“Here’s the deal, Rita. Starting this month, I’m not putting any money into the family budget.”
I froze over the sink. Water rushed noisily over the greasy frying pan, washing away the foam. Vadim was sitting at the kitchen table, casually slicing the cheese I had bought that morning for the boys’ school sandwiches.
“What do you mean?” I asked, drying my hands on a towel.
My husband didn’t even look at me. He popped a piece of cheese into his mouth and continued.
“My mother needs to finish building the country house. The foundation is sitting there unfinished, and lumber keeps getting more expensive. I’m going to transfer eighty percent of my salary to her. Until winter, at least. And you’re a modern, independent woman, aren’t you? You have your own salary. So you can handle the household expenses. Groceries, utilities, the boys’ activities. You can live on pasta for a couple of months. You won’t fall apart.”
I nearly started shaking from the sheer nerve of him. Our older son’s tutors for his final exams were draining money like a vacuum cleaner, and our younger one’s sambo classes had to be paid for too. The utility bill had gone up again this month. And there he was, sitting at my table, eating food I had bought, while planning to build his mommy a palace.
“So I’m supposed to drag shopping bags home after work, dress the boys, pay the bills, and keep everything running while you help your mother?” My voice trembled, but I quickly pulled myself together.
“Helping your mother is sacred, Rita. Don’t you understand that?” Vadim grimaced as if I had said something incredibly stupid. “I’m the man in this house. I’ve made the decision.”
For the next month, Vadim lived wonderfully. He came home from work, opened the fridge, and devoured cutlets made from meat I had paid for. And when I asked him to contribute toward winter boots for our younger son while I sat on my phone, removing things from my marketplace cart just to fit the budget, he only snorted.
“Your problem. I told you, I invested in the construction. Figure it out yourself. You’re not a child.”
“I understand you, Vadim,” I replied quietly.
And after that, I didn’t ask him for a single kopeck.
He even seemed to bloom. Apparently, he decided I had accepted it and would obediently pull the whole load myself. He walked around like a rooster, spending hours on the phone with his mother, discussing what color siding they should choose for the facade.
Then came the twenty-fifth. Payday.
I was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, soaking a stain on our younger son’s kimono with oxygen bleach, when I heard the front door slam so hard I thought the plaster might fall off the frame.
My dear husband stormed in. He was breathing heavily, like a chased horse, and slammed his phone right onto the washing machine. The banking app was open on the glowing screen.
“What the hell happened to the money on my card?” he shouted so loudly the whole apartment could hear. “Where did a third of my salary go? Accounting says they can’t do anything!”
I slowly shook the foam from my hands, stood up, and looked him straight in the eyes.
“It went to my account, Vadim. Child support. For your two biological sons. Thirty-three percent of your official salary. Automatically.”
My husband gulped for air like a fish thrown onto land.
“What child support? We’re not divorced! Have you completely lost your mind?”
“You don’t have to be divorced for that. Read the Family Code when you have time. If a father openly refuses to support his children, the state helps him do it. By force. I got the court order three weeks ago and took it straight to your accounting department for official processing.”
Vadim sank heavily onto the laundry basket, staring at me as if he were seeing me for the first time in his life.
“But how? They never summoned me anywhere…”
“Remember that registered mail notice you got?” I gave a faint smile. “You brushed it off and said it was probably just another traffic camera fine and that you’d pick it up later. Well, that was it. A copy of the order. The court notified you. The fact that you didn’t bother to collect the letter is entirely your problem.”
His arrogance disappeared instantly.
“Do you understand what you’ve done?” His voice cracked and turned thin, almost pitiful. “My mother is expecting a truckload of lumber tomorrow! I have no money to pay the workers! After taxes and your child support, I’ve got almost nothing left to live on. I won’t even be able to afford gas now! Rita, cancel it! Take the papers back from accounting!”
“No, Vadim.”
I walked into the hallway, took the latest electricity bill from the small cabinet, and placed it right in front of him on the washing machine.
“Send my warm regards to your mother. Tell her to choose cheaper siding. And from those little crumbs you have left, you will transfer me half of the utility payment. Also, I didn’t cook dinner for you tonight. You’re independent, aren’t you? There’s pasta in the cupboard. You won’t fall apart.”
Vadim remained sitting there in the bathroom, staring blankly at the glowing phone screen and the balance left in his account.
Look at him, the genius. He decided to become the perfect son at my expense. Now his mother is sitting without her lumber, and our mighty provider is living on plain pasta. If you want to play noble hero and build houses, do it with your own money. And if you forget your obligations to your own children, the law will set your head straight quickly and firmly.