Daria was sitting on the sofa in their small one-room apartment, lost in a book, when Igor returned from work. He looked tense, distant, weighed down by something unsaid. Hanging his jacket, he poured himself a glass of water and stood by the window for a long moment, staring out at the evening city, the lights blurred by exhaustion—or worry.

“Dar, we need to talk,” he said finally, taking a seat beside her.

“About what?” she asked, setting the book down and turning toward him.

“About my mother. She’s getting worse. The doctors say she needs constant care… someone has to be there. She lives alone in her three-bedroom apartment, and it’s getting harder for her to manage herself.”

Daria frowned. Valentina Petrovna had indeed complained about her health lately, but she had always managed on her own—until now.

“And what do you propose?” Daria asked cautiously.

“Let’s move in with her,” Igor said, taking her hand. “Think about it—she has space, a three-bedroom apartment. It’ll be more comfortable for us. And we can rent out our place—you’d have steady income every month. Thirty thousand, maybe more.”

“To live with my mother-in-law?” Daria recoiled slightly. “Igor… do you even realize how bad of an idea this is?”

“Why? Mom’s fine. She’s not difficult. She just needs support. That’s it. A little supervision. Nothing more. And we get better conditions and some extra money too.”

Daria fell silent, considering the proposal. From a financial perspective, it made sense. Their tiny apartment felt cramped, especially when guests visited, and Valentina Petrovna’s place was spacious and in a nice neighborhood.

“Are you sure she even wants this?” Daria asked carefully.

“Of course! She asked for it herself. Let’s just try. If it doesn’t work out, we can always go back.”

After long discussions and repeated promises that the “supervision would be minimal,” Daria gave in. Igor’s words painted such a convincing picture that refusing felt almost foolish. A week later, they packed and moved into Valentina Petrovna’s apartment.

At first, the mother-in-law greeted them warmly, fussing around, showing them where their things would go, which room was theirs. It seemed harmless. Daria even relaxed, thinking she had worried for nothing.

But reality hit hard on the third day.

“Daryushka, honey, help me to the bathroom,” Valentina Petrovna called one morning.

Daria set down her coffee and helped her mother-in-law. Then came the next request: “Help me bathe.”

Daria froze. She had not expected to bathe an adult. Saying no was impossible.

And then the nightmare began. Valentina Petrovna was not just “in need of light supervision”—she demanded constant care. Daria was cooking three meals a day for three people, feeding her mother-in-law, helping her dress, changing bedding, bathing her every evening.

Igor acted as if nothing unusual was happening. He came home, ate, sat in front of the TV, and relaxed. When Daria asked for help, he shrugged. “I’m tired,” he said. “Tomorrow’s a busy day.” Or, “Mom needs female care.”

“Igor, at least help change her underwear!” Daria pleaded one night.

“Dar, that’s a woman’s job,” he shrugged. “You’ll manage.”

Daria worked from nine to six as a manager in a construction company. Exhausted, she returned home each evening not for rest, but to a second shift—cooking, cleaning, washing, attending to Valentina Petrovna. By ten o’clock, she collapsed in exhaustion, yet could never rest fully.

“Daryushka!” came a voice from the mother-in-law’s room. “Bring me some water!”
“Daryushka, I’m too hot! Open the window!”
“Daryushka, it’s cold! Close the window!”

Every evening became an endless sprint from room to room. Daria felt her strength drain, her nerves fraying. She tried speaking to Igor, explaining she couldn’t keep up, that she needed help. He waved her off.

“You’re exaggerating. Mom’s not that demanding. It just seems like a lot of work to you.”

“Seems like it?!” Daria wanted to cry from exhaustion. “Igor, I just spent an hour bathing your mother, cooking, cleaning, running back to her again! I haven’t even had a moment to sit down!”

“Well, then manage your time better,” he shrugged, returning to his football game.

She barely recognized the man she had married three years ago. The attentive, caring Igor was gone. This man was cold, indifferent, using her as a free servant and caregiver for his mother.

One night, as Daria drifted toward sleep, a loud, sharp voice pierced the apartment:

“Daria! Daria, come here immediately!”

She bolted upright. Heart pounding. Something serious had happened, surely? Her mother-in-law?

She ran to Valentina Petrovna’s room.

“What is it? Are you okay?”

“Change my sheets,” her mother-in-law said impatiently. “I spilled tea. Can’t sleep.”

Daria froze. One-thirty in the morning. She had slept barely an hour after washing dishes and folding laundry. And now she was being woken for spilled tea?

“Maybe we can do it in the morning,” Daria said, trying to reason. “I can put a towel down…”

“What towel? Do you want me to lie on it all night? Quickly!”

