— Are you sure we should go today? It’s a blizzard outside, the roads are probably buried, and honestly I’m not in a festive mood at all, Marina said as she stood by the window, watching snowflakes whirl in the streetlamp’s light and nervously tugging at the belt of her robe.
Andrey, tying his tie in front of the hallway mirror, didn’t even turn around. His movements carried a fussy haste mixed with impatience he barely bothered to hide.
— Marin, why are you starting again? Mom is waiting. It’s her anniversary—sixty-five isn’t a joke. The table’s set, the guests are invited. How can we not go? I’m her son. The only one, by the way.
Marina sighed and stepped away from the window. Of course he was her son. And she was his wife. A wife whose birthday had been exactly three days ago. And that day had passed so ordinarily, as if it were a random Tuesday and not her forty-fifth. Andrey had come home late from work, muttered something about being swamped with reports, shoved a crinkly plastic bag into her hands with a box of chocolates and a single rose—its outer petal already starting to wilt—and asked what was for dinner.
— I’m not saying we shouldn’t go, she said quietly, walking into the bedroom to change. It’s just… I thought at least on the weekend we’d celebrate my day. Just the two of us. Go somewhere. You promised.
— Marin, what restaurant? his voice came from the corridor, muffled by the rustle of his jacket. You know we’re in “economy mode” right now. We have to finish paying off the mortgage, the car needs servicing. And they cut my bonus this month. We’ll sit at home, drink some wine—how is that not a celebration? You’re practical, you understand.
Marina pulled her “dressy” outfit from the closet—a dark blue dress she’d bought three years ago. It fit well, hiding what needed hiding, but every time she put it on she caught the smell of mothballs and hopelessness. Practical. You understand. She’d heard those words for twenty years more often than I love you.
She remembered how a week ago, emptying her husband’s winter coat pockets before washing it, she’d found a receipt folded into quarters. The amount made her heart jump into her throat—one hundred eighty thousand rubles. The item name was impossible to make out, the ink had faded, but the very fact that an “economizing” husband had that kind of money stunned her. Back then, a wave of excited anticipation had swept over her. She’d decided Andrey was preparing a surprise. A grand gift for her milestone. Maybe a trip to the sea? Or that sapphire pendant she’d been admiring in a shop window for half a year?
That was why the pathetic bouquet and the box of Evening Chimes chocolates three days ago hadn’t just disappointed her—it had felt like a slap. But she’d stayed silent. Maybe the real present wasn’t ready yet. Maybe he wanted to give it to her ceremoniously, in front of guests. Or the receipt was old, random, someone else’s. Hope dies last, and Marina clung to it with all her strength as she pulled on her tights.
— Are you coming? Andrey shouted. The taxi’s already here!
They rode in silence. Andrey kept glancing at the time and checking something on his phone. On the back seat lay a huge, bulky bag wrapped in gift paper with gold bows. Marina tried not to look at it, but her eyes kept being drawn to it.
It’s for Mom, she told herself. Of course it’s for Mom. It’s her anniversary. Probably a multicooker. Or expensive bedding.
But a worm of doubt was already gnawing at her from the inside. The package looked too soft for a multicooker.
Galina Ivanovna’s apartment greeted them with the smells of roasted duck and expensive perfume. Despite her age, the mother-in-law kept up appearances: hair styled perfectly, heavy gold earrings, bright lipstick. She opened the door shining like a polished samovar.
— Andryusha! My son! Finally! I was starting to think you got snowed in! She kissed him on both cheeks, leaving red marks, and only then let her gaze slide over Marina. Hello, Marina. Come in, come in—the guests have been waiting.
The living room really was crowded. Relatives, Galina Ivanovna’s friends—everyone dressed up, noisy. The table was overflowing with appetizers. Marina felt awkward in her old blue dress among all that sparkle.
— All right, to the table now, and then the gifts! the birthday woman commanded.
The first hour passed in a fog. Toasts, shouts of “Cheers,” clinking glasses. Andrey sat beside his mother, served her salads, joked, played the life of the party. Marina poked at the jellied meat with her fork. She watched her husband transform. At home: gloomy, always tired, always saving. Here: generous with emotions, cheerful, a devoted son.
