldn’t even blink. A wave of disbelief passed through her, followed by the rising tide of something hotter—anger, confusion, humiliation.

Freeloader.

The word echoed inside her skull like a gunshot.

She was the one covering the mortgage. Paying the utilities—water, gas, electricity. Even Ilya’s cell phone bill came out of the interest on her savings. She cleaned. She cooked. She made the home feel like a place worth returning to.

And this was what she got in return?

Before they got married, Svetlana had dreamed of being a homemaker. She’d worked hard in finance for over a decade, saved responsibly, and at 33 decided she’d had enough. She wanted to live on her terms. Focus on what mattered to her—health, peace, domestic life. She had earned that freedom.

Ilya, seven years younger, had married her for reasons she now began to question. Perhaps it wasn’t love after all—but security, convenience. Her stability. Her money.

And apparently, now he had forgotten a few key facts—like whose apartment his sweet, judgmental mother, Irina Arnoldovna, was comfortably living in. Or who had been providing shelter during his ongoing "rough patch."

Svetlana stood still for another moment, breathing evenly.

"Alright, darling," she finally said, her voice calm and icy.

“So you think I’m a freeloader,” she repeated slowly, as if tasting the word.

Ilya, sensing something shift in the air—perhaps the chill from the hallway draft—shrugged awkwardly. “Well… I mean, what else do you call it? Money’s tight. You’re always home. I’m the one working.”

"So... you have little."

She tilted her head and met his eyes, expression unreadable.

Ah. So the boy wants to play head of the family now.
She smiled to herself.

“Fine, Ilyusha. You’ll have more money. Just wait.”

She turned on her heels, reached for her phone, and calmly ordered a taxi.

“Where are you going?” Ilya asked, a note of unease creeping into his voice.

“For money,” Svetlana replied with disarming serenity. “Exactly what you want.”

She closed the door behind her without slamming it. But the click was louder than thunder.

---

Inside the cab, Svetlana sat with one hand tapping her nails rhythmically on her phone screen. The driver gave her a sideways glance—she looked calm, but something about her screamed detonated.

Freeloader.

She had given his mother a place in the city—rent-free—fulfilling her wish to escape village life in her old age. She endured endless complaints about weather, her health, and the supposedly “tasteless” city water. And now she had to listen to this?

“Time to see a realtor,” she muttered. “You can wait outside.”

Ten minutes later, Svetlana walked briskly into a real estate office called "Your Home." The name felt ironically fitting.

The receptionist, a young woman with a too-bright smile, greeted her.

“Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

“I need tenants. Urgently. Students, even. A cat is fine. I don’t care. I just want someone who’ll pay for a few months in advance.”

“Fifth office down the hall,” the girl chirped. “Igor handles rentals.”

Svetlana nodded and walked past without another word.

---

Igor, a realtor in his early thirties with a coffee-stained tie, was all business. Once Svetlana explained what she wanted, he jumped into action.

“Location, size, preferences?” he asked while typing rapidly.

“Two-bedroom. Furnished. Central heating. No renovations needed. I just want paying tenants by tomorrow.”

“I have some clients in mind—students. Well-behaved ones, I think. Might be just what you’re looking for. We’ll just need to sign an agreement.”

“Let’s do it.”

She signed the documents without hesitation.

“Expect a call by tomorrow morning,” Igor assured. “But I’ll try to close today.”

“Great.”

She offered him a nod and left the office without glancing back.

---

Half an hour later, Svetlana was at the apartment door. The apartment she had generously offered to her mother-in-law. Now, that generosity had an expiration date.

Irina Arnoldovna opened the door in a faded housecoat with blue flowers, hair in curlers, and a faint odor of boiling borscht drifting from the kitchen.

“Svetlana? What a surprise! Why didn’t you call first? Is something wrong? You don’t look like yourself.”

Svetlana smiled faintly. “Actually, everything’s quite clear.”

She stepped inside without being invited.

“The borscht’s almost ready,” Irina Arnoldovna added, sensing something ominous.

“No need. Please pack your things. Your stay here is over.”

The older woman blinked rapidly, her lips parting in shock.

“What do you mean? You told me I could stay as long as I wanted! I even bought a wardrobe for my things. What happened?”

“I remember what I said,” Svetlana replied coolly. “But circumstances change. Ilya says we’re low on money. He says I’m a freeloader. So I’ve decided to increase our income. This apartment will be rented out starting tomorrow.”

“But—where will I go?” Irina Arnoldovna stammered.

“To your home. The one you left behind. The driver’s waiting downstairs.”

Without missing a beat, Svetlana began packing the woman’s belongings into large garbage bags. Pillows, slippers, potted plants—everything.

Moments later, a man arrived at the door with a toolbox.

“Quick repairs?” he asked.

“Yes, locksmith service?” Svetlana opened the door wider. “Come in.”

As he began drilling out the old lock, Irina Arnoldovna finally found her voice.

“Svetochka, this is madness! I have begonias here! And the borscht—what will I do with the borscht?!”

“Take it with you. And the begonias too. They’ll bloom just as well in the village.”

“Please be reasonable!”

“I am being reasonable,” Svetlana said, checking her watch. “And practical. That’s what your son wanted, wasn’t it?”

The locksmith finished replacing the lock. Irina was still in the hallway, holding a plastic bag with her hair curlers inside, utterly stunned.

---

When Svetlana got home, Ilya was slouched on the couch, face pale. His mother had already called.

“So where were you?” he asked, his voice low and accusatory.

“I was looking for money,” Svetlana said, hanging up her coat. “And I found it. The apartment is being rented out starting tomorrow. Congratulations—your wish has come true.”

“What? You kicked out my mother?! Where did you send her?”

“She’s on her way to the village. Her things are in the back of a taxi headed to her house—well, unless she convinces a cousin to take her in.”

Ilya shot up. “You’re insane! That’s my mother! She’s elderly!”

“She’s strong enough to insult me daily and finish a pot of borscht solo,” Svetlana said. “She’ll survive.”

“We can’t live like this!”

“We can—on a budget, as you suggested. Starting tomorrow, you’ll walk to work. No more takeout—lunches in Tupperware. No beer after work, no pizza nights. Just porridge. And cabbage. Until things ‘improve.’”

“You’re punishing me!”

“I’m implementing your financial advice.”

Ilya sat down heavily, rubbing his temples.

“Svetlana… you’re a monster.”

She leaned in, eyes like stone. “No. I’m a freeloader, remember?”

---

Outside, Irina Arnoldovna sat in the taxi, frantically dialing relatives.

“Lyuba, please! Just for a few days?”

“Two-room for three people already, Aunt Ira. Sorry.”

“Alochka? You’re going to Turkey?! I like the sea too!”

She huffed, cursed under her breath, begged, and threatened—but the taxi driver didn’t care. His fare was paid, and his time was ticking.

Finally, after exhausting every number in her address book, she gave up and told the driver to take her to the village.

---

Ilya lasted another week. He tried to sulk, argued once or twice—but porridge and cold stares wore him down.

Eventually, he packed his things.

On his way out, he looked at Svetlana and asked one final question.

“Why did it all end up like this?”

Svetlana didn’t flinch.

“So you don’t upset your aunt,” she said dryly. “Now run along.”

She closed the door behind him.

And for the first time in a long while, no one called her a freeloader.

And it was blissfully quiet.