Andrey pushed the apartment door open with his shoulder since his hands were full. In one hand — a briefcase, in the other — a box with a new smartphone he had bought on the way home. Inside, everything tightened with a familiar feeling of guilt, but he forced himself to straighten his shoulders. Successful people buy good phones. It’s an investment in image, in the future.
“Lena, I’m home!” he shouted, kicking off his shoes.
Silence. From the kitchen came no usual sizzling of the frying pan, no smell of fried onions or stewed meat. Andrey went into the living room where Lena sat on the couch with a book, not lifting her eyes.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked, trying to keep a light tone.
“Nothing,” his wife replied, without looking up from the page.
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“Just didn’t cook.”
In ten years of marriage, this had never happened once. Lena always greeted him with dinner, even when she herself came home tired from work.
“Lena, are you sick?” he stepped closer, sat on the edge of the couch.
She finally looked up. There was no anger or irritation in her eyes — only some strange determination.
“No. Just didn’t have money to buy groceries. So, there’s nothing to eat.”
“How can there be nothing to eat?” the husband protested.
Lena carefully marked her place in the book and looked at the box in his hands.
“But you helped everyone and bought yourself a phone,” the wife answered calmly.
Andrey felt his face flush. The phone had really cost a lot — almost half his salary. But doesn’t she understand? His old smartphone constantly froze, and with a phone like that, it’s uncomfortable to show up at business meetings.
“That… it’s necessary for work,” he mumbled. “Image is important.”
“And I paid the rent,” Lena continued in the same even tone. “And the utilities. And sent money to your mother for medicine. And your brother called, asking to borrow for yet another business idea.”
Each word hit like a whip. Andrey knew she was right but couldn’t admit it. He couldn’t explain what churned inside him every time he looked at his paycheck.
“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “Do you think it’s easy for me? I work twelve hours a day.”
“I know,” Lena nodded. “And that’s why I don’t understand why you pretend things are fine when they’re not.”
Pretending. The word hung in the air between them. Andrey turned toward the window where lights in the opposite buildings were already coming on. In every window — someone’s life, someone’s problems. Surely there are families where the husband earns more, where they don’t have to count every kopeck.
“You can make dinner from what’s at home,” he said without turning. “Some pasta, maybe.”
“You can,” Lena agreed. “But I won’t.”
He spun around sharply. There was no anger in her eyes — only exhaustion. Deep, draining exhaustion of someone tired of fighting windmills.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m tired of pretending everything is okay. Tired of saving on everything so you can play the successful man.”
The words burned like acid. Andrey felt his nerves tighten into a knot. She didn’t understand. No one did — what it’s like to come to work and see the condescending looks of colleagues who earn twice as much. What it’s like to hear his mother sigh into the phone: “If your father were alive, he wouldn’t let me be in need.” What it’s like to know the younger brother thinks he’s a loser but still asks for money because there’s no one else to turn to.
“You don’t understand,” he said hoarsely. “I have responsibilities.”
“To whom?” Lena got up from the couch, and he saw she was trembling. “To your mother who gets a pension just below your salary but is used to you topping her up? To your brother, who at thirty still hasn’t learned to take care of himself? Or to colleagues who don’t even notice whether your phone is old or new?”
“It’s not that simple…”
“It is!” she raised her voice for the first time that evening. “Very simple. We live beyond our means. I work alongside you, but you make all the financial decisions. And when there’s not enough money, I’m the one to blame.”
Andrey was silent. He couldn’t explain to her that every day he wakes up thinking he’s a failure. That his salary is a sentence, a mark of incompetence. That every purchase is an attempt to silence the voice inside whispering, “You’re worth nothing.”
“Last week,” Lena continued, her voice quieter, “I met Katya Morozova. Remember my classmate? She said her husband is looking for a competent specialist for his company. The salary is one and a half times your current one, plus benefits.”
Andrey flinched. He remembered Morozova — a confident girl from the parallel class who always knew what she wanted.
