Elizaveta stared at the kitchen table, buried under supermarket bags. Shrimp, three kinds of cheese, baguettes, olives, wine. Artur’s list had been long and very specific. It was Friday, which meant one thing: guests again.
Three years of marriage had taught Elizaveta one lesson — their apartment did not truly belong to just the two of them. Every week, sometimes even twice a week, her husband invited friends or colleagues over. To sit around, drink, talk about football or work deals. At first, Elizaveta took it calmly. Her husband was sociable, he had many acquaintances. What was wrong with that?
But over time, she began to notice a pattern. Artur would simply announce, “Oleg and Maxim are coming on Saturday.” That was it. Nothing more. Everything after that became her problem.
Shopping. Cooking. Setting the table. Elizaveta would spend hours in the kitchen, slicing, baking, arranging everything on plates. Meanwhile, Artur watched television or scrolled through his phone. Sometimes he would wander into the kitchen, peek into a pot, and say:
“Smells good. Well done, Liza.”
Then he would leave again.
The guests usually arrived around eight. Loud, cheerful, carrying bottles and jokes. Elizaveta smiled, served appetizers, poured wine. Artur sat at the head of the table, telling stories and laughing louder than everyone else. The host. The life of the party.
And what was she?
The staff.
Around midnight, the guests would start leaving. They said goodbye, thanked them for the evening. Artur walked them to the door, slapped shoulders, promised to call. Then he returned to the living room, yawned, stretched, and said:
“I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”
And he went.
Elizaveta was left alone with mountains of dirty dishes, a table stained with wine, and cigarette butts on the balcony. She cleaned until three in the morning. Washed, wiped, put everything back in place. In the morning, she woke up broken, with pain in her back.
Artur slept until noon.
Elizaveta tried talking to him. Once, over breakfast, she carefully suggested:
“Maybe we could invite people over less often? Or at least you could help with the cooking and cleaning?”
Artur looked up from his plate in surprise.
“What’s the problem? You like cooking.”
“I like cooking for us. Not for a crowd every single week.”
“Liza, they’re my friends. I can’t just stop inviting them. What will they think?”
“And what will I think?”
“You’re my wife,” Artur said with a shrug. “A real wife supports her husband. She doesn’t create problems out of nothing.”
Elizaveta fell silent.
A real wife.
So that meant she was supposed to stay quiet, cook, clean, and not complain.
She convinced herself it was nothing serious. That all couples went through things like this. That she simply had to be patient.
But inside, something was building. Slowly. Quietly. Like a crack in a wall that widens with every rain.
October began with cold, miserable rain. Elizaveta came home from work soaked and chilled to the bone. She changed clothes and made tea. Her throat was scratchy, and her head was pounding. By evening, chills had started. She lay down on the sofa, wrapped herself in a blanket, and tried to get warm.
Artur came home late. He saw his wife on the sofa and stopped in the doorway.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I think I’m sick. My throat hurts. I have a fever.”
“I see. Well, get better.”
He went into the bedroom, changed his clothes, and sat down to eat dinner. Elizaveta spent the night on the sofa because she had no strength to get up.
In the morning, the thermometer showed 38.2°C. Elizaveta called work and took sick leave. The local doctor advised her over the phone to stay in bed, drink warm fluids, and take fever medicine.
She spent the entire day lying down. Sleep came in short waves between chills. She drank tea, swallowed pills, and hoped she would feel better by the weekend.
Artur came home from work at seven. He looked into the bedroom, where Elizaveta was lying in bed.
“How are you?”
“Bad,” she answered hoarsely.
“Mm. Got it. Listen, I have news.”
Elizaveta turned her head on the pillow. Her husband stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.
“What news?”
“Some guys from work are coming over tomorrow. We closed a deal, so we need to celebrate.”
Elizaveta blinked.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Around five people, probably. Nothing special, we’ll just sit for a while.”
“Artur, I’m sick.”
