“Galia, where’s my gray turtleneck? And why is there no cottage cheese in the fridge? Mom specifically told you to buy it yesterday.”
Galina Sergeyevna stopped mid-motion at the sink, a plate still in her hands. Viktor Nikolayevich stood in the kitchen doorway, already dressed to head out to a job site, irritated and rushed. Behind him loomed his mother, wearing a faded, well-worn robe.
“It’s in the closet, on the shelf with the winter things,” Galina answered quietly. “And the cottage cheese… I didn’t have any money.”
“What do you mean you didn’t have any?” Valentina Pavlovna pushed past her son. “Vitenka gave you money last week!”
Galina lowered her gaze. That money had gone toward the utility bill and medicine—medicine for the very woman now scolding her. But explaining was useless. In this home, her words didn’t count.
“Stop standing there like a statue!” Viktor snapped. “I’m late for work and you’re rambling. Borrow from Ninka—she’s your friend, isn’t she?”
He slammed the closet door, yanked out the turtleneck, and vanished into the hallway. Valentina Pavlovna shook her head, wearing the expression of a long-suffering saint.
“You’re exhausting him, Galochka. The man works like an ox and gets no peace at home. In my day, wives behaved differently.”
The front door banged shut. Silence blanketed the apartment. Galina mechanically finished her sandwich with margarine—real butter was bought only when guests came or on holidays. Why did she endure it? Why couldn’t she say she taught six lessons a day at school, ran a homeroom, prepared students for exams—and then came home to wash, clean, and cook for three people? All of it on the crumbs her husband “graciously” handed over for “women’s expenses.”
The doorbell interrupted her thoughts. Nina Ivanovna, a neighbor from the fifth floor, stood on the threshold with a bag of groceries.
“Gal, how are you? You look upset again.”
“I’m fine,” Galina answered automatically, letting her in.
“Oh, please,” Nina said, walking straight into the kitchen. “You’re forty-five, and you still blush like a girl every time someone snaps at you. What happened now?”
And something inside Galina finally broke. The words poured out—about the cottage cheese she couldn’t afford, the constant reproaches, the money that was never enough for even the simplest needs, the mother-in-law who treated her like household staff.
“Do you realize this apartment is half yours?” Nina asked suddenly. “Didn’t you buy it with the money from selling your parents’ place?”
“But the papers are in Viktor’s name…”
“So what?” Nina pulled her chair closer. “You were married. That means you have rights. Listen… what if you—”
She didn’t finish the sentence, but Galina understood. Her chest clenched—part fear, part something dangerously close to hope. Divorce? After thirty years? But how? How would she live? What would the children say?
“Just think about it,” Nina said softly. “Do you really want to spend the rest of your life as a servant?”
When the neighbor left, Galina sat at the kitchen table for a long time, staring out the window. Children played in the courtyard, young mothers pushed strollers, teenagers zipped by on scooters. Life was bustling all around, while she watched it as if from behind aquarium glass.
That evening Viktor returned late, tired and hungry. Galina reheated dinner, served it, cleared the table. The familiar ritual, polished by decades. He talked about work without expecting a reply—she’d long since turned into background noise for him, part of the room.
“By the way, I’m leaving tomorrow on a business trip for a week,” he tossed out, flipping through TV channels. “Tver. Need to close a project there. I’ll take travel money from your salary—mine’s already gone.”
Galina looked up from the socks she was darning.
“And the utilities? They’re due tomorrow…”
“Borrow from someone,” Viktor said, never looking away from the screen. “From Ninka again. I’ll pay it back later.”
Later. How many times had she heard that? And how many times had she ended up making excuses to people when the money was never returned?
That night, lying beside her husband’s loud snoring, Galina stared at the ceiling. Nina’s question looped in her mind: You don’t want to spend the rest of your life as a servant, do you?
And once, she had been different. In teachers’ college they’d chosen her as class representative; her classmates came to her for advice. She had dreamed of a big love, a marriage of equals, children raised in respect and understanding. What happened? When had she agreed to become a shadow?
The next day Galina saw Viktor off on his trip. He left by taxi, tossing his usual instructions over his shoulder: “Look after my mother, don’t forget her medicine, and keep the house in order.”
Valentina Pavlovna settled into the living room in front of the TV with a cup of tea.
“Galochka, could you buy me some cookies? I’m craving something sweet.”
“Buy them with what?” Galina blurted before she could stop herself.
Her mother-in-law stared at her in disbelief.
“With what? With your teacher’s salary, of course.”
“The salary that goes to your medicine and the utility bills.”
“Oh, I see!” Valentina Pavlovna stood up. “So you’re stingy with a sick old woman! For thirty years I treated you like my own daughter, and you—”
Galina listened to the familiar accusations and suddenly realized: enough. Enough apologizing for daring to spend her wages on necessities. Enough feeling guilty because she couldn’t buy cookies with money that didn’t exist.
“Valentina Pavlovna,” she interrupted, “I’m going to the doctor. My head hurts.”
It was a lie. Galina was going to see a lawyer.
She’d found the address of a legal office online the day before. On the bus, she clutched a slip of paper with the address and couldn’t believe she was truly doing it.
Elena Vladimirovna—gray at the temples, eyes alert—listened to her story without surprise.
“Unfortunately, your situation is very common,” she said. “Psychological pressure through financial control is a typical family pattern. But you have every basis to seek a division of property.”
