Larisa wiped the computer screen with a damp tissue and leaned back in her chair. Her eyes burned with exhaustion, and a dull ache throbbed at her temples. She glanced at the clock — 10:45 p.m. Again she had stayed late. Again Viktor would be unhappy.
She turned off the light in her office and slowly walked toward the elevator. Her reflection in the dark glass doors looked pale and drained. She was only thirty-two, yet she felt at least fifty. Dark circles had settled under her eyes, beyond the help of concealer, her hair was twisted into a messy bun, and her shoulders drooped under the weight of an invisible burden.
The metro was nearly empty. Larisa sank onto the hard seat and closed her eyes. Three months earlier, she had taken on extra work — management had asked her to handle another project and promised her a bonus. The bonus was modest, but every cent mattered now. The mortgage would not wait, and the payments arrived with merciless regularity. Then there were utilities, groceries, a transport pass, clothes that wore out and had to be replaced.
Once, they had paid for everything together. Once, Viktor had brought home almost as much as she did. Once, they could afford movies on weekends, dinner out on Fridays, even a new television without falling into debt.
That was seven months ago.
Seven months since Viktor lost his job. Staff optimization, they had called it. Economic crisis. Insufficient departmental efficiency. Company restructuring. Words that were supposed to soften the blow, yet only made it feel more humiliating.
During the first month, Viktor searched for work with frantic energy. He sent out dozens of résumés, went to interviews, called friends and former colleagues. Larisa supported him however she could. She cooked his favorite meals, rubbed his shoulders while he sat at the computer, encouraged him after every failed interview.
By the second month, his enthusiasm had begun to fade. Rejections came one after another. The salary was too low. The requirements did not fit. The competition was too fierce. Viktor grew irritable and withdrawn. In the evenings he sat in front of the television, mindlessly flipping channels, or scrolled through endless news feeds on his phone.
By the third month, Larisa realized they were running out of money. Her salary covered the mortgage and utilities, but there was very little left for food or anything else. She started cutting corners — no more taxis, no coffee to go, simple meals made from the cheapest ingredients. Viktor noticed the change and asked why dinner was suddenly just pasta and chicken. Where was his favorite steak? Why were there no fresh fruits?
That was the first time Larisa told him he needed to look for work more seriously. Any work. Even something temporary.
Viktor exploded.
“Any work?” he shouted, pacing across the living room. “You want me to become a cashier in a supermarket? Or a courier? I have a university degree! Ten years of management experience! I’m not going to sink that low and do menial labor!”
“That’s not menial labor,” Larisa replied wearily. “It’s honest work. And we cannot afford the luxury of being picky, Vitya. We need money. Right now.”
“We?” Viktor stopped and stared at her. “Or you? You just want me to bring in money — you don’t care what I do, do you?”
She did not continue the argument. She was too tired.
In the fourth month, Larisa took on additional responsibilities. Her workday stretched from eight hours to twelve. She came home after dark, barely able to stand, but instead of a warm meal and support, she was met with complaints.
“Again at eleven?” Viktor would say in the hallway, arms crossed. “I’ve been sitting here alone all day. No one even asks whether I want to eat.”
“Vitya, I’m exhausted,” she would whisper, slipping off her shoes. “Let’s talk tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow you’ll leave for work again and come back at night! When are we supposed to talk? When am I supposed to even see you?”
She would walk past him into the room, pull off her clothes, and collapse onto the bed. Sometimes she did not even finish undressing.
The fifth month became the breaking point. Viktor stopped looking for work altogether. He explained that the job market was a disaster, that employers were greedy bastards who wanted hellish labor for pennies, that no one respected real professionals anymore. He spent his days playing computer games, watching series, and scrolling social media.
“Why is the fridge empty?” he would ask in the evenings. “You know I like to eat after lunch.”
“I didn’t have time to stop by the store,” she answered. “Please go yourself.”
“Me? I don’t have money for groceries. It’s your job to keep the house running.”
“Vitya, I work twelve hours a day! I can’t do everything! Please help me.”
“Help?” He laughed bitterly. “You want me to become a househusband? Cooking, cleaning, laundry? Have you lost your mind?”