Her fists clenched so tightly her nails cut into her palms. Silently, methodically, she fetched clean sheets and remade the bed, her rage burning inside. Valentina Petrovna hovered, nitpicking every detail.

Daria said nothing. Words would have unleashed a storm she’d regret. She finished, left the room, and went to the bedroom. Igor was sprawled across the bed, unmoving.

She shook his shoulder lightly.

“Igor. Wake up.”

“What?” He opened one eye lazily.

“Do you think I’ll wash your mother’s sheets and stay quiet?” Daria said softly, but every word cut like steel.

Igor frowned and tried to close his eyes again.

“Dar, why bring this up in the middle of the night? We’ll talk in the morning.”

“No. Now. Your mother just woke me at one-thirty to change her sheets. She spilled tea. Your mother, Igor. Not mine.”

He finally sat up, rubbing his face.

“And what do you want from me? Mom is a woman, you’re a woman—it’s women’s work. I don’t interfere. You’ll manage.”

Something inside Daria snapped. She looked at him, incredulous.

“Not convenient for you?” she repeated. “And for me, it is? I didn’t sign up to be a caregiver for your mother.”

“Daria, don’t start. She needs help…”

“Then help her yourself!” she shouted. “She’s your mother, Igor! Not mine! I’m done.”

“This is women’s work, I said…”

“No,” Daria interrupted. “This is your responsibility. You lied about ‘light supervision,’ and turned me into free help!”

“You’re exaggerating!”

“No. I’m not.”

She turned, grabbed her suitcase, and began packing methodically. Igor stared, speechless.

“What are you doing?”

Silently, she continued—shirts, jeans, dresses—everything into the bag. He leapt up:

“Daria, are you insane? At night? Where will you go?”

“To my parents,” she said, clipped.

“Stop! Let’s talk calmly!”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

He tried grabbing a sweater from her hands.

“Stop! You’re my wife! We should stick together! Mom is sick, you can’t abandon us!”

Daria looked him in the eye:

“Your mother needs help? Great. You help her. Bathe her, feed her, change her sheets. I’m done.”

“But I’m a man! It’s awkward!”

“And I’m supposed to be fine?” she shot back, smirking. “I have self-respect, Igor. I won’t spend my life serving you and your mother.”

“Daria, think about what you’re doing! You’re destroying our family!”

“No,” she said, zipping her suitcase. “You destroyed it. When you lied about moving in. When you dumped all the work onto me. When you assumed I’d quietly serve.”

He grabbed her hands.

“Daria, don’t do this! I was wrong! I’ll help! Just don’t go!”

She freed herself, picked up the suitcase, and left.

“Do you know what’s the worst part?” she said as she crossed the hallway. “You still don’t understand your mistake. You don’t regret using me—you regret that now you have to take care of your mother yourself.”

She left, locked the door behind her, and called a taxi. Twenty minutes later, she stood on her parents’ doorstep.

“Daria? What happened?” her father asked, worried.

“Can I stay here for a while?” she asked.

“Of course, come in, darling,” he said, taking her suitcase.

Her mother appeared from the bedroom:

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just… need to be here for a bit.”

They didn’t ask questions. They laid out a blanket and pillow on the sofa. Daria collapsed onto it, feeling the tension of weeks finally drain away.

The next morning, Igor called repeatedly. Daria ignored him. Messages followed—pleading, apologizing, promising to make it right.

“Daria, I was wrong. Please come back. I’ll care for Mom myself. You won’t have to do anything. Just return.”

She didn’t believe a word. She knew Igor too well—if she went back, it would repeat. Promises would remain empty. She would again be a servant in his house.

Within a week, she retrieved her one-room apartment from tenants who understood and vacated early. Standing in her own home, Daria felt an overwhelming relief. Her space. Her rules. No more midnight demands.

Two weeks later, she filed for divorce. A month later, she signed the papers. Igor did not attempt reconciliation. There were no shared possessions, no children, nothing to divide.

Outside the registry office, Daria breathed deeply. She was free—free from manipulation, from endless obligations, from being used.

Igor stood silently, scowling, then left without a word.

Daria returned home, made tea, and sat by the window. Her life was hers again. No one would wake her at night. No one would demand care. She belonged to herself.

A month later, a friend told her that Igor had hired a professional caregiver for his mother, paying her a fair wage. Daria smiled. He had learned, finally, that caring for a sick adult is hard work—work that deserves respect, or payment.

And Daria? She returned to her life—work, friends, hobbies, freedom. No guilt. No compromises. No exploitation.

She had saved herself, her dignity, her life—and it was the best investment she had ever made.