“Yes, I can see that. But it won’t get in the way, right?”
Elizaveta pushed herself up on one elbow. Her temples were pounding.
“It won’t get in the way? I can barely stand. I have a fever.”
“Liza, please understand. I can’t cancel. This is important for my career. Management will be there. If I back out now, they’ll think I’m not a team player.”
“And what about me?” Elizaveta gripped the edge of the blanket. “Am I supposed to set the table with a fever?”
“You don’t have to do anything complicated,” Artur said, waving his hand dismissively. “We’ll order pizza, and you can buy some cold cuts from the store. An hour of work at most.”
“Artur…”
“Liza, don’t make this harder than it is. You’ll manage. You always do.”
He turned and left.
Elizaveta remained lying there, staring at the ceiling. Something cold and heavy spread through her chest.
Three years.
For three years, she had cooked, cleaned, and smiled at his guests. For three years, she had listened to “you’ll manage,” “you’re my wife,” and “don’t create problems.” And not once — not a single time — had Artur asked whether she wanted any of it.
Elizaveta closed her eyes. Her head was buzzing. Whether from the fever or from anger, she no longer knew.
The next day, her temperature did not go down. 38.4°C. Elizaveta was lying in a half-sleep when she heard the front door open. Artur had come home from work earlier than usual. He went into the kitchen and began rustling bags.
Then he looked into the bedroom.
“Liza, are you going to get up?”
“No,” Elizaveta answered hoarsely.
“What do you mean, no? The guests will be here in an hour.”
“Then welcome them yourself.”
Artur frowned.
“I told you people were coming tonight.”
“You did.”
“So?”
Elizaveta slowly sat up in bed. She looked at her husband. At his irritated face, at his arms crossed over his chest. At the man who, even now, when his wife was ill, was thinking only about his little gathering.
Something inside her snapped.
Quietly. Almost invisibly.
Like a dry branch breaking underfoot.
“You wanted a party?” Elizaveta gave a bitter smile. “Then figure it out. I’m not taking part in this performance.”
Artur froze. He stood there with his mouth slightly open, as if he could not understand what he had just heard.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“You heard me. If you want to host guests, host them yourself. I’m sick. I feel awful. And I’m not going to cook, set the table, and play the gracious hostess.”
“Liza, what are you even talking about?” his voice rose. “I can’t cancel! My boss is coming!”
“Your problem.”
“My problem?” Artur stepped into the room. “Do you understand what you’re doing? This is my career! My job!”
“And my health?” Elizaveta got out of bed. Her legs were weak, but she remained standing. “My time? My life? Has any of that ever mattered to you?”
“Don’t start,” he snapped. “You’re being hysterical because you’re sick.”
“I’m hysterical because I’ve been serving your friends for three years!” Elizaveta’s voice broke into a shout. “For three years, I’ve cooked, washed dishes, cleaned up after all of you! Have you ever thanked me? Have you ever offered to help?”
“I work! I earn money!”
“So do I!” Elizaveta stepped forward. “But I also work at home! For your parties! The ones I don’t even need!”
“You’re selfish,” Artur said through clenched teeth. “You only think about yourself.”
“Oh, really? And who do you think about? Me? Or what your boss will say?”
“Don’t you dare talk to me like that!”
“Why? Does the truth hurt?”
Artur clenched his fists. His face turned red.
“If you don’t get up right now and prepare everything, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Elizaveta looked at him coldly. “What exactly will you do?”
He fell silent. He breathed heavily, staring at her.
And suddenly Elizaveta realized she was not afraid. For the first time in three years, she was not afraid of his anger, his displeasure, or his threats.
Because she no longer wanted to be part of this.
Elizaveta turned around and opened the wardrobe. She took out a travel bag and began packing. Jeans, a sweater, underwear.
“What are you doing?” Artur asked, staring at her in confusion.
“Packing.”
“Where are you going?”
“Away from here.”
“Liza, stop it. You’re sick. You have nowhere to go.”
