Lyuba came home from work and kicked off her shoes in the hallway. Her feet ached after a full day of negotiations and meetings. She walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. It was already dark outside, even though it was only six in the evening. Winter made itself known early.
The two-room apartment had been bought before she ever met Dmitry. Back then, Lyubov had received a promotion, her salary had increased by half, and she finally had the chance to take out a mortgage. The apartment was small, but it was hers. Every corner had been arranged with care, every item chosen by her own hand. It was a pleasant place to live.
Dmitry appeared in Lyubov’s life a year after she bought the apartment. They met at a mutual friend’s birthday party. He worked as an engineer at a construction company. His salary was modest, but stable. He was calm, dependable, and did not demand attention around the clock. Lyuba appreciated that. Her work took a lot of time and energy, and all she wanted at home was peace and quiet.
They married quickly. No lavish wedding, no grand celebration. They simply signed the papers at the registry office and marked the occasion with a small circle of close people. Dmitry moved into Lyuba’s apartment. She insisted on keeping their finances separate: each of them would manage their own money, and shared expenses would be split in half. Dmitry agreed without arguing.
Life went well. Lyubov continued climbing the career ladder, and her income kept growing. Dmitry worked too, but his earnings remained modest. She made twice, sometimes even three times, as much as her husband. But neither of them seemed bothered by it. Each had their own work, and they lived peacefully.
Lately, Lyubov had started thinking more and more about children. At thirty-two, it felt like the right time. She had an apartment, a stable job, and a husband by her side. Why not have a child? She planned to bring it up with Dmitry soon.
The only problem in their quiet life was Dmitry’s family. Galina Petrovna and Anatoly Sergeyevich. His mother worked as a librarian, and his father taught at a technical college. Both had small salaries and lived modestly. But instead of accepting their situation, Dmitry’s parents constantly complained about money.
The first time Galina Petrovna asked for money was a month after the wedding. She called Lyuba and, in a sugary voice, asked to borrow ten thousand rubles until payday. She said there had been unexpected expenses and that Anatoly Sergeyevich needed medicine. Lyubov refused. Politely, but firmly. Her mother-in-law took offense and did not call for a week.
Then the requests became regular. Money for car repairs. Money for dental treatment. Money simply to get through until payday. Galina Petrovna would call Lyuba, cry into the phone, and try to pressure her with pity. Every time, Lyuba refused. She understood perfectly well that if she gave in once, they would start asking constantly.
Dmitry became gloomy after each refusal. He walked around sighing, but he never openly objected. He knew his wife’s character. If Lyubov said no, then it meant no. There was no changing her mind.
Lyuba did not feel guilty. She believed adults should be responsible for their own finances. If your salary is small, find extra work or live within your means. Do not beg other people for money.
Life continued as usual. Lyubov worked, built her career, and saved money. Dmitry worked too, but he never saved much. As long as he had enough for current expenses, that was fine with him. Galina Petrovna and Anatoly Sergeyevich continued calling from time to time with requests for help, got rejected, sulked for a while, and then called again.
One day, Lyubov ran into Galina Petrovna’s neighbor on the street. The women started talking, and the neighbor casually mentioned that her mother-in-law and father-in-law had started a major renovation.
“Can you imagine, Lyubochka?” the neighbor said. “They’ve turned the whole apartment upside down. New wallpaper, laminate flooring, new tiles in the bathroom. They say they took out a big loan. Around five hundred thousand.”
Lyubov froze.
“A loan?” she asked. “For five hundred thousand?”
“Yes. Galina Petrovna said so herself. They had wanted to renovate for a long time, so they finally decided to do it. Took out a consumer loan and started.”
“I see,” Lyubov said, changing the subject.
At home, she thought about it for a long time. A loan for five hundred thousand. With her in-laws’ salaries, that was a huge amount. How were they planning to pay it back? Galina Petrovna earned about twenty-five thousand, and Anatoly Sergeyevich around thirty. Together, fifty-five thousand for two people. Subtract utilities, food, and other expenses, and they would have maybe twenty thousand left. And the monthly loan payment was probably ten to fifteen thousand at least.
A strange decision. A very strange one.
Lyubov shrugged and tried not to think about it. It was not her business how her husband’s parents handled their money. If they wanted a renovation, let them renovate. If they took out a loan, they could pay it themselves.
Two weeks passed. Lyuba returned to her usual routine: work, home, plans for the future. She remembered the loan from time to time, but did not dwell on it. Galina Petrovna and Anatoly Sergeyevich had not called, which was unusual. Normally, at least once a week, some request would come.
One evening, Lyubov was making dinner. She was frying chicken with vegetables and boiling water for buckwheat. Dmitry sat at the table with his phone. He had come home from work quiet and answered her questions with short, dry replies. She decided not to push him. He must have had a hard day.
They sat down to eat. They ate in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Lyubov was planning tomorrow’s meetings in her head, going over her work tasks. Suddenly, Dmitry reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
“Lyuba, here. Take a look,” he said, placing the paper on the table and unfolding it.
