Breakfast with a Taste of Betrayal
Larisa stood by the stove, poking at the omelet with a spoon, which had long since turned into a soggy rag left out in the rain. The smell of coffee, burnt milk, and something else—an unsettling hint of someone else’s lies—lingered in the air. She frowned. Boris had been acting strange. This morning, he had walked around the apartment like a passerby in an airport—socks misplaced, a newspaper on the windowsill, his phone left in the fridge.
«Borya, what’s going on?» she asked, her head tilting with just a touch of irony, as though she truly expected a clear answer.
Boris looked at her with a face that suggested he was about to say something like «you’re adopted,» and sighed heavily.
«Lara… I’ve been thinking…» he said, in the tone of someone selling you a phone without a charger.
«What now?» she interrupted, glaring up at him.
«We need to sell the apartment,» he blurted out, as if it were a casual thing to say, like discussing a phone case.
«Our apartment?» Larisa asked with deliberate calm, setting her spoon aside and turning her body sharply, like a rocket preparing to launch.
Boris shrugged, as though they were discussing changing a phone case.
«Well… yeah. We don’t need all this space. You always said it was hard to clean.»
Inside, Larisa screamed, but outwardly, she clenched her teeth. She wanted to shout, «You clean it yourself, Borya,» but she was a lady. Until a certain point.
«And when were you planning to discuss this with me, Boris Anatolyevich? Before or after signing the papers?»
Boris pretended to think, genuinely, as if a decision was some rare, exotic thing that could be casually discussed over coffee and a pastry.
«Well, I thought… I’d tell you later. Didn’t want to stress you out.»
Larisa laughed. Loudly. Bitterly. Like someone who realized they’d just been taken for a fool.
«Of course. Why stress? Here I am… moving furniture, picking out things, and it turns out you’ve already packed me up with the apartment and sent me off to good hands.»
Boris began to squirm. Larisa had seen this a thousand times. He always did this when he was lying or trying to sneak some treachery under the guise of «I’ll take care of everything.»
«Lara, what are you starting with? Everything will be fine. We’ll buy a smaller place in a good neighborhood, we’ll have money left…»
«For what, Boris? For your debts?» she cut him off, crossing her arms.
Boris froze. For a second—just a second—panic flashed in his eyes. Then he tried to pull his usual friendly mask back on, but it was too late. Larisa had figured it all out.
This breakfast, this omelet, this coffee with a bitter aftertaste—it was the beginning of the end.
Larisa didn’t go to work. She sat on the kitchen floor, staring out the window, hearing in her mind the painful and slow assembling of the puzzle of their «happy» family life.
At lunch, Anton, her son, came by. Tall, messy-haired, wearing a jacket over a t-shirt like a typical member of the «whatever» generation.
«Mom, why’d you send me like two hundred messages this morning?» he grumbled, tossing his sneakers aside.
Larisa looked at him, and her eyes immediately stung. She gasped for air like a drowning person before their final dive.
«Anton, your dad… he wants to sell the apartment.»
Anton, without blinking, asked:
«With the furniture, or separately?»
Larisa smirked. The sense of humor really ran in the family.
«Separately, son. For now, separately.»
They silently drank their coffee, exchanging short phrases like chess players making their final moves in a hopeless game.
«Mom, don’t worry. I’ll help you,» Anton suddenly said, his voice carrying something new. Maturity, perhaps.
Larisa suddenly realized: she had at least one ally. And sometimes, one ally was enough to win an entire war.
The Truth Comes Out
The next day, Larisa was taking a walk to clear her mind when she ran into Nina Semyonovna, an old neighborhood friend, a woman who knew everything about everyone, and maybe a bit more.
«Larisochka, have you heard the news?» Nina Semyonovna whispered eagerly, sipping from her thermos like a secret agent.
«What news?» Larisa squinted suspiciously. Nina was glowing like an iPhone on display.
«Your Boris… he’s been in debt for a while, you know? Oh, did you think he was going to work? Ha! He’s been visiting banks, trying to cover his loans.»
Larisa stood still, feeling as if her world was cracking like an old mirror under a hammer.
«What?!» she gasped, her face burning with anger.
Nina Semyonovna was only too happy to continue.
«And it’s not just loans. There’s something else… looks like he signed as a guarantor for someone. That person took off abroad. Now your Boris is left alone on the stage. A clown in a helmet.»
Larisa listened, and with every word, something inside her churned. No, it wasn’t hurt. Hurt had died a long time ago and dried up. It was anger. Pure, clear anger, like the first morning cigarette.
In the evening, she went to see Elena Sergeevna, a lawyer she’d met at her old job. Elena was strict, silent, with eyes that seemed to see through you, past your sins.
«Larisa, listen carefully,» Elena said, tapping her pen on the table. «Is the apartment in your name?»
