Gennady laid two bank cards on the table. One was his. The other was mine. Then he slid his finger between them as if drawing a border.
“Starting today, each of us pays for our own food. I’m done covering meals I don’t even eat. Your salads are your business. My meat is mine. Fair enough.”
I was forty-nine. Married for twenty-two years. We had two grown children — our son was in the army, our daughter was in Saint Petersburg, in her third year at university. And there was my husband, dividing the kitchen into “mine” and “yours.”
I didn’t answer him then. I just tucked my card back into my wallet and walked out of the kitchen.
That was three years ago.
To understand how we ended up there, I need to explain a little. Gennady had always seen himself as the provider. He worked as a construction site foreman and earned well — close to 120,000 rubles a month. I was an accountant at a property management company, making 45,000. Nearly three times less.
For twenty years, I handled our family budget. Groceries, utilities, the children, clothes — everything came from one shared pot. And for twenty years, it worked. Not perfectly, but it worked.
Then the children left home, and Gennady decided that without them, we could start living “differently.”
“Nina, just think about it,” he said, sitting at the kitchen table and turning his watch around his wrist. It was heavy, with a wide metal band. He had bought it for himself six months earlier for 180,000 rubles. “You eat boiled fish, porridge, cottage cheese. I like real meat. Steaks, ribs. Why should I pay for your diet, and you for mine?”
“Real meat.” As if for twenty years I had been feeding him something fake.
I could have argued. I didn’t. I wanted to see where this would lead.
It led somewhere simple. Gennady transferred seven thousand rubles to my card and said,
“Here. For the month. Eat whatever you want. I’ll buy my own food separately.”
Seven thousand. For a month. In 2023. Two hundred thirty rubles a day.
I didn’t scream. I went to the store and bought buckwheat, milk, bread, a pack of butter, ten eggs, and a head of cabbage. It cost 1,200 rubles.
That same evening, Gennady came home from Miratorg with two ribeye steaks at 900 rubles each, a bottle of red wine, and a bag of arugula.
He fried the meat in our shared pan. I sat at the same table eating buckwheat with butter. The smell of steak filled the kitchen — juicy, smoky, peppery.
“Tastes great,” Gennady said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. He didn’t offer me a bite.
I washed my plate and went to the bedroom.
That night, I lay awake doing the math. Not because I was hurt — because I’m an accountant, and numbers are how I cope. His “real meat” lifestyle cost him twenty-five to thirty thousand rubles a month. Steaks, smoked meats from farm shops, cheese from VkusVill, cognac on Fridays. And me? Seven thousand. Buckwheat and cabbage.
The gap was fourfold. Even though the apartment was ours together, the stove was one, the fridge was one. Only the shelves were divided. His were the top ones, crammed full. Mine was the bottom shelf, half-empty.
A month later, I started an Excel sheet. I wrote down every receipt of his I found in the trash or on the table. I wasn’t snooping — he left them out himself. I needed the number. The exact number.
During the first month of our separate-food arrangement, Gennady spent 31,400 rubles on groceries. I spent 6,800. I had 200 rubles left from my seven thousand.
I didn’t spend it. I put it in an envelope. The next month too. And the month after that.
The envelope stayed in the dresser drawer, under my underwear.
Six months later, what I had been waiting for finally happened. Gennady brought friends home.
Saturday, six in the evening. I was washing the hallway floor when the front door slammed and three men came in: Gennady, Oleg — the neighbor from his garage — and Styopa, a coworker from the construction site.
“Nina!” Gennady shouted from the hallway. “Put something on the table! The guys dropped by!”
I wrung out the rag, set down the bucket, and walked out.
“From which budget?” I asked.
Gennady froze. Oleg and Styopa exchanged looks.
“What?” Gennady blinked.
“Which budget is the table coming from? Mine or yours?”
The skin on his neck started turning red. He always flushed from the collar upward, toward his ears.
“What are you talking about? In front of people?”
“You made the rules, Gena. Everyone feeds themselves. My food budget is seven thousand a month. Today is the eighteenth. I have 900 rubles left until the end of the month. That won’t cover three guests.”
Oleg coughed. Styopa stared at the baseboard.
Gennady pulled out his wallet and threw two thousand rubles onto the entryway shelf.
“There. Buy sliced meat and bread.”
I took the money and went to the store. I bought a loaf of bread, a smoked sausage, a jar of pickles, and a box of tea. It came to 1,300 rubles. I put the 700-ruble change back on the same shelf.
When I set everything on the table, Oleg looked at the sausage, the bread, the jar of pickles. Then at me. Then at Gennady.