She looked at the document. It was a loan repayment schedule. Loan amount: 480,000 rubles. Term: five years. Monthly payment: 12,300 rubles. Borrowers: Galina Petrovna and Anatoly Sergeyevich.
Lyubov raised her eyes to her husband.
“What is this?”
“My parents’ loan schedule. They took money for the renovation.”
“Yes, I heard. So?”
“Well…” Dmitry hesitated. “It’s hard for them to pay. Their salaries are small.”
“Dmitry, what does that have to do with me?” Lyubov put down her fork.
“You’ll pay it,” her husband said, looking at her. “We’re family.”
The woman froze. For several seconds, she stared at him, unable to believe what she had just heard.
“Say that again, please.”
“Well, you’ll help with the loan. You have a good salary. It won’t be hard for you.”
“Dmitry,” Lyubov said slowly, rising from the table. “You want me to pay your parents’ loan?”
“Well, yes. They can’t manage it on their own. And you have money.”
“Wait.” She rested her palms on the table. “Explain to me why I should pay someone else’s debt.”
“It’s not someone else’s. They’re my parents. Family.”
“Dmitry, they are your parents, not mine. And they took out that loan themselves. Without telling me. Without asking me. Without involving me. Why should I pay for it?”
“Because you earn more,” he shrugged. “You have the chance to help.”
“Help?” Lyubov’s voice hardened. “Dima, this is not help. Help is when a person is in trouble and you give them one-time support to get out of it. Your parents took out a loan for a renovation. A renovation, Dmitry! Not for medical treatment. Not for something essential. For a renovation. And now they want me to pay for it.”
“Lyubochka, they didn’t mean anything bad,” Dmitry said, getting up and trying to hug her. She stepped away. “They just wanted to refresh the apartment. They were tired of the old interior.”
“Then let them pay for it themselves,” she snapped. “They wanted a renovation, so they took a loan. They wanted to live beautifully, so now they can kindly pay for it.”
“But they can’t handle it!” Dmitry’s voice rose. “Don’t you understand? Their salaries are small. Twelve thousand a month is half my father’s income. How are they supposed to live?”
“How were they planning to live when they took the loan?” Lyubov crossed her arms. “Dmitry, your parents are adults. They knew exactly how much they earned when they signed those papers. They could have calculated whether they could afford it or not. But they took the loan anyway. That means they expected to manage somehow.”
“They were counting on our help.”
“On my help, you mean,” Lyubov corrected him. “Because you don’t have the money. You can barely cover your half of our bills.”
“Well, exactly!” Dmitry pointed at her. “I don’t have it, but you do. You can help.”
“Being able to does not mean being obligated to,” she said, walking to the sink and turning on the water. “Dmitry, I am not paying this loan. End of discussion.”
“Lyuba!” Her husband grabbed her arm. “You don’t understand. They are my parents. They raised me. They gave me an education.”
“So what?” Lyubov pulled her hand free. “Does that mean I now owe them money? They fulfilled their duty as parents. They raised their child. Now you are an adult and live separately. Their financial decisions are their problem.”
“You’re greedy!” Dmitry blurted out. “You feel sorry to spend money on my parents!”
“I am not greedy,” Lyubov said coldly. “I am rational. And I am not going to sponsor other people’s whims.”
“Whims?” Her husband turned pale. “It’s a renovation, not a whim!”
“A renovation without urgent need is a whim,” she said sharply. “If their roof had been leaking or the ceiling had collapsed, that would be different. But they decided to update the interior. By choice. At their own expense. Except somehow the bill ended up on my table.”
“You have more money!” Dmitry shouted. “You’re supposed to help family!”
“I am not supposed to,” Lyubov turned to him. “Dmitry, I earn my money myself. I studied, built my career, worked hard. This is my labor, my effort. And I have the right to decide how to spend my money.”
“Family is more important than money!”
“Family is you and me,” she said, pointing first at him, then at herself. “Us. Your parents are your responsibility. If you want to help them, help them. With your own money.”
“I don’t have that kind of money!”
“Then don’t promise what you cannot provide,” Lyubov said, returning to the table and picking up the payment schedule. “This,” she waved the sheet in the air, “has nothing to do with me. Absolutely nothing. And I am not getting involved.”
“So you refuse?” Dmitry’s voice trembled. “You’re turning your back on my family?”
“I am not turning my back on anyone. I simply do not consider myself responsible for solving their problems.”
“You only think about yourself. Your money, your comfort. You don’t care about my family at all,” he said bitterly.
Lyubov stopped. She looked at her husband. At the man she had lived with for two years. The man who was now calling her selfish because she refused to pay someone else’s debt.
“You know what, Dimochka?” Her voice became icy. “You’re right. From this moment on, I will think only about myself. About my money. About my comfort.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you are no longer my husband,” Lyubov said, stepping closer to him. “You are a man who thinks it is normal to dump someone else’s debts onto me. A man who calls me selfish because I refuse to pay for his parents’ whims. I do not want to live with a man like that.”
“Lyuba, what are you saying?” Dmitry stepped back.
“Pack your things,” she said. She went into the room, pulled a bag from the wardrobe, and threw it to him. “Move out. Today.”
