“—or paying for it.”
Victoria stepped around him and tossed her bag onto the couch. She did not even have the strength left to be angry. Inside her, there was only a dull, steady hum. Everything had begun repeating itself: the same arguments, the same accusations, the same tired phrase—“you understand, don’t you?” And she did understand one thing perfectly: her home had stopped feeling like home a long time ago.
The next morning, she had barely finished brewing coffee when the front door flew open. No knock. No doorbell.
Nancy appeared on the threshold as if arriving for battle, carrying a grocery bag and wearing the satisfied expression of someone who had already declared victory.
“Victoria, I bought chicken! We’ll roast it here. Your oven works better.”
“Couldn’t you do that at your place?” Victoria asked evenly, lifting her mug.
“Our place is cramped. Here, everyone will be comfortable. Ethan, tell her.”
Ethan was already standing in the kitchen doorway, his tie crooked, his face worn out.
“Victoria, Mom said—”
“Ethan.” She looked at him in such a way that even the cat made the wise decision to vanish under the bed. “There will be no guests. We already discussed this.”
Nancy released a theatrical sigh.
“It’s always the same with you. I think about the family, and you think only about yourself.”
“At least someone does,” Victoria said quietly, and took a sip of coffee.
By evening, all she wanted was silence. Instead, three well-dressed women were waiting near the stairwell, holding bouquets and a cake.
“We’re here for Nancy! She’s celebrating!” they announced cheerfully.
Victoria went upstairs. When she opened her apartment door, she froze.
The place was buzzing. Laughter, the smell of sparkling wine, bowls of salad, Nancy in a new dress, Ethan filling glasses.
“Have you lost your minds?” Victoria shouted.
“You always come home late anyway,” Nancy said without blinking. “So we figured we might as well gather here.”
Victoria slowly took off her coat, set down her bag, and straightened her shoulders.
“Then everyone leaves. Right now. The party is over.”
“What are you doing?” Ethan hissed.
“Taking out the trash,” Victoria replied, throwing his jacket toward him. “We’ll start with you.”
Nancy went pale.
“Victoria, that is rude!”
“No,” Victoria said. “That is order. Everyone has their own home. Yours is not here.”
The guests stood motionless for a second, exchanged startled looks, then began gathering their things in a hurry. Five minutes later, the door closed behind the last of them.
Ethan remained in the entryway, white-faced and bewildered.
“You’re insane,” he whispered.
“No, Ethan. I have simply taken back my own home.”
She pulled out his suitcase and placed it at his feet.
“Pack. Tonight.”
And for the first time in a very long while, the air in the apartment felt light.
He stood in the middle of the room, looking around as though he expected the scene to dissolve into a bad dream. But the suitcase was already open, and his belongings—those things that had lived for years in the closet and still carried the faint scent of their old life—went into it one after another. Victoria packed calmly. No screaming. No accusations. Her face held the same expression a person might wear while throwing away expired yogurt: unpleasant, but necessary.
An hour later, everything was quiet. The suitcase disappeared along with its owner, the door clicked shut, and the apartment seemed to pause, waiting for a new kind of silence to settle in.