“Don’t get your hopes up,” Tamara heard as she opened the door to her apartment.
Her husband, Timofey, was talking loudly with someone in the living room. Several pairs of unfamiliar shoes were scattered across the entryway.
“Wives like my Tamara don’t grow on trees,” he said proudly. “You’ll never be lucky enough to find someone like her.”
Tamara smiled despite herself. That morning, she had been so angry with her husband that she had decided she would not even speak to him. Yet here he was, praising her in front of his friends.
“Come on, let’s have another drink,” said one of the guests. Tamara recognized the voice of Timofey’s childhood friend, Nikita. “Here’s to Tamara’s happiness!”
“She’s already happy,” Timofey burst out laughing. “She got a husband like me!”
Someone chuckled, and then Timofey switched on the television.
“Take a look at that! Brand-new TV. Tamara bought it recently with her bonus.”
Tamara quietly sat down on the small bench in the hallway and began to think.
Perhaps she really had been too hard on him. Instead of coming home and relaxing with her husband, she usually started criticizing him the moment she stepped through the door. He had forgotten to put away his shoes. He had not washed the dishes. He had left his socks all over the apartment again.
Was it really so difficult for her to pick things up herself, wash a couple of plates, and speak to him calmly?
After all, Timofey was not simply sitting at home doing nothing. He claimed that he attended job interviews every day, and searching for work was exhausting in its own way.
Tamara remembered perfectly well how she had once run from office to office, desperately searching for a decent position. She remembered the crushing disappointment after every rejection.
Back then, Timofey had been employed. Whenever she came home discouraged, he would wave away her worries and say, “We’ll get through it. Don’t worry.”
Now their situations were reversed.
Perhaps Tamara needed to be more patient. She knew from experience that emotional pressure could be even harder to bear than physical exhaustion.
“Come on, guys, don’t be shy,” Timofey said from the other room. “Try the eggplant spread. It’s Tamara’s specialty. You’ll be licking your fingers.”
“Mmm,” one of the guests said with his mouth full. “I’ve never tasted anything this good. I never even liked eggplant before. Now I realize my wife just doesn’t know how to cook it properly.”
Tamara lifted her chin with quiet pride.
People had always praised her homemade preserves. Her friends often asked her to prepare a couple of jars for them, especially before the holidays. She never minded doing it. She liked knowing that people remembered her cooking fondly.
Now her husband was praising her too, and the warmth in her chest slowly softened her earlier anger.
“So how long are you planning to sit around at home?” Nikita asked.
A fork clattered loudly against a plate, as though he had been struggling to pick up a piece of food.
“What’s the hurry?” Timofey laughed.
Something suddenly tightened inside Tamara.
“Tamara works, and I relax,” he continued. “Once she gets pregnant, I’ll have no choice but to find something while she’s on maternity leave. But right now, it’s my turn to enjoy life.”
What?
Was he joking to impress his friends?
He told her that he went to interviews every day. She gave him money for transportation and lunch. Why would he say something like that?
“Just remember,” Nikita replied, “I won’t be able to put in another good word for you. You already let me down once. Nobody will listen to me next time.”
“What kind of job is it?” asked an unfamiliar voice. “Maybe they’d hire me.”
“They might,” Nikita answered, clearly annoyed. “But I’m not arranging anything again. You’ll have to speak to the manager yourself. I recommended Timofey, and he didn’t even bother showing up on time.”
“I never gave you a firm promise,” Timofey protested. “I thought about it afterward and decided against it. I haven’t had enough time to rest yet. Besides, Tamara got a raise, and her bonuses are pretty good now. I can afford to take it easy.”
He sounded proud of himself.
“Pour another one!” he added. “To Tamara! I’ll bring out the meat roll too. She made that herself, and it’s another masterpiece.”
Tamara clenched her fists and slowly rose from the bench.
So her bonuses were good, were they?
Apparently, it did not matter that she had not bought herself new clothes in months.
Every penny went into the household. She paid the utilities, bought the groceries, gave her husband spending money, and even covered the loan Timofey had taken out for his mother.
Tamara drew a deep breath and stepped forward.
Timofey was hurrying from the living room to the kitchen and did not notice her standing in the dim hallway. He rushed past, rattled dishes in the kitchen, and soon reappeared carrying a large platter piled with thick, appetizing slices of meat roll.
“And here it is!” he announced smugly as he walked. “Tamara worked so hard on this. You’ll be licking your—”
Then he saw her.
He froze with his mouth open, and the platter nearly slipped from his hands.
