Larisa was picking up the broken plate from the floor when the doorbell rang. Nine in the evening—she wasn’t expecting anyone. The shards clinked into the trash can—just like two years ago, when Igor used to hurl dishes and shout, “A beauty salon! You can’t even get yourself looking decent!”
She looked through the peephole and saw him—broad-shouldered, in an expensive suit, wearing that same smug smile.
“So what—hard without me?”
He walked in without waiting to be invited. He swept his gaze over the entryway—the same worn wallpaper, the same creaky parquet.
“Come in.”
Igor took off his coat and hung it on the familiar hook. In the living room he dropped into what used to be his armchair, leaned back, and unbuttoned his jacket.
“Still living here—in a museum of poverty?”
Larisa sat down across from him, clasping her hands on her knees. A habit—she used to sit like that when he explained to her what a loser she was.
“Want some coffee?”
“Sure. Just not instant—I’m not used to that… thrift anymore.”
She brought the coffee in plain white cups. Igor took a sip and grimaced.
“Still the same cheap little packet? I thought you’d finally learn to live like a normal person.”
He pulled out his phone and jabbed at the screen.
“Look—this is me and Vika the day before yesterday. A rooftop restaurant—do you know how much the bill was? No, you don’t. How would you?”
In the photo: him with a young blonde, glasses of sparkling wine, a view of the city.
“See the difference? Vika knows how to be a woman. And you…” He waved his hand around the room. “Still saving for a rainy day?”
“By the way, how’s your little salon? Got any clients?”
“I do.”
“A couple of pensioners coming in for a perm?” Igor laughed. “I told you—this isn’t women’s work. Look at you—you even forgot to put on makeup.”
Larisa touched her face. It was true—she’d been running around since morning without any.
“Listen, if things are really bad, I can help. For old times’ sake.”
He took out his wallet and carelessly dropped a few bills on the small table between the empty cups.
“Enough for groceries. Just don’t get proud, okay?”
At that moment, her phone rang. On the screen it read: “Elena Sergeyevna, journalist.”
“Hello? Yes, I’m listening… Tomorrow? At ten in the morning? Of course—I’ll be ready.”
Igor stopped smiling and listened.
“A film crew will come here? I see… What will I talk about? About how I built a business from scratch… after I was abandoned.”
Larisa looked straight at Igor.
“My story? I’ll tell them how important it is to get rid of the people who drag you down.”
She ended the call. Igor stared at her in confusion.
“What filming? What journalist?”
“A national TV channel is making a program about women entrepreneurs.”
“About you?” He snorted, but his voice was already trembling. “And what are you going to tell them?”
Larisa stood up and walked to the old dresser. She pulled out a thick folder and placed it beside his bills.
“Go on. Open it. Take a look.”
Igor picked up the documents and began flipping through them. Lease agreements, statements, business plans. Page after page—his face grew paler.
“Where… where did you get sums like this?”
“I work. Fourteen hours a day. While you were going to restaurants with Vika, I was serving clients.”
“But the apartment… it looks…”
“Poor? You know why, Igor? Because every penny goes into expansion. Not into coats, and not into rooftop restaurants.”
She sat back down, watching him calmly.
“I’m opening a second salon in a month. A third by autumn. A fourth—I’m planning in another city.”
Igor kept turning the pages with shaking hands.
“So you… you’re doing well?”
“Perfect. Better than when you were ‘supporting’ me.”
He lifted his head. There was almost fear in his eyes.
“Larisa, listen… maybe we got carried away back then? Sometimes I think we split up for nothing.”
“Really?”
“I’m serious. And besides, business is complicated—you need a man’s hand. Support.”
He reached toward her across the table.
“We were a good couple. Remember?”
Larisa took his money from the table and carefully folded it in half.
“A good couple? I remember you yelling that I was a loser. I remember you throwing plates when I talked about the salon.”
“Well, I didn’t know it would work out! I thought at most you’d do manicures at home!”
“That’s the point. You didn’t believe in me.”
She handed the bills back to him.
“And when the person closest to you doesn’t believe—you start doubting yourself. Every day.”
“Larisa, I was wrong! It happens! But we can fix it—start over!”
“We can?”
“Of course! I’ll leave Vika, I’ll come back. Together we’ll move mountains!”
Larisa stood up and opened the door to the entryway.
“You know, Igor, two years ago those words would have changed everything. Now I understand: I don’t want to share my success with someone who thought I was a failure.”
Igor slowly got up, put on his coat. At the threshold he froze.
“That’s it? For good?”
“For good.”
“But I love you! I always loved you!”
“Loved me?” Larisa laughed quietly. “You don’t love someone for success, Igor. You love them no matter what. And you fell in love with my money.”
She looked at him one last time—bewildered, clutching the rejected bills in his hand.
“Say hi to Vika. Let her enjoy your… ‘support.’”
The door closed. Larisa leaned back against it, listening as his footsteps faded in the stairwell. Then she went into the living room and put the documents back into the folder.
Tomorrow morning the journalists would be here. They would film this simple apartment, this faded wallpaper, this old sofa. And she would tell them the truth—how important it is not to give up when everyone around you says you can’t do it.
Especially the ones who are supposed to support you.
Larisa went to the window and looked down. Igor was standing by the entrance, smoking, staring up at her windows. Probably waiting for her to change her mind, to run out and say, “Come back—I forgive everything.”
She stepped away from the window and turned off the light.
Let him stand there. Let him think about what he lost. And about how self-confidence turns to ash when you realize—you underestimated the person who was right beside you.
In the morning Igor would find out from the program who his ex-wife had become. Vika would see the interview and start asking uncomfortable questions. And he would have to explain why he never told anyone he’d had a wife like that.
The very one he considered a loser.
Larisa went to bed in her bedroom, in old pajamas, on a bed without expensive linens. Tomorrow everything would change—fame, recognition, new opportunities.
But tonight she was simply happy that she’d told the truth. To the man who once shattered her dreams along with the plates.
