As I entered the apartment after a long day’s work, I swiftly removed my shoes and immediately sensed that something was off.
Dmitrij stood in the middle of the living room, his arms crossed and his expression tense.
“We need to talk.”
Frozen, with my bag still in hand, I processed his words.
“I had dinner with Andrei today,” he stated, not pausing for a reply. “He and his wife manage their finances separately. Each pays for themselves. Fair, honest, like adults.”
Slowly, I hung up my coat.
“What are you implying?”
“Our family budget is unfair,” he spat out. “I pay the enormous mortgage for this apartment every month. You spend your money freely. In a civilized world, everyone is responsible for themselves. Eat separately, dress separately, enjoy yourself separately. I’m tired of supporting everyone.”
I scrutinized him closely. He was expecting tears, a dramatic scene. But I was too exhausted for any theatrics.
“Fine. Starting tomorrow, it’s every person for themselves.”
Dmitrij blinked in surprise.
“So you agree?”
“Absolutely. Thanks for bringing this up. It’s about time to establish some order.”
I headed to the kitchen, pulled some salad out of the fridge, and sat down to eat. Dmitrij lingered for a moment before retreating to the bedroom. I opened my laptop.
By two in the morning, I had completed the spreadsheet. Nine years of marriage, every receipt meticulously kept—I’m quite detail-oriented. Utilities, gas for his car—which he had never filled up himself. Gifts for his parents. Medications for his father. Groceries—his favorite steaks, expensive cheese. Vacations, which I paid for completely. The total was staggering.
The next morning, while he still slept, I opened a separate bank account and transferred everything from our joint card. I called the building manager to request that the bills be split. I canceled his premium TV package.
That evening, I treated myself to some jamón, a fresh baguette, and a bottle of dry red wine. Upon returning home, I prepared my meal and sat down to enjoy dinner. Dmitrij returned half an hour later and peered into the fridge.
“And for me?”
“I don’t know. You wanted us to be responsible for ourselves,” I replied.
He frowned, retrieved some pelmeni, and began cooking in silence while I continued to savor each bite.
A week had passed. Dmitrij was subsisting on ready-made meals and takeout, while I cooked what I had always desired but never made—because he didn’t like it. Seafood. Vegetable casseroles. Light salads. He watched my dishes with barely concealed envy.
On Friday evening, he said:
“Listen, maybe it’s time to stop joking around? You could cook for two.”
“I could. But I won’t. You set the rules.”
“But I was just joking that day! Did you take offense?”
“No. I merely accepted the situation.”
He tossed the burger package in the trash and stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.
Saturday began with his anxious voice on the phone, standing at the doorstep.
“Mom and Dad are arriving in two hours. You will cook, right?”
I sat on the bed with a book.
“No.”
“What do you mean, no? They come every Saturday!”
“I know. For nine consecutive years, I have been in the kitchen from morning till night. Your mother has never said thank you. Now it’s your turn.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Not at all. Every person for themselves, remember? Your parents are your responsibility, not mine.”
Dmitrij turned pale, turned around, and slammed the door. I heard him calling the delivery service, arguing with the operator, and banging pots in the kitchen.
When they rang the bell, I was dressed nicely, my hair done, with light makeup. I opened the door to greet Larisa Viktorovna and my father-in-law, ushering them into the living room before returning to my book.
Larisa Viktorovna approached the table but stopped short.
There were three pizza boxes and bottles of soda on the table. Paper napkins. Nothing else.
“What is this?” Her voice was low, but every word felt like a blow.
Dmitrij attempted to smile.
“Mom, today we decided to keep it simple…”
“Where is Elena? Why isn’t she at the table?”
I looked up from my book.
“I’m here, Larisa Viktorovna.”
“Are you sick?” Something strange reverberated in her voice. No compassion—only suspicion.
“No. Dmitrij simply said that everyone must be responsible for themselves. His son is his responsibility, not mine.”
Larisa Viktorovna sat down slowly. She stared at the pizza boxes, then at her son.
“Explain.”
Dmitrij began rambling about fairness, modern relationships, his friend Andrei. Larisa Viktorovna listened in silence, her expression unyielding.
“So you think she’s eating at your expense,” she finally stated. “It’s you.”
“Mom, I just wanted honesty…”
“Be quiet. Who has bought the food in this house for nine years? Who cooked every Saturday while you sat in front of the television? Who bought the medicine for your father last year?”
“Well, Elena, but…”
“Who paid for my sister’s gift for the jubilee? Who always set the table so we could be comfortable? And what did you do? You would arrive, sit down, and wait to be served.”
Dmitrij turned white.
“Mom, what does that have to do with anything? I pay the mortgage!”
“For your apartment! You’ve been throwing this in her face for nine years as if she were some kept woman here!”
Larisa Viktorovna rose from her seat and grabbed her bag.
“Let’s go,” she said to her husband. “I don’t want to eat this pizza. I refuse to sit at a table where my daughter-in-law is humiliated.”
She turned to Dmitrij.
“And you should be ashamed. For nine years, she has kept this home running, and you took it for granted. I raised a greedy and petty man. It pains me to admit it.”
They left. Dmitrij stood in the middle of the room, the pizza cooling next to him. The soda was losing its fizz.
I got up, approached him with my laptop, and opened the spreadsheet.
“Look. Nine years. Every receipt, all the bills. Utilities I always paid. Gas. Groceries. Gifts for your relatives. Vacations. Your health insurance. Everything you’ve never noticed. Here’s the total.”
Dmitrij stared at the screen, his face pale as he registered the enormous figure.
“No… it can’t be…”
“It’s true. You didn’t take care of me, Dmitrij. You lived off me and called it marriage. I provided comfort, and you thought you had the right to teach me about fairness.”
I closed my laptop.
“I’ve rented an apartment. I’ll leave tomorrow. I’ll file for divorce next week. Keep your apartment, your mortgage, and your notion of fairness. I won’t need them anymore.”
“Lena, wait…”
“It’s pointless. You got what you wanted. Now it’s every person for themselves.”
He opened his mouth but found no words. He remained in the living room, beside the now-cold pizza, watching as I gathered my belongings in the bedroom.
I packed my favorite frying pan—the one I used for his steaks. From now on, I would only cook for myself. The cosmetics, the books, the clothes he deemed too flashy.
Dmitrij never came into the bedroom. He stayed in the kitchen with his version of justice.
And I realized that freedom is when the front door closes behind you, and you move toward a place where you don’t need to prove your right to exist. A place where no one deems your contributions insufficient. Where you simply live. Without pretenses. Without justification. Just live.
I walked out of the apartment, suitcase in hand. I didn’t look back.