“Genka, why so modest?” he asked. “You make decent money, don’t you?”
Without a word, Gennady got up, opened his fridge compartment, took out cheese, ham, and olives, and set them beside the rest.
“There,” he said. “That’s mine.”
Oleg looked from “mine” to the “shared” table. From camembert cheese to a thirty-ruble loaf of bread. Then he fell silent.
The men stayed for an hour. They barely talked. Oleg left first, saying his wife was waiting. Styopa followed him.
When the door closed, Gennady turned to me.
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you? You humiliated me.”
“I bought what your money covered. Two thousand for three men buys bread, sausage, and pickles. It’s math, Gena.”
“You could have added some of your own!”
“I had 900 rubles left for the rest of the month. I was saving it for bread and milk.”
He slammed the bedroom door. He didn’t speak to me for two days. Then he cooled off. But nothing changed. Not the budget. Not the rules.
And I added a line to my spreadsheet:
“18th. Guests. His reaction: anger. Expense: 1,300 rubles (his money). Result: embarrassment in front of friends. Conclusion: he won’t cancel the rules, but he also hates looking cheap.”
I still didn’t know the main event was ahead.
His anniversary. Fifty-five years old. Gennady announced it a month in advance.
He was sitting in the kitchen on a Sunday morning, drinking coffee from his large mug and scrolling through his phone.
“Nina,” he said without looking up, “I turn fifty-five in four weeks. I want to celebrate at home. About twenty people. You’ll set the table, right?”
I put the kettle on. Took out my own mug — the small one with the chipped handle.
“From which budget?”
He looked up.
“What, again?”
“No, Gena. Not ‘again.’ It’s the rule you created. Everyone pays for their own food. A banquet for twenty people is not my personal meal. It’s your celebration.”
His neck turned red again.
“You’re serious? I’m asking you for one thing! A milestone birthday! Once in a lifetime!”
“You’re not asking. You’re saying, ‘You’ll set the table.’ Just like three years ago you said, ‘Feed yourself.’”
“So what? You’re not going to cook?”
I took a sip of tea and set the mug down.
“I’ll cook. For myself. Like always.”
He stood up so abruptly that the chair scraped across the floor. His watch flashed on his wrist.
“Do you understand how this will look? Twenty people will come and see your buckwheat on the table?”
“The table will have whatever you pay for. You can order catering. You can buy ready-made food. You can ask Oleg to help. But I’m not throwing a banquet out of the same seven thousand rubles that cover my food for a month.”
He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the fuses rattled on the shelf in the hallway.
I sat there alone. My tea was cooling. Outside, October rain was drifting down — one of those gray, colorless days. My fingers tightened around the chipped mug. It was hot, nearly burning, but I didn’t let go.
Three years. One thousand ninety-five days of separate meals. Buckwheat, cabbage, eggs, sometimes chicken drumsticks on sale. And him — steaks, cheese, wine. Same kitchen. Same table.
And now: “Set the table.” For twenty people. For his birthday.
That evening I called Valentina and told her everything.
“Nina,” she said after a pause, “you do realize that if you don’t cook, his whole family will devour you alive?”
“I know.”
“And you’re still going through with it?”
“Do you have another idea? For three years I’ve been living on seven thousand. He never once asked if it was enough. Never once offered more. But a 180,000-ruble watch for himself? No problem. And now I’m supposed to fund his anniversary out of my own pocket?”
Valentina was quiet.
“Do what you want. But if I were you, I’d at least put out a bowl of Olivier salad. Just for appearances.”
I didn’t argue. But I had no intention of making Olivier.
Over the next two weeks, Gennady acted as though there was no issue. He sent out invitations. Called relatives, friends, coworkers. “Come over, Nina will set a wonderful table — she’s a real genius in the kitchen.” I heard him saying it from the hallway.
A genius. For twenty-two years I had been that genius. New Year’s dinners for thirty people — of course. Women’s Day for his parents — no problem. Birthdays, christenings, funerals — I stood over the stove while everyone else sat at the table.
And now it was: “Feed yourself.”
I said nothing. Didn’t remind him. Didn’t fight. I simply went on living the way I had been: buckwheat in the morning, packet soup for lunch, cottage cheese at night. Gennady fried his steaks and was certain I would give in.
I didn’t.
The day of the celebration came. Saturday, October eleventh. Gennady woke up in a great mood. Shaved. Put on a crisp shirt. His watch gleamed as always.
“Nina, the guests are coming at five,” he said while crossing the kitchen. “Is the table ready?”
