My husband was standing in the hallway. His tie was undone. His face was red from the cold. Or from that conversation with his boss. I don’t know.
“I got promoted!”
I turned away from the stove. The pasta was boiling. Foam was creeping over the edge of the pot. I really should have turned it off. But I just stood there. Looking at him.
“That’s great, Seryozha…”
“Now I’ll definitely divorce you,” he cut me off. “I need a wife that fits my status.”
The pasta boiled over. I turned off the stove.
I didn’t understand right away. Or rather, I understood immediately, but I refused to accept it. My brain wouldn’t put the words together into meaning. “Promoted” is a good word. “Divorce” is a bad one. How can they be in the same sentence?
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
He walked into the living room. I heard the TV click on. The news. The usual evening news about the dollar exchange rate and the weather in the capital.
He sat down to watch TV as if he hadn’t said anything at all.
Seven years. Seven years we’d been together. Eight, if you count the year before the wedding. Back when he was still a “promising young manager,” and I was a “girl with a promising appearance.” That’s how he introduced me to his friends. He was joking. I laughed.
Now he’s the head of a department. And me… Who am I? A wife who doesn’t match his status.
I sat down at the table. Sat down and thought: what am I going to do? Cry? Scream? Smash dishes? That would be logical. That’s what they do in movies. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to understand.
Understand—when? When did I stop measuring up?
A year ago at the office party he introduced me simply as, “This is Lena.” Without “my wife.” Back then I thought: he just forgot. He was nervous. He had a speech to give. About the quarterly figures.
Six months ago he started staying late. “The project’s on fire,” he would say. He came home at midnight. He smelled of… perfume. Women’s perfume. I kept quiet. I thought: the project. Nastya works there, after all. She’s forever bathing in Chanel.
A month ago he stopped kissing me goodnight. He just turned toward the wall. I lay there, staring at the ceiling.
“Are you going to have dinner?” I shouted into the living room.
“I’ve eaten.”
Of course he had. Somewhere. With someone. Someone who suited his status.
I got up. Went to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror. An ordinary face. Not a beauty, but not… either. Light brown hair. Grey eyes. Thirty-one years old. Little wrinkles had already appeared around my eyes. Shallow ones. Mom used to say they were “from smiling.” I hadn’t smiled in a long time.
I took off my sweater. Old. Covered in pills. When was the last time I bought myself something new? I couldn’t remember.
Last week Sergey brought home a bag. A suit. Grey, with a fine pinstripe. Fifty thousand. He spun in front of the mirror for an hour. Kept asking, “Does it look good?”
“It does,” I told him.
And I hadn’t bought anything for myself for… how long? Six months?
I went back to the kitchen. The pasta had stuck together. It lay in the colander in an ugly lump. I took a fork, twirled some, tasted it standing over the sink. Cold. Tasteless.
My phone buzzed. Mom: “How are you, sunshine?”
I stared at the screen. Wondering what to answer. “Hi, Mom. Serezha got promoted. He decided to divorce me. He’s looking for a better wife”?
I typed: “Everything’s great. Kisses.”
She sent back an emoji. A heart. I started crying.
Not loudly. Quietly. The tears just ran down my face. I didn’t wipe them away. Let them. I stood there crying over the sink and the cold pasta.
Sergey came out of the living room. Looked at me. Didn’t come over.
“Don’t make a scene,” he said. “I thought you were reasonable.”
Reasonable. Yes. I’m reasonable. I understand everything. He wants a woman who… Who what? Wears stilettos to corporate parties? Speaks English? Knows the difference between a martini and a mojito? Doesn’t confuse Gucci with Versace?
I’m a village girl. My parents are teachers. I grew up in a two-room Khrushchyovka. Finished college by correspondence. Worked as a sales clerk. Then a cashier. Then…
Then I got married. Serezha brought me into his apartment…
I quit everything. He said, “Why do you need that job? I’ll provide.” And he did. He gave me money for groceries. For utilities. Sometimes for little things.
And now I’d turned into a housewife who doesn’t suit his status.
“I’m leaving,” I said suddenly.
He turned around.
