Elena had been racking her brain for a long time trying to come up with a gift for her husband.
No idea seemed good enough. In desperation, she asked him directly. Artem’s answer was abrupt and unexpected:
— “A premium gym membership.”
— “But you hate working out?” she asked, genuinely surprised, her brow furrowing.
— “I don’t need it! You get one. You’ve really let yourself go. It’s embarrassing in front of my friends—they see what I spend my salary on,” he snapped.
Elena flushed red, tears welling in her eyes. Her mother’s old advice echoed in her mind: “Listen to your husband, Lenochka, he’s the head of the family.”
If Artem said it, maybe something really was wrong with her.
She silently cleared the table, scrubbed the kitchen until it sparkled, and went to the bathroom. A large wall mirror hung there. Elena examined her reflection—rounded hips, soft belly, fuller cheeks…
“He’s right. I need to lose weight. But only after the holiday. I can’t serve an empty table to guests—I’ve planned so many dishes… The diet can wait,” she decided, and returned to the bedroom. Turning off the light, she lay down. She desperately craved warmth, some sign of affection, but Artem only muttered something in response to her timid “Goodnight” and turned away.
— “He’s just tired. It’s fine,” she reassured herself again, biting her lip.
The next day, Elena came home from work carrying heavy grocery bags and immediately got to work in the kitchen. The aromas of spices and baked goods soon filled the apartment. She was an excellent baker—her cakes and pastries were in high demand at the local café, and some acquaintances even placed bulk orders for events. But Artem had long stopped noticing her talent. He took it for granted—though he loved showing off to his friends, pretending that the lavish meals were his way of taking care of his “abundant household.”
Before the holiday, he had given her a long list of dishes with a barked command: “I want everything—rich, tasty, don’t let me down!”
Elena was exhausted. Her arms ached, her back throbbed. But by the time the guests arrived, the table was stunning: aspic, stuffed fish, several kinds of salads, and a mountain of pastries.
The celebration seemed a success. The guests, seated, looked around for the host.
— “Where’s Artem? Late again?” asked Roman, an old family friend, with light irony.
— “He said he’s working…” Elena smiled, trying to cover for him.
Finally, Artem showed up, slamming the door loudly.
— “Got held up at work. Met Natasha at the bus stop, gave her a ride,” he said casually, ushering Natasha in.
She was an old friend of Elena’s, so no one questioned her presence, though her outfit—too casual for a party—and overly bright makeup drew a few confused glances.
Smiling broadly, Natasha took the seat next to Artem, pushing the chair back. Elena had to squeeze in at the edge of the table, on an uncomfortable stool usually kept in the corner.
— “You’ll be up serving us anyway,” Artem waved her off when she approached. “Besides, why sit? You’re on a diet! Dish up some salad. Natasha, want some aspic? Or watching your figure?” he added with faux concern.
— “My figure’s perfect,” Natasha laughed, straightening smugly. “But I won’t say no to your aspic, Artem! I know Elena worked hard.”
— “I’ll bring it out,” Elena ignored the barb and went to fetch it. “Please pass the plates.”
The aspic was meaty, firm, with crystal-clear broth. Guests dug in eagerly. But Artem frowned.
— “Too much meat. Have you forgotten how to cook?” he said loudly, pushing the plate aside.
— “Isn’t it good that there’s lots of meat?” Roman asked, surprised. “I think it’s excellent. Perfect texture.”
— “Of course it’s bad! I like the jelly part. This isn’t pig slop. It should be elegant,” Artem snapped. “It’s about aesthetics.”
— “You’re nitpicking, Artem,” said Anya, Elena’s sister, gently but firmly.
— “Fine. Elena just cooks like she’s selling it. Look at this egg pie, for example…” Artem theatrically broke it in half. “See?”
— “What?” asked a guest.
— “Too much dough. Barely any filling. Trying to save money?” he said, taking a bite of crust and tossing the rest aside.
Elena looked at the pie, then at her husband, heart sinking. She had tried so hard. He had picked the one with the least filling—the last one on the tray, the one she’d meant to keep for herself.
— “Mine has plenty of filling,” Anya said loudly, showing her pie. “Elena, don’t listen to him. Everything is absolutely delicious. You’re amazing!”
— “Yes, yes, it’s delicious!” guests echoed in chorus.
— “Thanks… I tried,” Elena whispered.
— “I baked last week too. Remember, Artem? You came over for tea,” Natasha couldn’t help chiming in. “Cherry pies.”
— “Now those were perfect. Real homemade stuff,” Artem said warmly, looking at Natasha. “Not some store-bought junk.”