“Are you joking?”
“I am completely serious. This is my apartment. I have the right to decide who lives here. And I will not live with someone who tries to use me as an ATM for his parents.”
“Lyuba, let’s talk calmly,” Dmitry said, trying to take her hand.
“Don’t touch me,” she pulled away. “Everything has already been said. Pack your things.”
“But where am I supposed to go?”
“To your parents. Their renovation is fresh and beautiful. You can pay the loan together.”
“Lyuba!”
“Dmitry, leave,” she said in a voice that allowed no argument. “Right now. Or I will call the police.”
He stood there for another minute, then silently began gathering his belongings. Lyubov stood in the doorway and watched. Dmitry packed clothes, books, documents. He shoved everything into the bag without looking at her.
Half an hour later, he was ready. He stood by the door, bag in hand.
“Lyuba, you’ll regret this.”
“No,” she replied. “I won’t. Leave.”
Dmitry slammed the door.
Lyubov remained alone in the apartment. She went to the kitchen and sat at the table. She looked at the repayment schedule her husband had forgotten there. She picked it up, crumpled it, and threw it into the trash.
Silence.
For the first time that evening, there was silence.
Lyubov poured herself a glass of water and drank it in one gulp. Her hands were shaking, but inside she felt a strange calm. It was the right decision. The only right decision.
A week later, she filed for divorce. Dmitry called, wrote messages, and begged to meet. Lyubov did not respond. Once, he came to her building and waited near the entrance. She called a taxi straight from the courtyard and left without speaking to him.
Another week later, Galina Petrovna started calling. Her mother-in-law cried into the phone and accused Lyubov of destroying the family. She said a marriage should not be ruined over money. She said a normal wife should help her husband and his parents.
Lyubov listened silently. When Galina Petrovna finished talking, she calmly said:
“Galina Petrovna, you are an adult. You made the decision to take out a loan. That is your responsibility. Not mine. Goodbye.”
Her mother-in-law was still shouting something, but Lyubov had already ended the call. She blocked the number. Later, she blocked her father-in-law’s number too, after he also began calling.
Mutual acquaintances tried to interfere. They called and messaged, asking her to give Dmitry another chance. They said family should be protected, that everything could be solved. Lyubov answered briefly and clearly: no. The decision had been made. There was nothing to discuss.
Some acquaintances took Dmitry and his parents’ side. They sent angry messages about a heartless wife who had abandoned her husband because of money. Lyubov quietly deleted those people from her friends and contacts. She did not want to explain herself or prove she was right. Those who did not understand did not need to.
The divorce was finalized, though not without drama. Dmitry tried to delay the process and skipped hearings. But in the end, the court dissolved the marriage anyway. There was no shared property. The apartment belonged to Lyubov.
After the divorce, Lyubov felt an enormous relief. As if a heavy weight had fallen from her shoulders. She no longer had to listen to Galina Petrovna whining about money. She no longer had to fend off Anatoly Sergeyevich’s requests to borrow for this or that. She no longer had to endure Dmitry’s accusations that she was greedy and selfish.
She returned to her usual life. Work, career, plans for the future. Only now, she planned alone. And that felt wonderful.
Six months after the divorce, Lyubov accidentally met Galina Petrovna’s neighbor again. The women sat down in a café to chat.
“How is my former mother-in-law doing?” Lyubov asked, more out of politeness than real curiosity.
“Oh, don’t even ask,” the neighbor waved her hand. “They can’t handle the loan. Payments are overdue, the bank keeps calling. Galina Petrovna is a bundle of nerves. Anatoly Sergeyevich too. Dima moved in with them and helps as much as he can. But there still isn’t enough money.”
“That’s unfortunate, of course,” Lyubov said, taking a sip of coffee.
“Don’t you feel sorry for the man? You were family, after all.”
“No,” Lyubov shook her head. “Not at all. I got rid of freeloaders just in time.”
“You say it so directly,” the neighbor giggled. “But I understand you. In your place, I wouldn’t have paid either.”
Lyubov smiled and changed the subject. She did not want to talk about her ex-husband and his parents. That chapter of her life was closed. Unpleasant, but educational.
That evening, when she returned home, she sat on the sofa. She turned on the television, but did not watch it. She thought about how much her life had changed.
The divorce had been the right decision. Absolutely right.
Lyubov had freed herself from a family that saw her only as a wallet. From a husband who thought it was normal to burden his wife with other people’s debts. From his parents, who did not know how to live within their means and wanted to solve their problems at someone else’s expense.
Now she lived peacefully. She worked, earned money, and spent it on herself. No reproaches, no pressure, no feeling that someone was trying to reach into her pocket.
That was happiness.
Maybe not the kind shown in films, with a husband, children, and family dinners. But it was honest. Clean. Her own.
Lyuba went to bed. Tomorrow was a workday, with important negotiations and plenty of tasks ahead.
Life went on.
Without Dmitry.
Without Galina Petrovna and Anatoly Sergeyevich.
Without their loans, renovations, and endless requests for money.
And it was wonderful.
