Kolya, you won’t believe what happened today!» Anya practically flew into the apartment, beaming with joy. Her chestnut hair was disheveled from walking fast, and her cheeks were flushed from the March wind.
Kolya looked up from his laptop. On the screen, an unfinished report—his boss had demanded it be submitted yesterday—was frozen.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, his voice lacking any real interest. It had been a lousy day: the head of the department had hinted again about downsizing, and the entire team’s bonus had been slashed this quarter.
“They gave me a raise! Thirty percent!” Anya exclaimed, carelessly tossing her shoes aside as she plopped down on the sofa next to her husband. “Can you imagine? Now I’ll be earning almost eighty thousand!”
Kolya froze. Eighty thousand. Fifteen thousand more than his own salary. Something unpleasant pricked in his chest.
“Congratulations…” he managed, forcing a smile. “But why such generosity all of a sudden?”
“Remember the project I led for the past three months?” Anya said, oblivious to the tension in her husband’s voice. “The client was so pleased that they extended the contract for another year and specifically requested that I be the coordinator! And Mikhailych immediately bumped up my rate!”
She leaped off the sofa and began twirling around the room.
“Do you know what that means? We can finally renovate the bathroom! Or go to the seaside this summer, like we’ve always wanted!”
Kolya nodded reluctantly, his heart pounding in his throat. Just yesterday, he and Anya were equals. And now she was going to earn more. Bring more money into the home than he did. The thought scratched at his pride unpleasantly.
“Great!” was all he said.
All evening, Anya chattered about plans, prospects, and how their lives would now change for the better, while Kolya grew increasingly gloomy. After dinner, when his wife went off to take a shower, he quietly stepped out onto the balcony and dialed his mother’s number.
“Hi, Mom…” he mumbled, half-whispering as he closed the balcony door.
“Kolya!” came the cheerful voice of Raisa Semyonovna over the phone. “What happened? You rarely call on weekdays!”
“Well, here’s the news…” Kolya grimaced. “They gave Anya a raise!”
“And what’s wrong with that?” his mother asked in surprise.
“She’s now going to earn more than me!” he blurted out.
A pause hung in the line.
“By how much more?” the tone of Raisa Semyonovna shifted.
“By twenty thousand!” Kolya felt his ears burn with shame.
“So that’s it…” his mother drawled. “And what did she say?”
“Nothing special! She’s overjoyed, making plans! Renovation, the seaside…”
“And what about you? How do you feel, son? What do you think of all this?”
Kolya fell silent for a moment, choosing his words.
“Terrible, Mom! It feels like I… I’m failing! I’m not providing for the family the way I should!”
“You’re right to feel that way!” Raisa Semyonovna snapped. “A man must earn more than his wife! Otherwise, she stops respecting him!”
Kolya sighed. Deep down he knew he should be happy for his wife, for their shared budget, but he couldn’t shake the bitterness. His mother’s words only intensified his discomfort.
“Has she started bossing you around already?” Raisa Semyonovna continued. “Telling you what to do with the money?”
“No, not yet…” Kolya shivered in the cool evening air.
“She will!” his mother declared confidently. “They’re all the same! Give them an inch—they take a mile! Today she’s planning your expenses, tomorrow she’ll criticize every penny!”
“What am I supposed to do?” Kolya asked, confused.
“Take control of the situation!” Raisa Semyonovna said as if the solution were obvious. “Take her salary card away!”
“What do you mean?” Kolya frowned.
“Literally! Money should be in one set of hands—the men’s! Let her give you her card, and you’ll allocate her expenses! As it should be!”
“Anya won’t agree to that!” Kolya shook his head.
“Don’t ask! Are you a man or what? Show some backbone! Otherwise she’ll get all high and mighty and slack off!”
Kolya fell silent, staring at the lights of passing cars below. The idea seemed wild, yet there was something compelling about it. Could his mother be right? Perhaps this was exactly what he needed to do to preserve his position as the head of the family?
“Come over for dinner tomorrow!” Raisa Semyonovna added. “We need to talk! I haven’t seen you in ages!”
When Kolya returned to the room, Anya was already in bed with a book.
“Is everything alright?” she asked. “You seem lost in thought!”
“Yeah, everything’s fine!” Kolya lied, avoiding her gaze. “Just tired.”
That night, he couldn’t sleep for long, replaying his conversation with his mother and the words he needed to say to his wife.