“What?”
“I’ll leave. On my own… I’m going to leave.”
He smirked:
“Where to? To your mom? Back to that little Khrushchyovka?”
“Somewhere.”
“And what will you live on? You don’t have a job. No money. Nothing.”
He was right. I had nothing. For seven years I had invested in him. In his career. In his comfort. Ironed his shirts. Cooked his meals. Listened to his stories about office intrigue. Supported him. And what did I get in return?
“I have a degree,” I said.
“A correspondence degree in human resources management?” He laughed. “Lena, you can’t even put together a proper résumé.”
I stayed silent.
He walked past me into the bedroom. A minute later he came back with a pillow and a throw.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he tossed over his shoulder. “We’ll talk in the morning. Rationally.”
The door closed behind him.
I stood in the kitchen, looking at the clock. Ten p.m. Tomorrow he’d go to work. To his new office. His new position. His new life.
Without me. And me…?
I opened the laptop. The old one. He’d bought himself a new one last year and given me this one. “Use it, I was going to throw it out anyway.”
I opened a job-search site. Stared at the search bar for a long time. What can I do? Cook. Clean. Listen. Wait. Those aren’t professions.
I closed the laptop. Started thinking… Looked up at the ceiling. There was a crack there. A tiny one. I had never noticed it before.
I wonder how long it’s been there?
Or did it appear just today? The way a crack had appeared in my life. No, not a crack—a full-on fracture…
And then I thought: what if…
What if this is a chance? Not an end. A beginning.
I got up. Washed my face with cold water. Looked in the mirror again.
Thirty-one. Not seventy. Not eighty. Thirty-one. You can start over.
You can… You have to.
I went back to the laptop. Opened it. Typed into the search bar: “Job. No experience. Urgent.” There were lots of listings. So many. I started reading.
Somewhere behind the wall Sergey was watching TV. Laughing at a comedy. His life went on as usual. Everything was fine for him.
And me? I had a laptop screen. A blinking cursor. And a strange feeling in my chest. Not fear. Not anger. Something else. Hope? Maybe.
I smiled. For the first time in a long while.
The morning began with the smell of coffee.
Not mine. His. Sergey was standing at the coffee machine. In his new suit. Pressed. I hadn’t ironed it yesterday. So he’d done it himself…
“Morning,” he said.
I didn’t answer. Walked past him into the bathroom. Closed the door. Looked at myself.
I’d slept four hours. My eyes were red. My face creased. But inside—something had changed. I didn’t know exactly what. But it had.
I remembered the night before. The job site. I had sent off three applications right away. Front-of-house at a café. Assistant accountant. Sales assistant in a children’s store.
My phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Elena? This is the café Happiness. You applied for a job yesterday. Can you come in for an interview today?” My heart started pounding.
“Yes. I can. What time?”
“Is two okay?”
“That works.”
I hung up. Looked at my reflection. Smiled.
The first step.
When I came out of the bathroom, Sergey was finishing his coffee. Staring at his phone. Not looking up.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began. “We can do everything in a civilized way. I don’t want any drama. You’ll get a settlement. Small, of course. But enough to get you started.”
“What settlement?” I asked.
“Well… a hundred thousand. That’s enough to rent an apartment for a couple of months. Find a job.”
One hundred thousand. For seven years.
Fourteen thousand a year.
I laughed. I didn’t even know why. I just laughed.
“What’s so funny?” He finally looked at me.
“Nothing. Everything.” I shrugged. “You know what, Serezha, keep your hundred thousand. I don’t need it. Benefactor. You’ve completely lost your conscience.”
“You have nowhere to go.”
“I’ll find somewhere.”
He shrugged.
“Suit yourself.”
He grabbed his briefcase. The leather one I’d given him for his birthday two years ago. Back then he’d said, “Was it expensive? You shouldn’t have splurged.” But he was glowing.
The door slammed.
I was alone. I sat down at the table. Poured myself some tea. Looked around the kitchen. An ordinary kitchen. White cabinets. A fridge covered in magnets from our trips. We didn’t travel often. He didn’t like vacations. “Work is more important,” he used to say.