By the sixth month, she got sick. Overwork. Nervous exhaustion, the doctor said. She needed rest, quiet, vitamins. Larisa took two sick days and spent them in bed trying to recover. Viktor checked on her from time to time, asked how she felt, but never cooked dinner. On the second day he boiled a package of frozen dumplings for her and made tea.
“Eat,” he said, setting the plate on the bedside table. “Get better soon. I’m already tired of all this mess.”
The seventh month began with a visit from her mother-in-law.
Lyudmila Petrovna arrived Sunday morning without warning. She walked into the apartment, glanced around the living room — at the empty chip bag on the sofa and candy wrappers scattered around — and grimaced.
“Larochka, dear, when exactly are you planning to clean this place?” she asked with icy politeness.
Larisa was in the kitchen making breakfast. She had spent the entire night finishing a report for Monday.
“I don’t have time, Lyudmila Petrovna,” she answered tiredly. “I work a lot.”
“Yes, yes, you work,” her mother-in-law said, walking in and sitting at the table. “And meanwhile my poor Vitenka sits at home hungry and neglected. Do you think that’s right?”
“Vitya is an adult,” Larisa said, placing a plate of fried eggs on the table. “He can take care of himself.”
“Himself?” Lyudmila Petrovna arched an eyebrow. “You expect my son, an educated, intelligent man, to cook for himself? Like some student?”
“Mom’s right,” Viktor said as he walked into the kitchen. “I don’t understand why I should be doing women’s work.”
Larisa clenched her teeth. The exhaustion hit her with such force she wanted to lie down right there on the cold tile floor and never get up.
“Women’s work?” she repeated quietly. “Making yourself dinner is women’s work?”
“Of course it is!” Lyudmila Petrovna threw up her hands. “A man is supposed to work and earn money, and a woman is supposed to make a home, cook, and clean! It’s natural!”
“I work too,” Larisa felt tears rising. “I am carrying this whole family alone. I pay for the apartment, the food, everything!”
“Don’t raise your voice at my mother,” Viktor stepped toward her. “She wants what’s best.”
“What’s best?” Larisa let out a bitter, almost hysterical laugh. “She’s teaching you to be an immature, selfish parasite!”
The fight that followed was explosive. Her mother-in-law took offense, called Larisa ungrateful and disrespectful. Viktor sided with his mother and accused his wife of destroying their marriage with her selfishness and career obsession. Larisa cried, shouted, tried to get through to him, but he would not hear her.
Lyudmila Petrovna left, promising her son that she would always take him in if “that woman” kept humiliating him.
After she was gone, Larisa locked herself in the bathroom and cried until she had no tears left. Then she washed her face with cold water, looked at herself in the mirror, and understood: this could not go on.
The plan came together unexpectedly fast. Viktor was going to visit his mother — she had called, complained about feeling unwell, and asked him to come. He left on Thursday morning without even saying goodbye. Larisa was just heading to work, and they passed each other in the hallway as if she were invisible.
She took half a day off. For the first time in six months. Her boss was surprised but agreed — Larisa never asked for time off, always showed up, always delivered.
She found a locksmith online. A middle-aged man arrived an hour later, examined the door, and named his price. Larisa agreed without hesitation.
“Changing both locks?” he asked.
“Both,” she answered firmly.
Two hours later, her door had brand-new locks — sturdy, modern, with three keys. One went into her handbag, one into her desk drawer at work, and the third she gave to her neighbor in case she lost the others.
She packed Viktor’s belongings into two large suitcases. Clothes, shoes, documents from the closet, his laptop, chargers, headphones. She folded everything neatly, closed the suitcases, set them in the hallway by the door — and went back to work.
At five o’clock, her phone rang. Larisa had just finished another report. She looked at the screen: Viktor.
She answered.
“Hello,” he said, his voice already irritated. “What the hell is going on? Why can’t I get into the apartment? Did you change the locks?”
“Yes,” she said calmly. “I did.”
“Have you lost your mind?” He sounded as if he could not believe his ears. “That’s my apartment!”
“Our apartment,” she corrected. “But you don’t live there anymore.”