The next day, Kolya worked on autopilot. The numbers in the spreadsheets blurred before his eyes, and one question echoed in his head: how should I bring up the topic of the card with Anya? His boss had twice scolded him for his distraction, but Kolya only nodded, lost in thought.
At six in the evening, he closed his laptop without finishing the report and went to his mother’s place. Raisa Semyonovna lived in an old brick house on the outskirts of the city. The apartment where Kolya grew up had hardly changed in thirty years – the same wallpaper, the same sideboard with crystal, the same photographs on the walls.
“Come in, son!” Raisa Semyonovna greeted him, wearing an apron with a floral pattern. “I baked some pies—your favorites, with cabbage, potatoes, and meat!”
The kitchen was filled with the aroma of fresh baking. Kolya sat at the table covered with a laminated cloth and began to talk about work, how the bosses were cutting bonuses and demanding more results. His mother listened, pursing her lips and occasionally shaking her head.
“And what about your Anya?” she asked, pouring him some soup. “Is she not getting cocky now that she’s been promoted?”
Kolya stirred his spoon in his bowl.
“Not really, she’s pretty much the same! It’s just that she’s always talking about her plans – renovation, travel…”
“See?” Raisa Semyonovna raised her finger meaningfully. “She’s already starting to spend money she hasn’t even received yet! And what do you say—does your word count in the family?”
“Of course it does…” he answered hesitantly. “It’s just…”
“Just that she’s decided she can run the show because she earns more!” his mother snapped. “I’ve seen it too many times! My neighbor, Verka from the fifth floor, the same thing! The minute she started earning more than her husband, she began bossing him around! And what happened? He turned to drink, and eventually she kicked him out of the house!”
Kolya frowned. He didn’t like the comparison to the alcoholic neighbor, but he couldn’t bring himself to contradict his mother.
“Son!” Raisa Semyonovna placed her dry palm on his hand. “You’re a man! The head of the family! That means you have to make decisions! Especially financial ones! Or do you want her to stop respecting you as a man?”
Meanwhile, Anya was sitting in her office, staying late after work. Before her lay a glossy catalog of sports equipment, opened to a page featuring treadmills. Kolya had long dreamed of having a home exercise machine, but they had always postponed the purchase due to lack of funds.
“Oh, Anya, you’re still here?” Svetlana, a colleague from the neighboring department, peeked in through the door. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no, I’m just choosing something!” Anya smiled. “I want to surprise my husband!”
“You’re simply a marvel, not just a wife!” Svetlana sat down on the edge of the table. “I would never even think of that! And will your husband appreciate it?”
“Of course! Kolya has wanted a treadmill for ages! Now, with my raise, I can afford it!”
Svetlana looked at the catalog with curiosity.
“How much does such a thing cost?”
“About forty-something thousand for a decent model, but I’m thinking of getting a better one for fifty-five! It comes with various programs and even connects to your phone…”
“Wow!” Svetlana whistled. “A generous gift! And when are you planning to get it?”
“Probably in a month, once I receive my first increased paycheck!” Anya smiled dreamily, imagining her husband’s reaction.
Back at Raisa Semyonovna’s house, Kolya was finishing his tea while listening to his mother’s instructions.
“So, here’s what you do!” she said in a measured tone, as if instructing a child. “When you get home, right at the door, say: ‘Anya, give me your salary card!’ Don’t ask, don’t explain—just demand! Say it confidently, man-to-man!”
“What if she refuses?” Kolya nervously fidgeted with a napkin, twisting it into a thin roll.
“You persist!” Raisa Semyonovna pressed her lips together. “Explain that it’s better for the family! And don’t back down, no matter what she says!”
Kolya sighed. Deep inside, he knew that this idea of taking the card wouldn’t end well, but he wasn’t used to contradicting his mother. Besides, the thought that Anya was now earning more still pricked his pride.
“Alright, Mom, I’ll try…” he said, getting up from the table.
“Don’t try—do it!” Raisa Semyonovna replied sternly. “And remember: if you give in now, you’ll lose your wife’s respect forever!”
On his way home, Kolya rehearsed the upcoming conversation in his mind. With every passing minute, his resolve grew stronger, and his initial doubts began to fade. His mother was right—he was a man, and the money should be controlled by him, both literally and figuratively.