I was standing by the stove. In a small saucepan, a hundred grams of chicken breast were boiling — bought on sale.
“My table is,” I said.
He didn’t hear. Or pretended not to. He went into the living room and turned on the television.
By four o’clock, I had set the table.
In the large room, on our extendable dining table that had seen thirty New Year’s feasts.
One plate. One glass. One fork. One napkin. On the plate: chicken breast with buckwheat and a salad of fresh cabbage and carrot. Beside it, a tumbler of dried-fruit compote. My dinner. My budget. My portion.
The rest of the table was empty. A clean white tablecloth. Nothing else.
Gennady walked into the room at 4:45. Stopped in the doorway. Stared at the table.
“What is this?” His voice was low and hollow.
“My dinner.”
“And the rest? Where is everything else?”
“What rest, Gena? You said everyone pays for their own food. So that’s exactly what I’m doing. Feeding myself. On my seven thousand.”
Red patches spread up his neck. He took a step toward me.
“Do you realize that people will be here in fifteen minutes? Twenty people!”
“I do. You invited them. You feed them.”
“I have nothing prepared!”
“I told you back in September — order catering. Buy ready-made food. You didn’t listen.”
The doorbell rang.
Gennady stood in the middle of the room. White shirt, heavy watch, neck blazing red. Staring at a single plate of buckwheat on a table meant for twenty.
I went to open the door.
Oleg and his wife. Behind them, Gennady’s cousin and his spouse. Then coworkers. Then neighbors.
They came in, took off their coats, walked into the room — and froze.
The table. The white cloth. One plate. Chicken breast. Buckwheat. A glass of compote.
Oleg looked at me. Then at Gennady. Then back at the table.
“Genka,” he said carefully, “are we early? Or late?”
“You’re on time,” Gennady said, standing by the window with his arms crossed. “Nina decided to play a joke.”
“It’s not a joke,” I said.
Everyone turned toward me.
“Three years ago, my husband introduced separate meals. Each person pays for their own food. I get seven thousand rubles a month. He spends thirty. For three years I’ve been eating buckwheat and boiled chicken while he grills ribeye steaks. I never asked for more. Never caused a scene. I simply accepted his rules.
“And now he wanted me to set a holiday table for twenty people. Out of my seven thousand. I refused. I suggested ordering food. He chose not to. He assumed I would give in.
“So here it is, Gena. My table. Chicken breast and buckwheat. Exactly the way you wanted it. Everyone for themselves.”
Gennady said nothing. His Adam’s apple bobbed. His watch glimmered faintly beneath the chandelier — 180,000 rubles on his left wrist, and not a single kopek spent on the birthday table.
Oleg cleared his throat.
“Well… maybe we should go to a café? There’s that place nearby, Beryozka. We can all chip in.”
Half the guests exchanged glances. Someone nodded. Someone else was already pulling out a phone to call a taxi.
Gennady grabbed his jacket from the hanger and walked out first. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t say a word.
The guests drifted after him. Oleg’s wife paused in the doorway and looked at me. Not accusingly. Not sympathetically. She simply looked. Then she left.
The door closed.
I stayed alone. In the big room. At the table with the white cloth. One plate. The chicken breast had gone cold. A film had formed over the buckwheat.
I sat down. Picked up my fork. My hands were completely dry — no sweat, no trembling. Only somewhere beneath my ribs there was a hollow emptiness, just like in that room.
I ate everything. Every last grain. Drank the compote. Washed the plate.
Just one.
Three weeks have passed. Gennady came home that night at one in the morning. He smelled of cognac and cigarettes. Apparently they celebrated at Beryozka. Without me.
Since then, he cooks for himself. Fried eggs in the morning. Dumplings in the evening. Sometimes sausages. He stopped buying steaks — either he lost his appetite, or he’s ashamed to fry them next to me now.
The separate budget stayed. Seven thousand for me, the rest for him. But he no longer says, “Feed yourself.” And he doesn’t invite guests over anymore.
Oleg greets me briefly when we run into each other. His wife doesn’t speak to me at all. Gennady’s cousin wrote in the family chat that I had “turned the whole thing into a circus and humiliated a man in front of the whole neighborhood.”
Valentina said, “You did the right thing. But it was harsh.” Then she added, “Maybe too harsh.”
And I don’t know. I truly don’t know.
Every evening I wash my plate, set it in the drying rack, and look at the one beside it — his. Also just one. Two plates in the rack. Two people in the apartment. And a gulf between them measured in twenty-three thousand rubles.