There was a photo on the fridge. Our wedding. We’re both young. Happy. He’s looking at me. I’m looking at him.
When did that end? When did I become nothing to him?
My phone buzzed again.
Mom: “Sunshine, how did you sleep?”
I typed: “Mom. Can I come stay with you? Just for a bit. I’ll explain later.”
The reply came a second later: “Of course! You can always come. What happened?!”
“I’ll tell you later. Love you.”
I got up. Went to the bedroom. Opened the wardrobe. I didn’t have many things. Two sweaters. Three pairs of jeans. A dress I hadn’t worn in three years. Underwear. That’s it.
His clothes took up three-quarters of the closet. Suits. Shirts. Ties. All neatly arranged. I always kept everything tidy.
I took a bag. A big sports bag. Started packing my things. Toiletry bag. Hair dryer. The book I hadn’t finished. A photo of my parents. A notebook with old notes. Everything fit into one bag.
Seven years of life. One bag.
I walked through the apartment. The living room. The hallway. The bathroom. My traces were everywhere. The curtains I’d picked out. The picture on the wall—I brought it from a flea market. The mat by the door—I embroidered it myself.
And what will be left of me here? Nothing. He’ll throw everything out. Renovate. Bring in a new wife. One that suits his status.
She’ll sleep in this bed. Cook on this stove. Hang her own curtains.
And nothing will remind him of me.
Strangely, it didn’t hurt. It just felt… empty.
I closed the door.
Walked down the stairs. Went outside.
It was freezing. Minus fifteen. The snow creaked under my feet. I walked toward the metro. The bag was heavy. But walking felt easy.
The subway car was crowded. I stood by the door, looking out the window. Outside was the darkness of the tunnel. Now and then the lights of stations flashed by.
Next to me sat a girl. Young. About twenty-five. Beautiful. In an expensive coat. She was talking on the phone:
“No, Mom, I’m not going to marry him. He’s nice, but I don’t love him. I don’t want to repeat your mistake. Remember how you said, ‘The main thing is that he provides’? And then cried at night for twenty years?”
I turned away. Twenty years. And I only had seven. I’m in time. It’s not too late yet.
The café Happiness turned out to be small. In an old neighborhood. Windows dusted with snow. Inside it was warm. It smelled of coffee.
Behind the counter stood a woman of about forty-five. Plump. With a kind face.
“Elena?”
“Yes.”
“Come in. I’m Irina. The owner.”
We sat down at a table. She poured some coffee and pushed the cup toward me.
“You don’t have any work experience, did I get that right?”
“Yes. I haven’t worked for seven years. I was… married.”
“Was?”
“I left yesterday.”
Irina nodded.
“I understand. I went through the same thing. Fifteen years ago. He left me for his secretary. I was left with two kids. Not a penny to my name. I wanted to die.”
She smiled:
“But here I am. I’m alive. I opened a café. The kids grew up. Everything’s fine.”
“Will you hire me?” I asked. “I’ll work hard. I’ll learn everything. Honestly.”
Irina looked me in the eyes. For a long moment. Then held out her hand:
“You start tomorrow. Eight a.m. The salary isn’t big yet. But meals are on me. And you keep the tips.”
I shook her hand.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. We women have to help each other.”
I left the café and sat down on a bench outside.
My phone buzzed.
Sergey: “Where are you?”
I looked at the message. Thought for a bit.
I wrote back: “Doesn’t matter.”
He was typing for a long time. Then came:
“Seriously? You really left?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“To a new life.”
He didn’t write again.
I got up. Walked back toward the metro. Toward Mom. To that same Khrushchyovka. Where it’ll be cramped. Where the furniture is old. Where Mom will sigh, “Oh, sunshine, how could this happen?!”
But where it will be warm.
And where I’m not a nobody. Not a wife who doesn’t match someone’s status. Just Lena. Thirty-one years old. With my whole life ahead of me.
The snow was falling in big flakes. Landing on my shoulders. Melting. I walked on. Without looking back.
For the first time in seven years, I wasn’t thinking about my husband… And you know what? It felt like freedom.