Anya returned home around nine in the evening, tired but inspired. She was still mulling over the details of the surprise for Kolya. “Maybe I should ask for the treadmill to be delivered while he’s not home?” she thought as she opened the door.
The apartment smelled familiar—there were hints of Mom’s pies. Kolya rarely brought home food from his mother; he usually ate there. “Strange,” Anya thought.
“I’m home!” she called, taking off her shoes.
Kolya appeared in the hallway with an unusually determined expression. He was tense as a drawn bow, and he looked at his wife as if seeing her for the first time.
“We need to talk!” he said without a greeting.
“Is something wrong?” Anya asked, heading to the kitchen while taking off her coat. “I smell her baking!”
“Yeah, I dropped by!” Kolya followed her closely. “Anya, I need your salary card!”
Anya turned, thinking she had misheard.
“Pardon, what?”
“Your card!” Kolya repeated, a bit louder. “Hand it over! I’m going to be in charge of our money now!”
Anya stared at her husband, trying to figure out if he was joking. But Kolya’s face remained stern.
“Hold on! What makes you think you can take my salary card? You had nothing to do with earning it!”
Kolya clenched his fists. His mother’s voice echoed in his head: “Don’t back down, no matter what she says.”
“I’m the husband! I must control the family finances!” he declared in his practiced tone.
“What do you mean by ‘control’?” Anya began to get irritated. “We always split the expenses, and that suited you! What changed?”
“You’re now earning more!” Kolya retorted. “That’s not acceptable!”
“Is it unacceptable for a woman to earn more than her husband?” Anya shook her head in disbelief. “Really? Is that some unspoken law?”
Kolya shrugged nervously.
“It’s wrong! A man must be the primary breadwinner!”
“Primary breadwinner?” Anya couldn’t help but laugh. “Kolya, what century are you living in? What does it matter who brings in more if we’re in this together?”
“More matters!” Kolya raised his voice. “You’ve already started bossing me around—deciding that we’ll renovate, that we’ll go to the seaside…”
“I was only making suggestions!” Anya protested indignantly. “And, by the way, I wanted to surprise you—buy you that treadmill you’ve wanted for so long!”
“See!” Kolya exclaimed triumphantly. “You’re already spending money you haven’t even received yet! Why do you make decisions without me?”
Anya took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.
“Kolya, this is nonsense! Did your mother brainwash you? You were with her, and she filled your head with this rubbish about the card?”
“Don’t you dare speak ill of my mother!” Kolya slammed his fist on the table. “She said it right! A woman must know her place!”
“My place?” Anya’s eyebrows shot up. “And what, in your opinion, is that?”
“Well… a woman should listen to her husband!” he said uncertainly. “Respect his decisions!”
“Don’t you want to respect me and my decisions?” Anya crossed her arms. “Or is respect a one-way street?”
“Just give me the card!” Kolya snapped. “Enough of this smart-aleck talk!”
“No!” Anya replied firmly. “Don’t even think about it! This is my money, earned by my own hard work! And if you care so much about feeling like the ‘real man’ in this family, then get a better job and earn more instead of trying to assert yourself at my expense!”
Kolya flushed red. His wife’s words struck right at his vulnerabilities. His mind buzzed with anger and humiliation.
“Last time I’m asking…” he rasped through gritted teeth. “Give it here! The card!”
“No!” Anya repeated.
In that moment, something in Kolya snapped. He lunged at his wife and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her violently.
“You will do as I say!!!” he growled, not recognizing his own voice.
Anya tried to break free, but Kolya held her tightly. She had never seen him like this—with a face twisted in rage, eyes crazed. A chill of fear surged through her body.
“Let me go!” she screamed, pushing him away.
Instead of stopping, Kolya swung his arm and slapped her across the face. The sound of the slap echoed through the kitchen. Anya staggered, but managed to steady herself, pressing her hand to her burning cheek.
“You… You hit me…” she whispered, unable to believe what was happening.
“And I’ll hit you again if you don’t stop resisting!” Kolya advanced on her, cornering her. “Where’s the card?”
Instead of answering, Anya dashed away, trying to slip past him, but he intercepted her, shoving her against the wall. Pain shot through her back as she collided with the protruding edge of a kitchen cabinet.
At that moment, her hand found something on the countertop—a kettle filled with water. Without hesitation, she grabbed it by the handle and with all her strength smashed it onto her husband’s head.