— And now—the gifts! Aunt Lyuba, the mother-in-law’s sister, announced solemnly.
Guests began handing over envelopes, flowers, dinnerware sets. Galina Ivanovna accepted the offerings with the gracious smile of a queen receiving tribute.
— And now, Mom, Andrey stood up, and the room fell silent. His voice trembled with emotion. I want to поздравить you. You’re the best, the most beautiful, the most beloved. You gave your whole life to me, never spared anything for yourself. And I want you to know: your son appreciates it.
He leaned down and pulled out that same enormous bag from under the table. Marina froze. For some reason her heart began to beat slowly and heavily, as if sensing trouble.
Andrey ceremoniously handed the bag to his mother. Galina Ivanovna gasped and began tearing the golden paper. A moment later something dark, glossy, shimmering appeared.
A fur coat. A luxurious, long black mink coat. The fur flowed under the chandelier light, catching highlights.
For a second the room went silent, and then erupted with delighted exclamations.
— Ah! What beauty!
— Well, Andrey—what a gift!
— Real mink! That’s a fortune!
Galina Ivanovna pressed the fur to her face, tears standing in her eyes.
— Son… Andryusha… It’s my dream… How did you…?
— Try it on, Mom! Andrey beamed, pleased with the effect.
She slipped on the coat. It was a little big in the shoulders, but that only made her look more grand. She walked around the room, turning in front of the mirrored wardrobe.
— A queen! A real queen! Aunt Lyuba clapped.
Marina sat without moving. She felt the blood drain from her face. One hundred eighty thousand—there it was, hanging on the shoulders of a woman who’d spent her whole life scolding Marina for an extra piece of bread and teaching her to save on tights. One hundred eighty thousand stolen from the family budget, set aside in secret from a wife who’d been wearing a mass-market down jacket for five seasons straight.
— Marin, why are you just sitting there? Galina Ivanovna asked loudly, stroking the fur sleeve. Say it’s a good gift! Oh, your husband is gold, not a man! You’re lucky.
Marina lifted her eyes. Her gaze met her husband’s. For a split second Andrey looked embarrassed, glanced away—then immediately spread into a smile again, aimed at his mother.
— It’s very good, Marina forced out. Her voice sounded чужой—rough, unfamiliar. Simply royal.
— Exactly! the mother-in-law chimed in. I’ve earned it. At least in my old age I’ll walk around warm.
The rest of the evening Marina remembered only vaguely. She drank water, nodded at random, smiled a glued-on smile. One thought kept spinning in her head: Economy mode. Bonus cut. Car servicing.
When they went outside and got into a taxi, Andrey was excited and cheerful. The alcohol had gone to his head.
— So, how was I, huh? he elbowed Marina. Did you see how happy Mom was? She even cried! Now that’s an anniversary. I didn’t save for nothing—six months, putting money away from every side job.
Marina slowly turned her head toward him.
— Six months? she repeated. And you told me your bonus got cut. And that we didn’t have money for a restaurant.
Andrey frowned; his cheer vanished instantly.
— Marin, don’t start. Here we go again. It’s my mom! It’s a big date for her. And the restaurant… we’ll go to your restaurant next month. What is this childish sulking?
— Sulking? Marina felt a dam inside her—one she’d built for years—begin to break. Andrey, my birthday was three days ago. Forty-five. You gave me three-hundred-ruble chocolates. And you gave your mom a two-hundred-thousand-ruble fur coat.
— One-seventy, Andrey corrected automatically. And don’t compare! Mom is alone, she’s an elderly person, she gets cold! You have a down jacket—normal, warm. Why do you need a fur coat? You ride the метро, it’s hot there, you’ll just rub the fur off. Mom goes for walks—she needs status in front of the neighbors.
— Status? Marina nearly screamed so loudly the driver glanced nervously in the rearview mirror. And what’s my status? The status of your maid? The status of a wallet on legs that pays for groceries and utilities while you save up for Mommy’s wishes?
— Lower your voice! Andrey hissed. Are you trying to embarrass me? What wallet? I earn more than you!
