For the first few months of living together, Oleg and I were blissfully blind in love. Everything felt effortless: I cooked dinner, he did the dishes; I ran the laundry, he hung it up; we cleaned the apartment on weekends while his ’90s playlist played in the background. Our money sat in one shared account, and neither of us kept track of who put in how much or what it was spent on.
But by the beginning of the second year, something quietly shifted. Maybe the romance of routine gave way to plain routine. Or maybe it happened when we finally started talking about an apartment.
“Len, we need to save,” Oleg said one evening as we sat in our rented kitchen staring at a wall in the neighboring building. “Seriously save. If we put away thirty thousand a month, in three years we’ll have enough for a down payment.”
I nodded, already imagining our future place—bright, big windows, maybe even a balcony. Thirty thousand sounded realistic. We both worked. We both earned decent money. What could possibly be difficult?
It turned out… everything.
The first point of friction was my yogurt. Or rather, not the yogurt itself, but where I bought it.
“Four hundred rubles?” Oleg pulled a little glass jar from the fridge and stared at it like it was caviar. “Two hundred and fifty for yogurt?”
“It’s not just yogurt,” I said, continuing to slice tomatoes for a salad, forcing myself to stay calm. “It’s from a farm. No additives, real starter culture. You know regular yogurt makes my stomach hurt.”
“Lena, yogurt at Pyaterochka is seventy rubles.”
“And at Pyaterochka it’s full of thickeners and E-numbers. I can’t eat that.”
Oleg opened the jar, sniffed it, tasted a spoonful.
“Normal yogurt,” he shrugged. “But for that price…”
I didn’t argue further. The tomatoes were from the same farm—six hundred a kilo instead of the usual two hundred. But they were amazing: sweet, dense, with a real tomato taste, not that crunchy winter supermarket imitation.
“Oh, and by the way,” Oleg said, reaching into the freezer, “I grabbed pizzas. Three on sale—worked out cheap.”
Three frozen boxes landed on the shelf, pushing aside my frozen berries (also farm berries, frozen by hand in summer—but that was another story).
“And I bought beer,” he added, clearly proud of himself. “Good stuff—German. A whole case with a discount.”
A case meant twenty-four bottles. I did the math in my head: even discounted, it was at least three thousand. But I stayed quiet. Everyone has their weaknesses, right?
The next few weeks turned into a strange, silent standoff. I kept buying my farm products—cottage cheese, eggs, vegetables, meat from a supplier I trusted. It cost more, but I felt the difference. It wasn’t a whim; it mattered for my health, for our health.
Oleg kept buying convenience foods. Alongside the pizzas came stuffed crepes, ready-made cutlets you only had to heat up, nuggets. The cupboard filled with chips, crackers, and nuts for beer.
“It’s convenient,” he explained. “You come home tired, heat something up in ten minutes, and you’re done. No need to stand at the stove for an hour.”
I didn’t object. Honestly, I didn’t. He could eat what he wanted. But irritation kept building when I saw him in the evenings with a bottle of beer and a bag of chips in front of the TV, while I spent half an hour in the kitchen making a proper dinner.
One Saturday, he went out with friends.
“I’ll be back by ten,” he promised.
He came home at one in the morning—buzzed, smelling like beer, talkative.
“Such a great night,” he announced while I helped him out of his jacket. “We started at Zhiguli, then went to this new place near Mayakovskaya—those burgers are insane—then we even did karaoke…”
I stayed quiet. By morning he wouldn’t remember half of what he said.
But the next week it happened again. Then again. Friday or Saturday became sacred—Oleg’s time to meet the guys. I wasn’t against friendship, truly. But when the month ended and we sat down to go over our budget, we found only eight thousand in savings instead of thirty.
“Where did the money go?” Oleg squinted at his phone, scrolling through his bank statement.
“I don’t know,” I said, staring at mine. Mine looked almost the same.
We went quiet, both drowning in numbers. Supermarket. Delivery. Café. Supermarket again. Gas station. Pharmacy. Delivery again…
“Len,” Oleg looked up, and there was something new in his eyes—something wary. “How much do you spend on your farm stuff?”
I felt my back tighten.
“I don’t know. I haven’t tracked it separately.”
“Let’s count it,” he said, and an unpleasant note slipped into his voice. “Yogurt—two fifty. Cottage cheese—how much?”
“Three hundred.”
“Eggs?”
“Two fifty.”
“Tomatoes?”
“Six hundred.”
He kept tallying, and I felt anger flare inside me. Yes, I spent more on groceries—but I cooked. Every day. Real, healthy food.
“So that’s about fifteen thousand a month just for your farm products,” he concluded. “That’s half of what we’re supposed to be saving.”