“And what did you say?”
“That you’d think about it.”
“I don’t want to work because of connections.”
“Why?” Lena stepped toward him. “Why are you ready to sit in one place for years, earning peanuts and complaining about life, but afraid to try something new?”
The question hung in the air. Andrey knew the answer but couldn’t say it aloud. He was afraid. Afraid they wouldn’t hire him. Afraid they would but he wouldn’t cope. Afraid to admit he really was worth nothing.
“That’s not how it works,” he muttered. “You can’t just take and change jobs.”
“You can. People do it every day.” Lena sat back down on the couch. “But for that, you have to admit something’s wrong. And you prefer to buy new phones and pretend everything’s great.”
Silence stretched between them like a taut string. Andrey looked at the box in his hands. The latest model, all the bells and whistles he’d never need. Twenty-eight thousand rubles. Almost half his salary.
“Tomorrow I’ll call Katya,” Lena said. “I’ll arrange a meeting.”
“Don’t.”
“Then call yourself.”
“Lena…”
“Or start looking for a job yourself. Make a resume, send it to companies. You have good experience, great recommendations. You can find something better.”
Andrey closed his eyes. Inside, everything ached from fear and shame. He imagined calling strangers, going to interviews, being judged and weighed. Risking hearing, “Sorry, you’re not suitable.”
“What if it doesn’t work out?”
“What if it does?” Lena approached, touched his hand. “Andrey, you know this can’t go on. We live paycheck to paycheck, borrow money at the end of the month, and you keep spending on what we can’t afford.”
“I can’t tell Mom I don’t have money.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” he hesitated. “Because she thinks I’m successful. She’s proud of me.”
“So it’s better to go into debt than admit you’re an ordinary man with an ordinary salary?”
Andrey was silent. Deep down, he knew she was right. He knew his mother loved him not for money, that his brother was just used to getting everything ready-made, that colleagues really didn’t care about his phone. But that knowledge was like a splinter — it hurt but he couldn’t pull it out.
“Let’s make a plan,” Lena suggested. “Sit down and honestly count what we spend and on what. Decide what we can give up. And start looking for you a new job.”
“What if I can’t handle it?”
“You will.” She took his hands. “I believe in you. Always have. That’s why I married you.”
Andrey looked into her eyes and suddenly saw what he hadn’t noticed before. Exhaustion. Not from work, not from the household — from him. From his fears, from his unwillingness to change, from his attempts to pretend to be someone he’s not.
“Sorry,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For making you live in this… this theater.”
Lena smiled — for the first time that evening.
“You don’t make me. I choose it myself. But I’m tired of choosing silence.”
Andrey nodded. Something inside shifted like tectonic plates. Scary, painful, but inevitable.
“All right,” he said. “Tomorrow you’ll call Katya. And I… I’ll make a resume.”
“And you’ll talk to Mom. Honestly.”
“And with Mom.”
“And with your brother.”
“And with my brother,” he sighed.
Lena hugged him. He felt the tension gradually leave her body. And inside himself, on the contrary, everything tightened with the upcoming talks and decisions.
“What about dinner?” he asked into her shoulder.
“I’ll make it,” she laughed. “From what we have.”
They went to the kitchen. Andrey put the phone box on the table and looked at it. Tomorrow he would take it back to the store. For the first time in his life, he would return a purchase not because it was broken, but because it was the wrong choice.
“You know,” he said, taking out the pasta, “maybe it’s good you didn’t cook.”
“Why?”
“Because otherwise, we’d just keep living like we did.”
Lena nodded silently. She turned on the stove and put a pot of water on it. Ordinary pasta with whatever was in the fridge. Not a festive dinner, but an honest one.
And in that honesty, there was something liberating.
Andrey took his old phone from his pocket — cracked screen and all — and dialed his mother’s number. Long rings, then a familiar voice:
“Andryusha! How are you, son?”
“Mom,” he said, watching Lena stir the pasta in the pot, “we need to talk.”