— You earn more but you bring less into the family! she cut him off coldly. I did the math, Andrey. All these months I thought we were saving for renovations, for a vacation. And you were stashing money. You lied to my face while I darned tights and denied myself a new face cream.
— I wasn’t stashing—I was saving! My money—I have a right! he snapped, turning to attack. You’re selfish, Marin. Jealous of your own mother-in-law. That’s low.
— Low is forgetting your wife’s milestone birthday. Low is lying about not having money. Stop the car! she shouted to the driver.
— Have you lost your mind? It’s a blizzard outside! Andrey tried to grab her hand.
— Don’t touch me! She yanked her hand away. I’m not riding with you. I feel sick just being near you.
The car pulled over. Marina jumped out into the swirling snow and slammed the door. Andrey shouted something after her, but didn’t get out. The taxi drove off, leaving her alone on a night boulevard.
The wind threw sharp snow into her face, but Marina wasn’t cold. She burned with rage. She walked to the метро, and with every step a plan ripened in her head. For twenty years she’d been convenient. Understanding. Economical. Enough.
She got home an hour later. Andrey was already asleep—or pretending to be. An empty beer bottle stood on the kitchen table. Marina went into the bedroom, pulled out a suitcase, and began packing Andrey’s things. She didn’t cry. Her movements were precise, mechanical: shirts, socks, sweaters. The very down jacket he’d bought himself last month (“I have to go to work, I should look decent”).
After filling two suitcases, she set them in the hallway. Then she went to the kitchen, opened her laptop, and logged into online banking.
Their accounts were separate, but they had a shared “stash” in a savings deposit in her name, where she transferred most of her salary “for a rainy day.” There was about three hundred thousand rubles there—money she’d been saving to renovate the kitchen.
The rainy day has come, Marina thought.
She opened a travel agency website.
In the morning Andrey woke up to the smell of coffee. He stretched, deciding the storm had passed. Marina had had a fit, sure, but she was quick to cool off. He’d walk out, apologize, say he loved her, and everything would go back to normal.
He shuffled into the kitchen scratching his belly. Marina sat at the table dressed, with a cup of coffee. An envelope lay on the table.
— Good morning, Andrey said cautiously. Coffee smells amazing. Pour me some?
— It’s in the cezve. Pour it yourself, she answered calmly without looking up from her phone.
Andrey poured coffee and sat across from her.
— Marish, I’m sorry about yesterday. I went too far. But you have to understand too…
— I understood, Andrey. I understood everything very clearly.
— Well, good. Peace?
Marina looked up at him. There was no anger, no hurt in her eyes. Only indifference.
— Your things are in the hallway.
Andrey choked on his coffee.
— What do you mean? What things?
— Everything. Clothes, shoes, razor. Put your keys on the nightstand.
— Are you kicking me out? Because of a fur coat?! He sprang up, knocking over his chair. Are you serious? You’re going to destroy a family over some rag?
— Not because of a rag, Andrey. Because of the lies. And because of your attitude. I don’t want to be second place on your list of priorities anymore. You have a mother—go to her. She’s in a fur coat now, she’s warm, she can “warm you up.”
— You won’t dare! The apartment is joint!
— The apartment is mine, Andrey. I inherited it from my grandmother. You’re only registered here. Forgot?
He fell silent as the reality hit him. Red blotches spread across his face.
— Fine. Fine! I’ll go! But you’ll come crawling back! How are you going to live alone on your salary? Who’s going to hang shelves for you?
— I’ll hire a handyman. For money. Speaking of money.
She slid the envelope toward him.
— What is this?
— Divorce papers. I’ve filled them out—you just have to sign. And there’s a printout of the booking.
— Booking?
— I’m flying to Thailand. Tonight. For two weeks.
Andrey’s eyes bulged.
— Thailand? With what money? We were saving for the kitchen!
— I was saving for the kitchen, Marina corrected. And you were saving for your mom’s fur coat. I decided that if we’re running an attraction of unheard-of generosity, then I have a right to a gift for my milestone too. I don’t need a fur coat—but the sea and sun will do nicely.
— You spent our money?! he screeched.
— My money, Andrey. The money I earned. And you—live however you want. You have that bonus that “didn’t get cut,” after all.