“And how much do you spend on your nights out?” I blurted.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything. You go to bars every week. Every week. What, do they pour drinks for free?”
“I work. I’m allowed to relax,” Oleg’s face darkened.
“And I work too!” My voice cracked into a shout even though I didn’t want it to. “And I’m allowed to eat food that doesn’t make me sick instead of that supermarket chemical mess!”
“It’s not chemicals—it’s normal food that millions of people eat!”
“And then millions of people get sick!”
We stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other. We’d never had a fight like that—little spats, yes, annoyance, sure, but not a direct clash with accusations thrown point-blank.
Oleg looked away first.
“Fine,” he said, flat and heavy. “Let’s think about what to do.”
For the next week, we barely talked. We spoke about household things—pass the salt, I’ll be late, we need toilet paper—but not about the real issue. And the real issue hung between us like an invisible wall.
I tried to understand what was happening. We loved each other—I was sure of it. But somehow money, that cursed money, was turning into a source of tension. And it wasn’t really about the money itself. It was something deeper. The right to live your own way? The right to be yourself?
Oleg must have been thinking the same, because on Friday evening—while I was making dinner (baked chicken with vegetables, all farm-fresh, all delicious)—he came into the kitchen with a strange expression.
“Len, I’ve figured it out,” he said.
“Figured what out?”
“How we can save.”
I set down the knife I’d been using to peel carrots.
“Let’s do it fairly: you pay for your yogurts, and I’ll pay for my food,” my husband announced.
I stood there, trying to process it.
“What do you mean?” I finally asked.
“Simple. Separate food budgets. You buy what you want with your money. I buy what I want with mine. Utilities, internet, everything else—fifty-fifty. That way we’ll see who actually spends what.”
“Oleg, that’s ridiculous…”
“Why is it ridiculous? It’s fair!” He spoke fast, confident—like he’d prepared for this. “I don’t stop you from eating your farm stuff. You don’t stop me from eating what I like. Everyone is responsible for themselves. And one more thing: I’ll save fifteen thousand a month, and you save fifteen—into our joint apartment fund. Deal?”
“And what about shared dinners?” I asked. “When I cook for both of us?”
He hesitated for a second.
“Well… if you cook something shared with regular ingredients, we split it. But if you want to cook with your farm products—that’s your expense.”
A sharp, bitter hurt hit me. So my care for our health—my standing at the stove every evening—was now considered “my personal spending”? And yet… there was something oddly tempting about his idea. Maybe we really should try it. Prove to him, with numbers, that I wasn’t spending as outrageously as he imagined.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s try it. One month.”
“Great!” Oleg’s face brightened. “You’ll see, it’ll be more convenient this way.”
Starting Monday, we began our “new system.” I kept a separate notebook where I wrote down every food expense. Oleg installed a spending tracker app.
The first days felt weird. I’d buy groceries and immediately wonder: is this mine or shared? Chicken was shared, but the vegetables for it were mine—farm produce. Pasta was shared, but the sauce made from farm tomatoes was mine. My head turned into a messy accounting puzzle.
Oleg seemed confused too. He bought his convenience foods, heated them up on his own plate, and looked at me with a guilty expression when I made myself a salad.
“Want some?” I’d ask, holding out the bowl.
“That’s your food,” he’d say uncertainly.
“Oh my God, Oleg—just take the salad,” I’d snap.
He would, but the air stayed tense. Something felt wrong about living separately at the same kitchen table.
A week passed. On Friday, as usual, Oleg went out with friends.
“Bye, I’ll be back late,” he said, kissing my cheek.
“Have fun,” I replied, with a tone so neutral he either didn’t catch the sarcasm—or chose not to.
I was alone. I sat down with my laptop and opened my notebook of expenses. In one week I’d spent three and a half thousand. Multiply by four—fourteen thousand a month. It fit. I could still put away my savings amount, with some left over.
And Oleg?
I truly wasn’t planning to check. But his phone was on the table—he’d taken his work phone—and without thinking I picked it up, unlocked it (I knew the passcode), and opened his expense app.
I froze.
In one week Oleg had spent twelve thousand rubles. On food. Just one week.
I scrolled through the categories. Pizza delivery—1,200. Burger delivery—900. Another delivery—sushi, 1,500. Zhiguli bar—2,300. Another bar—1,800. Store run: beer and snacks—2,000. Another delivery. And another.
Twelve thousand in a week.
I put the phone back and sat staring at nothing. That meant fifty thousand a month. Fifty. And he’d been lecturing me about a yogurt jar worth four hundred rubles…
The anger that rose in me was cold—and strangely clarifying. I didn’t make a scene when he stumbled in after midnight, loud and cheerful. I went to bed and turned my back to the wall.