Kolya collapsed to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Water from the shattered kettle spread around his head, mingling with a thin stream of blood. Anya stood frozen, still clutching the plastic handle. Time seemed to stand still.
Her first instinct was to check if he was alive, but her hands wouldn’t obey her. Finally, she forced herself to sit up and, with trembling fingers, touched Kolya’s neck. His pulse was steady and strong. Relief washed over her, soon followed by the realization of what had happened.
“He hit me. He tried to hit me again. And what would have happened next?”
Her thoughts raced in a fevered torrent. She rose from her knees, mechanically rubbing her bruised back. Clarity slowly returned, and she made a decision.
Carefully, she maneuvered around her lying husband, went into the hall, threw on her coat, and slipped her feet into the first pair of shoes she found. Then she returned, grabbed Kolya under the arms, and with great effort dragged him across the floor. His body was heavy and unresponsive, but fear gave her strength.
“Take that!” she spat, traversing the kitchen and half the corridor.
At the entrance, she caught her breath. Her temples pounded, her hands trembled, but she knew she had to finish what she started. Opening the door, Anya made one last dash and hauled the lifeless body of her husband onto the stairwell.
“I’m sorry…” she whispered, looking at Kolya. “But you have no place here anymore!”
Returning to the apartment, she turned the key in the lock twice and leaned against the door, slowly sinking to the floor. Only then did she allow herself to fully comprehend what had happened. Her husband—the man with whom she had spent three years, shared a bed and dreams—had tried to take away her money, and then raised his hand against her.
“It’s over,” Anya thought, and a strange calm descended upon her.
She got up and went to the bathroom. In the mirror, a pale face with a red spot on her cheek stared back at her, slowly turning into a bruise. Anya took several pictures on her phone to document the injuries, then turned away from the mirror and, lifting her blouse, photographed the growing bruise near her shoulder blade.
“Evidence,” she thought dispassionately, as if reading an instruction manual.
Returning to the kitchen, Anya cleaned up the shattered kettle pieces and wiped the floor. Then she picked up her phone and dialed the police.
“Good evening!” she said in an unexpectedly firm voice. “My husband attacked me—tried to take my bank card! He hit me in the face! I had to defend myself!”
An hour and a half later, the stairwell was filled with uniformed officers. Kolya had come to himself and was sitting against a wall with a wet towel pressed to the back of his head—a towel Anya had thrown at him while he was still unconscious. His gaze was muddled and confused.
“This is all not true!” he repeated as the officer took his statement. “She started it… I only wanted to talk…”
But the marks of violence on Anya’s face and back spoke for themselves. Kolya was taken to the station, and the next morning, Anya went to have the injuries officially examined, then filed a complaint for assault, and immediately after that—filed for divorce.
Raisa Semyonovna called incessantly, leaving angry messages, threatening to “come over and sort this out,” but Anya blocked all the contacts. Kolya and Anya met only once—at court, where their divorce was finalized very quickly.
There was no division of property—the jointly acquired assets turned out to be laughably few. A refrigerator, a television, a bed… In three years of marriage, they hadn’t managed to acquire anything truly valuable. The apartment was rented, and Anya immediately started looking for a new place.
Two weeks after the divorce, the company management offered her a transfer to the Nizhny Novgorod branch with a promotion. Anya accepted without a second thought.
On the final evening before leaving, she sat on the floor of the empty apartment surrounded by moving boxes and browsed through old photographs on her phone. There they were, her and Kolya at the seaside before the wedding—tanned and happy. There was the New Year’s party at the office, where he had come to support her. There was their first trip together out of town…
“When did everything go so wrong?” Anya wondered, looking at the smiling faces. Perhaps it was doomed from the start? Perhaps Kolya had always been like this—she just didn’t want to see it?
She deleted all the photos except one—the one where her face bore a bruise, taken on that fateful evening. She decided to keep it as a reminder. Not to harbor hatred or self-pity, but to never again allow anyone to lay a hand on her.
In the morning, she handed the keys back to the landlord, loaded her belongings into a taxi, and headed for the train station. The city she had lived in all her life was now behind her, and ahead lay an unknown but free future.
As the train began to move, Anya didn’t look back. Three years of marriage had been packed into two boxes, two bags of belongings, and one important lesson: no one has the right to take away your freedom—neither your husband, nor your mother-in-law, no one. Especially when it comes to the fruits of your own labor…
