Chapter 1 - The Boiling Point in the Kitchen
The kitchen clock ticked mercilessly, its minute hand dragging like dead weight. It was half past seven on a Friday evening, and Alexandra had already been standing over the blazing hot stove for three agonizing hours. Her feet throbbed in her worn shoes, her lower back ached with a dull, persistent cramp, and the smell of fried meat and simmering broth clung heavily to her clothes and hair.
First came the soup. Galina Artemovna had demanded borscht because nine-year-old Yegor loved it. In this suffocating household, Yegor’s whimsical food preferences carried more legislative weight than the collective opinions of the tax-paying adults. Then came the meat patties. Lyubov, the sister-in-law who treated the apartment like a luxury hotel where she never paid for room service, refused to eat borscht made with beef and demanded pork instead. Apparently, keeping everyone happy meant Alexandra had to cook two completely different meals simultaneously.
To top it all off, halfway through preparation, they discovered there was no bread left. Galina Artemovna had barked an order across the hallway: “Sasha, run down to the shop, we’re out of bread!” Alexandra had dropped her spatula, sprinted down five flights of stairs, rushed back up with a heavy, fresh loaf, only for her mother-in-law to snatch it from her hands and place it in the breadbox without so much as a thank you.
The living room, which was supposed to be a shared space, felt like hostile territory. Yevgeny, her husband, was lying lazily on the fold-out sofa—or rather, the bedroom they supposedly shared with Yegor whenever the boy stayed with his father. On nights Yegor was there, Alexandra and Yevgeny were relegated to the living room sofa, exposed to the constant foot traffic of a family that respected zero boundaries.
“Sasha, is the borscht ready yet?” Lyubov called out from the hallway, her voice dripping with lazy entitlement.
“Almost,” Alexandra replied, her voice strained.
“Does the bread still need slicing?”
“Could you slice it yourself, please?” Alexandra asked, a tiny sliver of hope flickering that someone—anyone—might lift a finger.
Silence followed. A heavy, indifferent silence. A moment later, the loud, obnoxious sound of a television game show blared from the living room. Lyubov couldn't even be bothered to cut a piece of bread.
Alexandra stared at the sharp steel knife lying beside the loaf. A slow, deep breath filled her lungs, but it didn't calm her down; instead, it acted like oxygen blowing on a smoldering coal.
Four months earlier, when they had packed up their lives and moved into this three-bedroom apartment in November, Yevgeny had been unemployed for two months. Their independent rent was swallowing their savings whole.
“It’ll only be temporary,” Yevgeny had promised, wrapping his arms around her with practiced sincerity. “Just until I find another job. Mom’s place is huge. Three bedrooms, plenty of space.”
“Space is about square footage,” Alexandra had warned him. “What about everyone else?”
“My mother is reasonable. You’ll get along.”
How foolish she had been to believe him. The descent into servitude hadn't happened overnight; it was a slow, calculated trap. First, Galina Artemovna feigned a sore back. Then Lyubov needed her laundry washed. By month two, Alexandra was the unpaid maid, cook, laundress, and general custodian for five ungrateful people. She earned fifty-eight thousand rubles a month at a construction company, handing over a chunk of her salary for household expenses, while Yevgeny sat around scrolling through job boards like they were social media feeds.
The memory of the overflowing sink from earlier that week flashed in her mind—dishes sitting for six hours, dried juice crusting on Lyubov's glass, bread crumbs scattered everywhere.
And right then, something inside Alexandra snapped. The fragile glass wall of her endurance shattered completely.
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“Do you all think I’m your servant? That I’m supposed to cook, do the laundry, and clean up after your entire family?!” she yelled, her voice echoing sharply against the kitchen tiles.
The television in the living room clicked off instantly. Total, stunned silence descended upon the apartment.