“And if he refuses? He’ll say all the money is his…”
“The apartment was purchased during the marriage. It doesn’t matter whose name is on the documents. You have the right to half.” The lawyer pulled out forms. “The question is whether you’re ready to fight. He will resist.”
Galina pictured Viktor’s face when a court notice arrived. The shouting, the blame, the pressure. Then she remembered the morning fight over cottage cheese and cookies—remembered thirty years of having to ask for money for the most basic things in her own home.
“I’m ready,” she said.
A week later Viktor returned from the trip suntanned and pleased with himself. Over dinner he bragged about a project wrapped up successfully, about a bonus the boss had promised. Galina listened in silence, thinking about the folder of documents hidden in the linen cupboard.
“By the way, I need to go to the bank tomorrow,” he said, leaning back. “Re-register the deposit. You’ll be home in the morning?”
“I will,” Galina replied softly.
She didn’t tell him that tomorrow morning she was filing for divorce. She would tell him in the evening—after he came back from the bank and discovered that half the funds were frozen by court order.
Elena Vladimirovna had explained: the moment you file a claim for division of property, the court can place restrictions on disputed assets. Viktor wouldn’t learn about it until he tried to access the account.
Galina lay awake that night, imagining the next day. Was she scared? Yes. But for the first time in years she felt her life belonged to her.
In the morning, seeing her husband off, she handed him his briefcase and kissed his cheek like always. He didn’t even notice her hands were trembling.
The courthouse greeted her with cool marble steps and echoing hallways. Galina approached the clerk’s window.
“I’d like to file a claim,” she said—and was startled by how steady her own voice sounded.
An hour later she walked home as a different person. The process had begun. There was no going back.
Around three o’clock her phone rang. Viktor.
“What the hell is this?!” he roared. “They say the account is frozen! What divorce?! What have you done?!”
“I filed in court,” Galina said. “For division of property.”
A long silence, then:
“Have you lost your mind? I’ll be home in half an hour. And you will withdraw that application, do you hear me?”
“I won’t.”
She ended the call and braced herself for the hardest conversation of her life.
Viktor stormed in like a hurricane—yelling, waving his arms, demanding explanations. Valentina Pavlovna wailed in the corner, calling her ungrateful. Galina sat at the kitchen table and stayed silent.
“You ruined my whole life!” Viktor screamed. “I broke my back for you for thirty years! Apartment, car, dacha—everything for you! And you—like a snake…”
“It was all for you,” Galina said evenly. “I was the servant in that house. No money of my own. No decisions. No voice.”
“You don’t understand money!” he grabbed his head. “A woman should handle the home, not meddle in finances!”
“Then a man should provide for his wife,” Galina replied, “instead of making her beg for money just to buy bread.”
The sentence landed like a slap. Viktor froze, then turned sharply and disappeared into his room. The door slammed.
The court date was set two months out. Two months of hell—reproaches, pressure, threats. Their children sided with their father, unable to understand why their mother wanted to “destroy the family.” But Galina held her ground.
On the day of the hearing she wore a strict suit and, for the first time in years, put color on her lips. The courtroom felt stuffy, smelling of paper and nervous sweat. Viktor sat with his attorney, pointedly refusing to look at her.
“Plaintiff, state your position,” the judge said.
Galina stood. Her mouth was dry, but she forced herself to speak.
“Your Honor, for thirty years I lived in a marriage where I was treated as property. I worked, but I had no right to manage my own money. The apartment was purchased with the proceeds from selling my parents’ apartment, but it was registered in my husband’s name. I’m asking the court to restore fairness.”
“She’s lying!” Viktor blurted out. “I provided for her! She lived like royalty!”
“I couldn’t afford cottage cheese,” Galina said quietly. “In recent years I ate bread with margarine because my money went to family expenses and there was nothing left for me. That isn’t living. That’s surviving.”
The proceedings lasted three hours—testimony, document reviews, the origin of funds for the apartment purchase. Finally, the judge left to deliberate.
The decision went in Galina’s favor. She received the right to a one-room apartment and a cash settlement. Not a fortune—but enough to start over.
Viktor walked out without turning back. Valentina Pavlovna shot her daughter-in-law a look full of hate.
“You’ll be alone,” she hissed. “Who will need you now?”
Maybe she was right. But for the first time in thirty years, Galina wasn’t afraid of being alone. She was afraid of only one thing—becoming a shadow in someone else’s life again.
Her new apartment was small but bright: one room, a kitchen, a bathroom. After a three-room place it felt like a toy house. But it was hers.
Galina bought simple furniture, hung photos of her children on the walls, set a geranium on the windowsill. In the evenings she brewed tea and read books—a luxury she’d been denied for years. No one demanded dinner at a set time. No one blasted the TV. No one scolded her for “wasting money” on books.
Gradually the children softened. Dmitry began coming on weekends to help with repairs. Ekaterina brought the grandkids. They started to understand their mother hadn’t destroyed a family—she had saved herself.
One evening Nina Ivanovna called.
“So, Gal—any regrets?”
Galina stood by the window, watching children play in the courtyard. Somewhere far away, in another life, Viktor was probably eating dinner in front of the TV while Valentina Pavlovna complained to some new housekeeper about ungrateful daughters-in-law.
“You know, Nina,” Galina said, “I thought I’d regret it. But instead I regret only one thing—that I didn’t do it sooner. So many years wasted.”
She ended the call and returned to her book. A cup of coffee steamed on the table—she still bought good coffee even though it was expensive. Some things matter more than money. Like the right to be yourself.
