Yeseniya worked as an accountant in a modest construction firm.
A nondescript office building on the outskirts of the capital. An average income. A routine life. Yet deep inside, she always held a cherished goal — to launch her own business. In the evenings, like many of her colleagues, she studied financial management software, devoured business publications, and developed entrepreneurial strategies.
Denis appeared in her life unexpectedly.
Some mutual friends invited her to a countryside celebration. He worked as an administrator at a car dealership. He earned well and knew how to charm: dates, flowers, movie nights on weekends. A year later, they got married.
The early stage of their marriage went smoothly.
Yeseniya continued progressing in her career and self-education, saving money for her project. Denis, however, dismissed her ambition:
“Let her play businesswoman — as long as dinner’s on time.”
Then the problems at the dealership started.
Sales dropped. Salaries were cut. Denis began coming home irritable, snapping over small things. Yeseniya paid no mind. She had just been promoted to Head of Finance and now earned twice as much as her husband — something that demoralized him.
Evenings became silent trials. Denis sulked in the living room with his phone, purposely ignoring her. When she tried sharing her work victories, he grimaced and stepped out onto the balcony to smoke. When she bought a new laptop to replace her outdated one, he slammed the door and went out to his friends.
“Throwing money around?” he muttered the next morning.
“It’s my money, Denis. I earned it,” she replied — for the first time.
He hurled his cup into the sink and left for work.
The breaking point came with a company party invitation.
“Dress code: festive. Attendance mandatory, with spouses,” said the HR email.
Yeseniya tried to decline — she sensed it would end badly. But her supervisor insisted:
“You’re a department head now, dear. You have to show up.”
The event took place at a cozy restaurant near Chistye Prudy. The company rented the entire second floor — about thirty employees, plus partners.
Yeseniya was nervous. It was the first time she attended as a financial director. She picked a simple black dress, flat shoes — she never liked standing out.
Denis grumbled the whole way.
First about traffic, then parking, then how the tie was choking him. Yeseniya stayed silent — she had gotten used to his moods ever since his work troubles began.
The evening started well.
The CEO, Mikhail Stepanovich, gave a speech on the company’s success and handed out awards. Yeseniya received special thanks — for implementing a new financial system that saved the company millions.
“And now, a toast to our new head of finance,” Mikhail raised his glass. “Yeseniya joined us three years ago as a junior accountant. But her dedication, intelligence, and drive showed us she was meant for more. Congratulations on the promotion! And on the new salary,” he winked.
Applause filled the room. Chief accountant Tatyana Petrovna hugged her:
“You earned it, sweetheart.”
Colleagues smiled warmly — Yeseniya was well respected.
Then someone asked, “So what’s the new salary like?”
Mikhail, flushed from the wine, waved it off:
“Impressive! She now makes more in a month than some do in half a year.”
That’s when Denis snapped.
He had been silently chewing on hors d’oeuvres. Now he sat upright, face red — not from embarrassment, but rage.
“What’s there to celebrate?” he said loudly, so everyone could hear. “Big deal, pushing papers! I work in a car dealership…”
“Dear, maybe stop?” Yeseniya gently touched his sleeve.
“No, I won’t stop!” He jerked his arm away. “Why is everyone worshipping her?”
Yeseniya noticed the twitch in his cheek — a telltale sign of an impending meltdown. He had the same look when he got demoted.
“You think she’s special?” he sneered. “She just sucks up to management! I bust my back every day selling cars, dealing with customers—”
“Denis, please,” Yeseniya tried again.
“What, Denis?” He spun toward her. “The truth hurts? She sits in her comfy office, clicking a mouse — and now she’s a star?” He grabbed his glass, spilling the drink. “And I’m just… nothing now? A zero?”
The table shrank from the awkwardness.
But Denis wasn’t done:
“Maybe I should just quit work altogether! Ha! My wife’s a milk factory! Why work at all?”
The clang of cutlery on a plate cut the silence.
Tatyana turned pale.
Mikhail frowned.
And Dima, the young programmer known for his smoke-break jokes, suddenly stood up.
“You should apologize,” he said.
Denis turned even redder.
“To who? To her?” he pointed at Yeseniya. “She’d be nothing without me! I taught her everything!”
“Taught me what, Denis?” Yeseniya’s voice was quiet, but everyone went silent. “To stay silent when it hurts? To smile when it’s disgusting? To pretend everything’s okay?”
She stood up, smoothed her dress.
“Thank you. Truly. You taught me a lot. Like how some men don’t need wives — they need doormats. To wipe their feet on.”
She turned and walked out.
There was a commotion behind her — sounded like Dima punched Denis. But she didn’t look back.
In the taxi, she didn’t cry.
She stared at the glowing city and thought how glad she was she never had a child with him. How right she was to insist on her goals. How necessary it was to hear those words — “milk factory” — to finally wake up and stop pretending.
She woke at six.
Her head buzzed — not from alcohol, but thoughts. Denis was still asleep on the living room couch, reeking of booze. On the coffee table: an empty cognac bottle and a toppled wedding photo.
She grabbed four large garbage bags from the closet and started packing his things.
At nine, the doorbell rang.
Denis stirred. “What… what’s going on?” he mumbled.
“I’m changing the locks,” she said, opening the door for the locksmith.
“Why?”
“So you don’t come back.”
He sat up, stunned. “You serious? Over last night? I just had too much!”
“No, Denis. Not over last night. Your things are by the door. Documents are in the side pocket of your bag. You can leave the keys here.”
While the locksmith worked, Denis silently got dressed. At the door, he turned back:
“You’ll regret this.”
“I already don’t,” she replied.
The divorce was fast and quiet.
Yeseniya dove into work. Then one day, Denis showed up at her office unannounced.
“Hey… look, I got fired. Maybe you could take me on? I mean, I am—”
“An ex-husband?” she looked up. “Sorry, we’re an all-female team. Company policy.”
He lingered awkwardly.
“You know, I was harsh back then. But you made it. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks,” she smiled. “Close the door behind you. You can send your resume to HR — they reply to everyone.”
The phone rang. Her younger sister:
“Esy, guess what? I got the job! I’m a financial director now too!”
“Congrats, baby!” Yeseniya beamed. “Get ready — there’s a lot of work.”
“I can handle it! I’ve got you — you’ll teach me everything.”
“I will,” she said, glancing at a childhood photo of the two of them. “Just remember — never let anyone call you a milk factory.”
Laughter echoed through the phone.
“You’ll definitely teach me that! Hey, maybe we should start something together? Our own business?”
“Maybe,” Yeseniya grabbed her bag. “Come over this weekend. We’ll talk.”
She walked to the metro.
People rushed past — tired, serious, each with their own story. She knew: some of them were just like her. Brave enough to start over. To believe in themselves. To learn to say no.
At home, she kicked off her shoes, turned on the kettle, and opened her laptop. She sketched out a new business idea — with her sister. Something simple and useful. No flash, no ego.
Maybe accounting workshops for beginners? Or consulting for women launching their own ventures?
Rain tapped at the window.
She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and smiled at her thoughts.
Tomorrow would be a new day.
And it would definitely be better than the last.