«In mine.»
«Then without your consent, he can only dream about selling it. At most, he could list it on Avito with the note, ‘preferably without the owner.'»
Larisa smirked.
«But if he pushes hard,» Elena continued, «he might try to prove in court that the property is joint. That would drag on for a long time. It’ll drain your nerves in no time.»
«What should I do?»
Elena nodded.
«Get a prenuptial agreement. Or immediately file for division of property. And yes, ask Boris to live separately. Preferably far away, and no contact.»
Larisa listened and felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time: for the first time in ages, she wasn’t the victim. She was the player. And players don’t cry. They strike first.
To Hell with It
Evening. Larisa sat at the kitchen table. A cup of tea sat before her, cold now, looking more like tap water than anything refreshing. She was running through everything she was going to say in her mind, trying to rehearse. But inside, a storm was brewing, so fierce that any rehearsal felt like a «tea ceremony» before a hurricane.
Boris came home late, smelling of someone else’s perfume, with the look of a man who dropped something but was still hoping no one would notice.
«Oh, you’re home,» he said casually, hanging up his coat. «Why are you sitting in the dark like Baba Yaga at a union meeting?»
«I’m waiting for you, Borya,» Larisa said calmly, though her voice trembled like a string about to snap.
Boris froze, sensing that tonight could be either fun or terrifying. Or both.
«Listen, let’s talk tomorrow, okay? I’m tired, like a dog without a tail.»
Larisa stood up. Slowly. Clearly.
«No, Boris. Tonight. Right now.»
He sat down at the table, theatrically sighing as if they were about to pull his soul out through the rear end.
«What’s wrong now, Lara?» he asked tiredly, even lazily.
Larisa crossed her arms.
«You wanted to sell the apartment behind my back. You wanted to throw me out on the street for your debts. You’ve been lying to me every day.» She paused. «I know everything, Boris. Everything.»
He stared at her. First, surprise. Then, anger. Then, contempt.
«What did you expect?» he suddenly snapped. «To live in your golden cage and not notice everything falling apart?»
Larisa exhaled sharply.
«And you decided to pull us out of the shit at the cost of my apartment?»
Boris leaned forward, his eyes glowing with some murky light.
«I was saving you, by the way! And you sat at home, filing your nails and making cabbage soup!»
She laughed. Loudly. So loudly that the neighbor’s dog barked in sync.
«Saving me?!» Larisa tilted her head, studying him like a microbe under a microscope. «Uh-huh. The savior. Were you paying off your debts with the women?»
Boris flinched. In a split second, it was over. He’d been caught.
«What? What women?» he stammered, but it was too late.
Larisa grabbed an empty mug from the table and threw it at the wall. The crash was so loud that Boris’s left eyelid twitched.
«Don’t make a fool out of me, Borya!» Larisa screamed, no longer holding back her volume or her emotions. «I know about that… that twenty-year-old from work! About her boobs, your bouquets, and rented apartments! Did you think I’d never find out?!»
Boris jumped up.
«And it’s your fault! You turned into a boring housewife! Always tired, always unhappy! I just wanted… to live, you know?!»
«You wanted to live?!» Larisa laughed hysterically. «Eat at my expense, sleep with whoever you want, and then tell me about a new apartment?! You’re just a pathetic traitor, Borya!»
Boris came closer, his face twisted.
«You’re not my mother, and you’re not my judge!»
«No, Borya,» Larisa sneered coldly. «My mother already kicked you out, and now I’m going to be the judge. For myself.»
She grabbed the documents from the table—the prenuptial agreement and the property division notice—and slammed them down in front of him.
«Sign. Or pack your bags and go live with your young ‘life.'»
Boris stood there, staring at the papers like they were a death sentence. His hands trembled. His shoulders slumped.
He suddenly looked old. Pathetic. And for the first time in years, Larisa looked at him without pain. Just with cold, icy indifference.
«Don’t think I can’t live without you,» she added quietly. «I can. And you know what? I already have.»
Boris didn’t respond. Then he threw the pen on the table and went to gather his things.
Larisa watched him go. No tears. No regrets. Just a small, tired smile.
Like at the funeral of a person who dug their own grave.
A week later, Larisa sat in the same spot, at the kitchen table, with a cup of hot tea and a new feeling inside. She was alone. Free. Clean. And for the first time in many years—happy.
Anton came in the evening.
«So, mom, how are you?»
Larisa smiled.
«Better than anyone, son. Now I even have a life plan. Want to hear it?»
Anton sat down across from her, looking at her with interest.
«What is it?»
Larisa raised her cup like a toast.
«Never confuse a life preserver with a noose around your neck.»
Anton burst out laughing. Real, contagious laughter.
And for the first time in a long time, Larisa felt that everything would be fine. Damn it, it already was.