“Len, are you asleep?” he whispered, sliding under the blanket.
“I’m asleep,” I said without turning.
Week two passed. I kept buying my farm products and cooking my meals. Oleg kept ordering delivery—almost every day. Pizza, rolls, something else. And he kept going to bars.
“How’s your budget going?” I asked one evening, keeping my tone light.
“Fine,” he said, eyes still on his phone.
“You’re saving fifteen thousand?”
“Of course.”
He was lying. I could tell. But I stayed quiet. Let him see the truth at the end of the month.
Week three brought a new twist. It was a coworker’s birthday, and they “just had a little get-together” after work—at a restaurant. Oleg came home around eleven.
“How much did you spend?” I couldn’t help asking.
“What?” He was slightly drunk and didn’t understand at first.
“Money. How much?”
“Not much—we split it… four thousand, maybe.”
Four thousand for one evening—while I weighed tomatoes at the store, choosing the cheaper ones.
“Great,” I said. “Very economical.”
“Len, it was a birthday…”
“Sure. Of course.”
Week four was the hardest. We barely spoke. I cooked for myself, he ordered for himself. We ate at different times, from different plates, like roommates instead of a couple.
I missed us. I missed shared dinners and kitchen conversations, the way he used to lick the spoon when I asked him to taste a new dish. I missed closeness.
But I didn’t want to be the first to give in. Let him see the results of his “fair” system.
And then the first of the month arrived. That evening we sat on the couch, each with our phone.
“So… totals?” Oleg asked, and his voice sounded strained.
“Sure.” I opened my notebook. “I spent thirteen thousand eight hundred rubles on food this month. And I saved fifteen thousand, like we agreed.”
I looked up. Oleg was silent, staring at his phone screen.
“And you?” I asked, even though I already knew.
He stayed quiet for another thirty seconds. Then, very softly, he said:
“Fifty-two thousand.”
“What’s fifty-two?”
“I spent fifty-two thousand rubles on food.”
Silence dropped between us. I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to blurt, There. Now you see. But he looked so lost, so miserable, that my anger drained away.
“I thought…” he started, then stopped. “I really thought I spent less. I mean, I eat simple food, convenience stuff, cheap things…”
“But you order delivery every day,” I said quietly. “Delivery is extra cost. And you go to bars every week.”
“I know.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “I went through everything. It’s… it’s awful. I spent over twenty thousand on bars. Almost twenty on delivery. And I didn’t even notice it happening.”
“And did you save anything?”
He shook his head.
“No. There was nothing left.”
I felt strange. I had been right, and he had finally seen it—yet it didn’t feel like a win. Only exhaustion, and an odd emptiness.
“Len,” Oleg turned to me, and in his eyes was something I hadn’t seen in a long time—vulnerability, maybe. “I’m sorry. I was an idiot. I blamed you for us not being able to save, while I… I never even thought about how much I waste on crap. Pizza, bars, delivery… it’s meaningless spending.”
“And my yogurts are meaningful?” I couldn’t resist the jab.
“Your yogurts are health,” he said seriously. “And you cook. Every day you cook real food. And I… I was just a lazy selfish guy who tried to dump everything on you.”
I didn’t answer. Inside me, something softened—the bitterness and anger of the last month beginning to melt.
“And another thing,” he continued. “I missed it. Us. Eating together, you cooking while I tell you about work. Just… being together. This was horrible, Len.”
“I missed it too,” I admitted.
We went quiet. Then Oleg pulled me into his arms, and I leaned into him, feeling the tension of the month finally loosen.
“Can we start over?” he whispered. “One shared budget—but I’ll actually track my spending. Bars—max twice a month, and no more than three thousand each time. No delivery. I’ll eat what you cook. And you… keep buying your farm products. They’re worth it.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. I tried your cottage cheese last week. It really is better.”
I laughed—for the first time in a month, a real laugh.
“Alright,” I said. “We’ll try. But with one condition: if you genuinely want to go out for a drink with friends, don’t deprive yourself. Just plan it ahead, and we both know how much is going toward that. Deal?”
“Deal.”
The next day I made a big pot of borscht. Oleg stood beside me, chopping potatoes—crookedly, but with effort—while telling me about a new project at work. The soup bubbled on the stove, the kitchen smelled of dill and garlic, and outside the window snow was falling.
“You know,” Oleg said, dropping another potato chunk into the pot, “maybe we really can save up for an apartment after all.”
“We can,” I agreed. “If we do it together, not each on our own.”
He kissed the side of my neck, and I thought those words weren’t only about money. They were about life. Together. Not perfectly, not without arguments and mistakes—but together.
And I kept buying my farm yogurts. Because some habits aren’t just habits. They’re self-care.
And Oleg finally understood that.