Elena felt a pang. She hadn’t touched any food herself, hiding behind excuses. She cleaned the table and went to the kitchen. In the fridge waited her secret hope and dread: a cake she’d made from a new recipe—light, with yogurt cream and berries, not the rich chocolate Napoleon Artem usually demanded. She already regretted the experiment.
“He’ll say I skimped on cream again,” she thought miserably.
Carrying the tray with the cake and tea, her hands trembled. She didn’t notice the cat darting underfoot, let out a yelp, stumbled, and the cake flew.
It hit the table with a sad splatter. Tea spilled across the new white tablecloth, soaking napkins and dishes.
Silence. Then Artem’s voice, cold and furious:
— “How can you be so clumsy, Elena?! Can’t even carry a cake?! Your fat legs ruined your balance?! Crawl if you can’t walk!”
He raged, not caring about the guests, face burning with anger.
Elena was pale as a sheet. Her toe throbbed with pain, her chest heaved with silent sobs. She couldn’t breathe.
— “We need a cloth,” Natasha said practically, standing up. “It’s already soaked through.”
— “I’ll help,” Anya jumped in. Guests moved—some fetching cloths, some clearing dishes, some helping Elena up.
Only Artem kept shouting:
— “You ruined everything! The cake, the tablecloth—you idiot!”
Elena snapped. Breaking free from her sister’s hands, she limped to the bathroom, slammed the door, and collapsed onto the toilet seat, sobbing uncontrollably. Her toe pulsed, but her soul hurt more.
“How could he? I tried so hard…” she whispered.
— “Elena? Are you okay? Need help?” Roman’s calm voice came from behind the door.
— “I’m fine…” she lied, trying to steady her voice.
— “The guests are leaving. They’re asking for you. Will you say goodbye?”
— “Yes… sure.” She tried to stand but gasped in pain.
— “What’s wrong?”
— “My toe… It’s horribly swollen. I can’t stand.”
— “Hang on, I’m coming in.” Roman unlocked the door and assessed her toe.
— “You need to go to urgent care. Could be a fracture.”
— “Who’ll take me? It’s so late…” she mumbled.
— “I’ll call a taxi. I’ll help you get there.”
The guests had gone. Only Anya was still cleaning. When Artem saw Elena limping, he exploded:
— “You just had to ruin the evening?! No common sense at all!”
— “She might have a fracture,” Roman intervened. “She can’t even step on her foot.”
— “No wonder—eating like that, of course her legs give out,” Artem sneered.
— “Enough,” Roman snapped, calling a taxi and helping Elena into the car. “Artem, you coming?”
— “Why would I? You two seem fine without me.”
Roman clenched his jaw and said nothing.
At the hospital, doctors confirmed a severe bruise. They wrapped her foot and sent her home. Elena didn’t want to return to the house where she’d just been humiliated. She went to her sister’s.
The next morning, Roman came.
He brought flowers, medicine, and breakfast. His quiet kindness stunned Elena.
— “Elena…” he began gently when Anya stepped out. “I’ve wanted to say this for a while… Maybe you and Artem should split. Living like this—it’s not respect.”
— “Where would I go? Who’d want me? I’m in my thirties… and like this…” She tugged awkwardly at her robe.
— “I want you,” Roman said firmly, looking her in the eyes. “I’ve loved you for a long time. And Artem’s been with Natasha for months. You really didn’t see?”
— “You must be wrong…” she whispered, but a chill of truth ran through her.
She thanked Roman, said goodbye to her sister, and went home. She didn’t call Artem. She had her own key.
She regretted it.
Artem wasn’t there. But Natasha was.
Asleep. In Elena’s bed. On her pillows.
— “How could you?!” Elena whispered, pale.
— “Thought they admitted you to the hospital,” Natasha stretched, smug. “But honestly… this is better. No more hiding. It’s simple now.”
— “Exactly,” Elena said—surprised at her own calm voice.
No yelling. No tears. She turned and walked out. Called Roman from the elevator.
— “See?” he said, not smug—just sad. “And you didn’t believe me.”
— “Your offer… is it still open?” she asked.
— “More than ever. I’m on my way.”
He kept his word.
First they moved in together. Then came the quick, cold divorce. Artem’s only concern? Whether Elena would try to claim his watch collection.
Roman married her. One day, holding her by the waist—never thin, never needing to be—he said, warmly but firmly:
— “Forget dieting. You’re beautiful. Smart, kind… Artem was a fool. His loss—my gain. More warmth for me.”
Elena smiled, leaning into him. No more biting insults. No more shame. Her new husband cherished her—entirely, unconditionally. For the first time in years, she could breathe.
And the apartment? The one she and Artem had shared?
It went to her. By court ruling.
That’s when Artem howled like a beaten dog.
But it was too late.