Andrey stood in the middle of the kitchen, confused and pathetic in his stretched sweatpants. For the first time he realized Marina wasn’t joking—that the convenient, familiar life with hot dinners, clean shirts, and an interest-free loan in the form of a wife was over.
— Marin, let’s talk… Why so drastic? Fine, Thailand—then Thailand. Let’s go together. I’ll find the money, borrow…
— No, Andrey. I’m going alone. I need time to think. About whether I need a family where I’m nothing. Empty space.
She stood and picked up her bag.
— Leave now. I want to close the door behind you.
Andrey left slowly, dragging the suitcases with effort. He kept looking back, hoping she’d call after him, stop him. But Marina stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, watching him with dry eyes.
When the door shut behind him, Marina exhaled deeply for the first time in three days. The apartment went quiet. She walked up to the mirror. A tired but beautiful woman looked back at her—one who, in twelve hours, would have a plane ticket to summer.
Her phone rang. The screen showed: Galina Ivanovna.
Marina smirked. Andrey had probably already called to complain. Or her mother-in-law was calling to brag about how warm she was in her new fur coat.
Marina hit Decline. Then Block contact.
She went to the kitchen and poured herself more coffee. Her gaze fell on the calendar. Today was Sunday—the day her new life began.
Two weeks in Thailand flew by like a single day. Marina swam, ate fruit, got massages, and didn’t once think about reports, pots, and other people’s anniversaries. She got a tan, looked younger, and a spark returned to her eyes that had been gone for a long time.
When she came back, a letter was waiting in her mailbox. Not from Andrey—apparently he was staying proudly silent while living at his mother’s. The letter was from the court: a divorce date had been set.
That evening the doorbell rang. Marina looked through the peephole—Andrey. With flowers. A huge bouquet of roses, at least fifty.
She opened the door but didn’t step aside, blocking the way.
— Hi, he said, trying to smile. He looked awful: wrinkled shirt, dark circles under his eyes. Apparently living with the “queen” in one apartment wasn’t as sweet as he’d imagined. Welcome back. How was your отдых?
— Wonderful, Marina said.
— Marin, I missed you. I was a fool. A complete idiot. Mom… sure, she’s happy about the fur coat, but living with her… it’s hell. Every day she nags—sat wrong, stood wrong. I realized how good I had it with you.
He held out the bouquet.
— This is for you. Forgive me. Can we start over? I’ll never again… I’ll give you all my money. I swear.
Marina looked at the roses—beautiful, expensive. Probably five thousand rubles. Or seven. She wondered whether he’d taken them from some “stash” again, or borrowed from friends.
— Andrey, she said gently, the flowers are beautiful. But they’ll wilt in three days. And the aftertaste will last forever.
— I’ll change! I’ll prove it!
— No need to prove anything. We’re just different people. You need your mother, and I need a husband. A partner. Not a child I have to clean up after and monitor so he doesn’t waste money on nonsense.
— But I love you!
— No, Andrey. You love how convenient life is with me. Those are different things.
She began to close the door.
— Marin! Wait! I can sell the fur coat! Get the money back!
Marina laughed.
— The fur coat? From your mom? Try taking it from her. She’ll curse you.
She closed the door and turned the lock twice. The click sounded like a period at the end of a long, exhausting novel.
Marina grabbed a vase and poured water—then changed her mind. She didn’t want Andrey’s flowers. She went out onto the balcony and looked at the city. Somewhere out there, in the lights of the metropolis, a new life was waiting. And in that life she would be in first place—at least for herself.
A month later they divorced. Quietly, without scandals. Andrey tried to “divide” something, but there wasn’t much to divide besides an old car and the loan for that very fur coat—which, as it turned out, he really had taken to cover the missing amount, and which he was now paying off alone.
And Marina bought herself new sapphire earrings. On her own. And every time she put them on, she didn’t think about her husband’s betrayal—she thought about the fact that she has value. And that the most important love in life is love for yourself. Because if you don’t love yourself, no one else will love you the way you deserve.
Dear readers, if this story resonates with you and you agree that a woman shouldn’t sacrifice herself for her husband’s relatives’ whims, hit like and subscribe to the channel. Your opinion matters—write in the comments: could you forgive a husband like that