Tamara stood directly in front of him, arms folded across her chest. The look in her eyes was enough to make Timofey remember every dishonest thing he had ever done.
“Tamara? What are you doing here?” he stammered, backing toward the wall. “You were supposed to be at work. I thought…”
“I came home early,” Tamara said calmly. “I can see we’re having a celebration. Such honored guests.”
She took a step toward him, and he pressed himself against the doorframe.
“Give me that.”
She swiftly took the heavy platter from his hands and walked into the living room without another glance at him.
Nikita and another man were sitting at the table. The stranger had a thin mustache and a pockmarked face.
The table was covered with the remains of Tamara’s eggplant spread, herring, boiled potatoes, and an opened bottle of liquor.
Tamara placed the meat roll in front of herself and began clearing the dishes from the table.
“What are you doing, Tamara?” Nikita jumped to his feet, staring at her in disbelief.
She was normally warm and welcoming, but now she looked like a completely different person.
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Everybody stand up,” Tamara said loudly. “And listen carefully.”
The men froze.
Timofey rushed toward her, his face as pale as a sheet.
“Those who don’t work don’t eat,” Tamara continued.
She did not raise her voice, yet every word cut through the room like a knife.
“That is how things will work in my home from now on. And right now, this entire fine company—including dear Timofey—is leaving my apartment. I did not prepare this food for people who live off someone else and brag about it.”
She pointed firmly toward the door.
“Tamara, what’s wrong with you?” Timofey squealed. “These are my friends!”
“Then entertain them with your own money once you earn some. Now get out. All of you.”
The guests did not wait for her to repeat herself.
Nikita, who had only moments earlier criticized Timofey for missing the interview, grabbed his jacket and rushed into the hallway, almost knocking into the other man.
The stranger hurried after him, muttering, “Well… these things happen.”
A minute later, the front door slammed shut.
Silence settled over the apartment, broken only by the television playing in the background.
Timofey stood in the middle of the room, blinking in confusion.
Then he began trying to explain himself. He stumbled over his words because he had no idea how much Tamara had heard.
“Tamara… sweetheart… what’s gotten into you? I was only joking. I said something stupid in front of the guys. You know how it is. I wanted to make myself look important.”
He swallowed nervously.
“I do look for work. You know that. I go out every day.”
“Where do you go?” Tamara interrupted coldly. “I just heard you admit that you skipped an interview because you did not feel like going. You haven’t rested enough yet, have you? And Tamara’s bonuses are good, so why bother?”
Her voice began to shake with hurt, but she forced herself to remain composed.
“You have been living off me this entire time. You looked me in the eyes and lied every single day. You never planned to find a job. You intended to keep relaxing while I supported you.”
She stared at him.
“And while you were enjoying yourself, I worked like a prisoner. Do you understand that I wasn’t even living? I was only surviving.”
“Tamara, I was trying to do what was best,” Timofey said.
He stepped toward her and tried to put his arms around her, but she recoiled.
“Don’t touch me. What exactly was best? The fact that I never get to rest? Best for you, perhaps.”
Tamara narrowed her eyes.
“Listen carefully, darling. You are going to pack your belongings and move in with your mother. You can live off her now. And from this point forward, you will pay the loan you took out for her. I am not contributing another cent.”
Timofey’s face turned even whiter.
“Tamara, where am I supposed to go? This is my home too.”
“No,” she replied sharply. “This apartment belongs to me. I owned it before I married you, and you are not even officially registered here. You have exactly one hour.”
She picked up her purse from the dresser and slung it over her shoulder.
“I’m leaving. When I return, I don’t want to see you here. If you refuse to leave, I will call the police. I am not joking, Timofey.”
Without looking back, she walked out of the apartment and slammed the door behind her.
Only when she reached the stairwell did she realize that her knees were trembling.
She was completely exhausted, but she could not remain at home. She needed somewhere to spend the next hour.
Tamara stepped outside, inhaled the cool air, and headed toward the main street.
She entered a quiet, cozy café that smelled of fresh pastries and coffee. She sat at a table by the window and ordered a hot chocolate and a cream-filled pastry.
The first sip tasted heavenly.
She had forgotten how wonderful it felt to sit quietly without worrying about what to make for dinner, how to earn more money, or how to stretch her paycheck until the next advance.
There was no Timofey calling to ask what he was going to eat.
For the first time in a long while, she tasted freedom.
Tamara took a bite of her pastry and reflected on her life.
She had placed herself inside this cage voluntarily.