“What? I don’t live there? Have you actually gone insane? Come here right now!”
“No,” she said, surprising even herself with how calm she sounded. “I’m not coming.”
“I’m calling the police! You have no right!”
“Go ahead,” Larisa leaned back in her chair. “I’m the one paying the mortgage. I get to decide who lives there.”
He was silent for a few seconds, breathing hard into the phone.
“You… you can’t just throw me out like this! I’m your husband!”
“You can stay with your mother,” she suggested. “She supports you so much. Let her show that support in practice.”
“Lara, stop it! This isn’t funny!”
“I’m not joking, Vitya. I left your things with Tatyana Ivanovna from apartment fifteen.”
“Lara!” he shouted. “Come here! Now!”
She hung up.
For another twenty minutes her phone kept exploding with calls. Viktor called again and again, sent messages — first furious, then pleading. Larisa read them, but she did not answer. Then she silenced the phone and went back to work.
Half an hour later, he showed up at her office.
Larisa was sitting in a meeting room, discussing details of a new project with colleagues, when the secretary opened the door with a nervous expression.
“Larisa Mikhailovna… there’s a visitor for you. He insists on seeing you.”
She stepped into the corridor and saw Viktor. He stood near the reception desk, pale, red-eyed.
“Vitya,” she said, walking over. “Why are you here?”
“Why?” He grabbed her hand. “You threw me out of my own home! You think that’s normal?”
“Let go of me,” Larisa pulled her hand free. “People are watching. Don’t make a scene.”
“A scene?” He raised his voice, and several employees turned around. “You destroy our family and I’m not supposed to make a scene?”
“Vitya,” she said quietly but firmly, “I’m tired. I’m tired of working for two people. I’m tired of listening to your complaints. I’m tired of coming home and seeing you on the couch with the remote in your hand. I’m tired of cooking, cleaning, paying for everything while you play games and blame the whole world for your problems.”
“I am looking for work!” he shot back. “It’s just that the job market—”
“You’re not looking,” she interrupted. “You haven’t really been looking for three months. You’re not even trying.”
“Because no one is offering anything decent! I’m trying to find—”
“Decent?” Larisa laughed bitterly. “Vitya, we are in debt. We need money. Any money. But you’re too proud to take any job at all. Even a temporary one.”
“I’m not going to humiliate myself!” He clenched his fists. “I won’t take some shameful position!”
Larisa looked at him for a long moment. Her colleagues stood nearby, watching. She could see their faces — sympathy, support. Her manager, Olga Sergeyevna, gave her a small, encouraging nod, as if to say: stay strong, you’re doing the right thing.
“Then live with your mother,” Larisa said. “You can come back when you get a job. Any job. And when you stop blaming me for all your problems.”
“Is that an ultimatum?” Viktor went even paler.
“Yes,” she nodded. “It is. Either you pull yourself together and start doing something, or we get divorced.”
“Divorce?” He froze. “You’re serious?”
“Completely.” She turned toward the meeting room door. “Your things are with the neighbor. Pick them up and leave.”
She walked back inside and closed the door behind her. Her hands were shaking, her heart was racing, but inside she felt a strange sense of relief.
The first week was hard. Viktor called every day, sent messages. At first angry and accusing, then begging and desperate. Larisa did not respond. She knew that if she gave in now, everything would go back to the way it had been.
The second week passed in silence. He stopped calling. Larisa learned from a mutual acquaintance that Viktor really was living with his mother. Lyudmila Petrovna was furious, calling relatives, complaining about the ungrateful daughter-in-law who had abandoned her poor son.
The third week brought change. That same well-informed acquaintance called Larisa again and told her that Viktor and his mother had started fighting. Lyudmila Petrovna, it turned out, was not prepared to support her grown, unemployed son. She demanded that he look for work, help around the house, and buy groceries. Viktor resisted and argued, but his mother was relentless.
A month later, a message appeared on Larisa’s phone:
“I found a job.”
She read it sitting at her office desk. Then she read it again.
“Sales manager. The pay isn’t great, but it’s steady. I start on Monday.”
She did not answer right away. She waited until evening, came home, sat down on the couch, and finally typed: “Good. Congratulations.”