“I do,” Elizaveta said, tossing her makeup bag inside. “To my mother’s.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You won’t leave.”
“We’ll see.”
Artur grabbed her arm.
“Stop. Let’s talk normally.”
Elizaveta pulled herself free.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Liza!”
She took her phone and called her mother. The call was answered after the second ring.
“Lizochka?” Veronika Pavlovna’s voice sounded worried. “How are you, my dear?”
“Mom, can I come to you? Today.”
There was a pause. Then her mother said quietly:
“Of course. I’ll be waiting for you. Any time.”
“Thank you.”
Elizaveta put the phone in her pocket and zipped the bag. Artur stood in the doorway, blocking her way.
“You’re not leaving.”
“Move,” Elizaveta said calmly.
“We need to talk!”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Liza, I won’t let you leave!”
“You can’t forbid me,” Elizaveta looked him straight in the eyes. “Move away from the door.”
Artur tightened his jaw. But he stepped aside.
Elizaveta walked past him, took her coat from the hallway, and put on her shoes.
“Liza! Stop! We’ll discuss everything!”
She opened the door. Cold October air hit her face. Her throat burned.
But Elizaveta stepped out.
She did not look back. She did not listen to her husband shouting from the apartment. She went down the stairs and out into the street.
She called a taxi. Only after she sat in the car did she finally exhale.
For the first time in a long while, she had chosen herself.
Veronika Pavlovna met her daughter at the door. She hugged her silently, tightly. Then she led her to the room, put her to bed, and brought tea with honey.
“You’ll tell me when you’re ready,” her mother said softly.
Elizaveta burst into tears.
From relief. From exhaustion. From finally being able to stop pretending.
She told her everything. About the guests, the cooking, the cleaning. About how Artur did not hear her. Did not see her. Treated her like household staff.
Veronika Pavlovna listened. She did not judge. She did not give advice. She simply stroked her daughter’s hair, the way she had when Elizaveta was a child.
“You were brave to leave,” her mother said. “That took courage.”
Elizaveta stayed with her mother for a week. She recovered. Slept. Walked around the courtyard when she began to feel better. Artur called every day. Sent messages. Elizaveta did not answer.
A week later, a long message arrived. Apologies. Promises to change. “I understand I was wrong. Let’s start over. I love you.”
Elizaveta read the message three times.
Then she deleted it.
Words changed nothing. Artur had said the right things before. Then everything had gone back to the way it was.
No.
Elizaveta no longer wanted to live inside that circle.
Two weeks later, she filed for divorce. Artur tried to meet her, to talk. Elizaveta refused. Everything that needed to be said had already been said that evening.
The divorce was finalized in three months. They had almost no shared property. The apartment was rented, there was no car. They divided the furniture and appliances. Elizaveta took only what she had bought herself.
She rented a small one-room apartment on the other side of the city. On Fridays, there were no more guests. No exhausting cooking. No dirty dishes until morning.
Elizaveta came home from work, made dinner for herself, sat by the window with a book, drank tea, and listened to the silence.
At first, it felt strange. Unfamiliar. As if something were missing.
Then she understood.
What was missing was the tension. The constant expectation that Artur would suddenly announce new guests. The readiness to run to the kitchen, to slice, fry, arrange, and serve.
Now it was gone.
And it was wonderful.
Six months passed. One evening after work, Elizaveta was walking down the street when she saw a familiar figure.
Artur.
A young, laughing woman was holding his arm.
Their eyes met. Artur stopped. The woman asked him something and tugged at his sleeve. Elizaveta nodded to her ex-husband. Calmly. Without anger.
Then she walked on.
At home, she made tea and sat down on the sofa. She thought about the important lesson life had taught her: boundaries must be set from the beginning. Not after a year. Not after three. From the very first day.
Otherwise, you stop being a partner.
You become a convenience.
And Elizaveta no longer wanted to be convenient.
She wanted to be free.
And she was.