She had allowed him to live off her. She had allowed him to lie. She had allowed him to avoid work and waste her money.
Why?
Because she loved him.
Because she was afraid of being alone.
Because she remembered the month when she had been unemployed and Timofey had supported her. She had convinced herself that now it was her turn to support him.
But she had not sat around doing nothing.
She had attended interviews, made phone calls, and searched constantly. She had never lied to him, and she had still felt guilty for being unemployed.
Timofey, on the other hand, had simply taken advantage of her kindness.
How fortunate that she had discovered the truth now rather than in a year—or five years.
She finished her hot chocolate and pastry, then sighed.
Of course she loved her husband.
A part of her might even have forgiven him if he truly changed. But first, he would have to prove that he understood what he had done and would never repeat it.
Words were not enough.
Timofey had always had too many words, and they had always sounded far too sweet.
Tamara paid the bill, left the café, and slowly walked home.
The hour had passed.
She unlocked the apartment door.
The entryway was empty. Timofey’s sneakers were gone.
She checked the living room. No one was there. Dirty dishes remained on the table, and clothes and belongings had been thrown across the couch.
Tamara exhaled, uncertain whether she felt relief or sorrow.
She entered the bedroom and opened the drawer where she kept a small amount of savings.
The envelope was gone.
She searched under the folded clothes and checked the other compartments, but the money had disappeared.
Her heart dropped.
Tamara sat down on the bed, then jumped up and began searching the room frantically.
Could she have moved it?
No.
The envelope had been right there.
It was not a fortune, but it was far from insignificant. She had saved that money little by little for six months, denying herself things she needed.
Her savings had vanished along with her husband.
Tamara grabbed her phone, ready to call Timofey and confront him, but froze with her hand raised.
What would she say?
“Did you take my money?”
He would answer, “What money? I never saw it. You must have misplaced it.”
Then he would lie and lie, looking at her with those innocent eyes. She would know the truth, but she would have no way to prove it.
Tamara slowly lowered the phone.
He could go to hell, along with the money.
This was something she would never forgive.
It was bad enough that he had lied to her and used her. Now he had stolen from the very woman who fed him, clothed him, gave him spending money, and paid off his mother’s debt.
“Well, Timofey,” she said into the empty room. “You made your choice.”
Tamara gathered the belongings he had left behind, stuffed them into several bags, and carried them outside. She placed them beside the garbage containers.
He could collect them if he wanted them.
For the first few days, Timofey did not call.
Tamara knew what he was doing. He was acting offended, pretending that she had wronged him. In his version of events, she was the cruel wife who had thrown him out, while he was the innocent victim.
But Tamara remained silent too.
She lived in peace, went to work, returned to an empty apartment, and cooked only for herself.
With each passing day, she found it easier to breathe.
On the fourth day, Timofey finally called.
Tamara rejected the call.
A moment later, he sent a message.
“Hi, Tamara. How are you?”
She did not reply.
An hour later, another message appeared.
“I miss you. We need to talk seriously. I’m looking for work, but I can’t think about anything until you forgive me.”
Tamara gave a bitter smile.
She understood exactly what was happening.
Timofey’s mother was strict and careful with money. She was certainly not willing to support her grown son indefinitely.
The money he had stolen from Tamara had probably already run out.
That evening, someone rang the doorbell.
Tamara opened the door.
Timofey stood in the hallway wearing the remorseful expression of a professional liar.
“Tamara, I understand everything now,” he began immediately. “I’m an idiot. I’m a terrible person. You were right. I’ll find a job, even if I have to start tomorrow. Just give me one more chance. I’ll change.”
Tamara looked at him and did not believe a single word.
He had failed to mention the one thing that mattered most.
He said nothing about the money he had taken.
He did not admit that he had stolen it. He did not apologize for robbing his own wife.
Instead, he mumbled about employment, love, and how he could not live without her.
But he said nothing about the theft.
“There is nothing for you to return to,” Tamara said calmly. “Do not give yourself false hope.”
“Tamara…”
“I filed for divorce,” she interrupted. “My decision is final.”
Timofey’s face went pale, then dark red.
He opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally turned around without saying another word.
Tamara shut the door, locked it securely, and leaned her back against the wall.
Then she released a long, trembling breath.
She knew she had made the right decision.
She had removed the dead weight that had been dragging her to the bottom.
For the first time in a very long time, she felt alive and free.
That freedom was worth far more than the money she had lost.
Perhaps she had not really lost it at all.
Perhaps it was simply the price she had paid to finally see the truth.