“Can I come back?”
Larisa thought for a long time. She had spent that month alone, and for the first time in ages she had remembered what peace felt like. No complaints. No accusations. She came home, cooked herself a simple dinner, read books, watched movies. She worked as much as necessary, but no longer squeezed the last drop of strength out of herself.
“We’ll talk,” she replied. “Come on Saturday. In the afternoon.”
He arrived exactly at two. He rang the bell, and she opened the door. Viktor stood there thinner than before, with dark circles under his eyes. He wore a suit — slightly wrinkled, but clean. In his hands was a bouquet of chrysanthemums.
“Hi,” he said quietly.
“Hi.” She stepped aside to let him in.
They sat at the kitchen table. Larisa made tea and put out some cookies. Viktor was silent for a while, turning his cup in his hands.
“I was wrong,” he said at last. “About everything. I acted like… like the worst kind of selfish idiot.”
Larisa listened in silence.
“When I lost my job, I froze. I couldn’t understand how something like that could happen to me. I had worked hard, I had given it everything. And then suddenly — just like that — you’re no longer needed. So I started looking for someone to blame. Management. Colleagues. The economy.” He raised his eyes to hers. “But the only one at fault was me.”
“Vitya…”
“Let me finish,” he said. “Please. I need to say this. I was weak. I didn’t want to admit the problem was me. That I should have taken any work at all. But I kept thinking about my pride. About what my friends or former colleagues would say if they found out I was working as a courier or a sales clerk. I was afraid of losing face. And in the end, I lost you.”
Larisa felt a lump rise in her throat.
“That month at my mother’s was a revelation,” Viktor went on. “She expected me to get up at seven in the morning, clean the apartment, cook lunch. She yelled at me for being a freeloader, said I was living off her. And that’s when I finally understood what it must have been like for you. You were working yourself into the ground, and I still kept throwing complaints at you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
Larisa said nothing, staring down into her cup.
“I found a job,” he said. “It’s not what I dreamed of. The salary is lower than what I used to earn. But I’m ready to work. I’m ready to help you. To pay for the apartment, buy groceries, cook dinner. Whatever it takes. Just give me one chance.”
Larisa lifted her eyes and looked at him. There was sincerity there. Fatigue. Shame.
“Did you really understand?” she asked. “Or are these just words?”
“I understood,” he said, nodding. “I swear, Lara. I really did. I was awful. I made your life unbearable. And if you give me the chance, I’ll prove that I’ve changed.”
She looked at him for a long time. Then slowly nodded.
“All right,” she said quietly. “But if things go back to the way they were… if you start blaming me again, complaining, lying on the couch all day… I will file for divorce immediately. No more conversations.”
“It won’t happen again.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “I promise. I’ll work. I’ll help. I’ll appreciate you.”
Larisa squeezed his hand tightly.
“Then welcome home,” she said. “But under new conditions.”
The first month was a test. Viktor really did try. He got a job as a sales manager at a small company, traveled to client meetings, made calls, prepared reports. The salary was modest, but he brought it home and handed it over to Larisa without protest, as though trying to repay everything he owed her.
In the evenings he started cooking dinner. At first, it was awful — the cutlets were raw inside, the omelets burned, the porridge came out as a lumpy mess. But he did not give up. He watched cooking videos on YouTube, looked up recipes online. Within a couple of weeks, his meals became perfectly edible.
He took over the cleaning too. On Saturdays he vacuumed, washed the floors, dusted the shelves. He did the laundry and hung it out to dry. Larisa watched all of this with cautious optimism. She still expected a setback, a relapse, a return to the old habits.
But Viktor held on. More than that — he became more attentive. He asked how her day had gone. He massaged her shoulders when she came home tired. He no longer complained about his work, even when it was difficult.
One evening they sat on the couch watching a film. Viktor wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“For what?” she asked, surprised.
“For not giving up on me. For giving me the push I needed. If it hadn’t been for you… I’d probably still be sitting at my mother’s place, feeling sorry for myself and blaming everyone else.”
“I was just tired of being the strong one,” she said, leaning into him a little more.
