If someone had told me when I was young that I would turn my thirtieth wedding anniversary into a family scandal, I would have laughed. I had always believed I was the kind of woman who remained calm until the bitter end, kept private problems behind closed doors, and endured hardship for the sake of her family.
But on the day of our pearl anniversary, my patience finally ran out.
Tolya had always been regarded as a dependable, practical man. If a faucet started leaking, he fixed it. When he received his salary, he brought it home. If a shelf needed hanging, an outlet replacing, or some household item repairing, he took care of it.
Yet behind that outward reliability was an emotional coldness so profound that for decades I felt as though I were trying to keep warm beneath an invisible blanket.
Almost every household responsibility fell on my shoulders. I worked as an accountant, raised our daughter Natasha, and made sure there was a hot meal ready for lunch and dinner. During summer and autumn, I preserved vegetables and prepared jars of food for winter. The laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping, and ironing were also my responsibility. Tolya’s shirts had to be steamed especially carefully so that every collar looked flawless.
Tolya himself seemed merely to occupy the same apartment as me. He regarded everything I did as part of the natural order of life.
Once, I became seriously ill with the flu. My temperature was close to forty degrees Celsius. My entire body ached, my head felt unbearably heavy, and my skin was sticky with sweat. I lay beneath the blanket in our bedroom, hoping to fall asleep for at least a little while.
 
The front door slammed.
A short time later, Tolya appeared in the bedroom doorway. He stood there for several seconds, scratched his chin, and spoke without even asking how I was feeling.
“Raya, where’s dinner?”
I stared at him without answering.
His familiar, clean-shaven face hovered in front of me. My mouth was so dry that my tongue seemed glued to the roof of it, and even swallowing was difficult.
Then a frightening yet almost absurdly clear thought came to me: if I stopped breathing at that very moment, Tolya would probably stand beside the bed and look at me for a while—and then go into the kitchen anyway.
After all, my death would not cancel his dinner.
I turned toward the wall and closed my eyes.
“Of course,” he muttered resentfully. “She’s lying around while I’m hungry!”
Something inside me snapped.
“Have you forgotten how to find the kitchen? Or has someone locked the refrigerator? My temperature is almost forty!”
Tolya frowned in genuine surprise.
“So what? You can’t even heat up some food for your husband?”
“No, I can’t,” I replied firmly.
He swore under his breath but finally left the room. A minute later, the sound of dishes being slammed around echoed from the kitchen.
That one incident should have been enough to make me understand many things. Yet I continued living exactly as I had before.
Then came the incident with the money.
I was standing in the kitchen, chopping onions, when the phone lying beside me vibrated briefly.
It was a notification from the bank.
I glanced at the screen automatically and froze, still holding the knife.
Our savings account was empty.
There had been a considerable amount of money in it.
We had been saving it for nearly five years. To be completely honest, I had contributed most of it myself, setting aside part of every bonus, every bit of additional income, and whatever else I managed to save.
The money was not intended for entertainment.
The condition of my spine had deteriorated significantly. The discs between my vertebrae were badly worn, and at night my left leg often went numb all the way down to my foot. The doctor had warned me plainly that if I did not begin serious treatment, I might have difficulty walking normally by winter.
I had planned to undergo the necessary surgery and then complete my rehabilitation at a health resort.
That evening, I waited for Tolya to come home and confronted him.
“Tolya, what happened to the money in our savings account?”
 
He did not even appear embarrassed.
“I withdrew it.”
“Why?”
“The car needs repairs.”
I slowly lowered myself onto a chair.
“What car? Tolya, that money was meant for my treatment. You know that perfectly well. I need an operation, followed by rehabilitation and a stay at a medical resort.”
My husband grimaced irritably.
“Raya, don’t start. What operation? What medical resort? Give you half a chance, and you’ll waste all our money lounging around at some spa and covering yourself in mud. I’ll rub some ointment on your back in the evening, and everything will be fine. The car is barely running. If it breaks down completely, how are we supposed to get to the country house?”
Behind me, the water began to boil. The lid of the saucepan rattled softly.
At almost the same moment, sharp pain pierced my lower back and shot down my left leg to my heel.
 
Without saying a word, I reached for the stove and switched off the burner.
The following day, Tolya returned from work and sat down at the table as usual, expecting a hot dinner to appear in front of him immediately.
I walked over and placed an empty ceramic plate before him.
Beside it, I put an unopened packet of dry rye crispbread.
Tolya raised his eyebrows in confusion.
“What is this supposed to be?”
“We have no money left,” I explained calmly. “Have some crispbread. People say it’s healthy.”
His ears and neck turned bright red.
He shoved the chair away, got to his feet, and went to fry himself some eggs.
I walked into the living room.
That night, we lay at opposite edges of the bed with our backs turned to each other.
But something inside me broke beyond repair a little later.
Tolya’s old friend Valera came to visit us with his wife, Lena.
As always, I prepared thoroughly. I set the table in the living room, brought out the crystal glasses, ironed the tablecloth, and even starched the napkins. I roasted pork with garlic in the oven, filling the entire apartment with the rich aroma of meat.
Valera tasted a piece, closed his eyes in delight, and exclaimed, “Raisa Vasilievna, you’re a real magician! Tolya, you’re lucky to have a wife like her!”
Tolya merely smirked.
 
He rolled his shot glass between his fingers, looked me over with a mocking, appraising expression, and said loudly enough for everyone to hear:
“Oh, stop exaggerating. It’s ordinary food. She has nothing to do at work except sit around with her paperwork and drink tea, so she comes home and tries to earn my approval by hovering over the stove. Valera, just look at how much weight she’s gained. Soon she’ll have to turn sideways to fit through the door. I keep telling her to walk around the building in the evenings, but no. She drops onto the sofa and lies there like a log.”
The room fell so silent that even our guests looked uncomfortable.
Lena lowered her eyes to her plate.
Valera cleared his throat and began studying the pattern on the tablecloth with exaggerated interest.
To my own surprise, I rose calmly from my chair.
I walked over to Tolya and took away his plate, on which half of the pork and potatoes remained.
My husband watched me in astonishment.
In the kitchen, I pressed the pedal of the trash bin with my foot. The lid opened.
I tilted the plate.
The meat and potatoes landed in the garbage with a dull thud.
When I returned to the living room, I smiled.
“You know, Tolya, you’re right. At our age, we should avoid fatty food. Our blood vessels aren’t what they used to be. You really ought to take better care of your health.”
At first, my husband was too outraged to speak.
Then his eyes widened.
“What… What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “Valera, did you see that? She took my food and threw it away! And you call her a magician? She needs professional help!”
The evening fell apart after that.
 
Valera and Lena said their goodbyes and left rather quickly.
Tolya continued shouting for almost an hour, accusing me of every imaginable offense. I neither argued with him nor attempted to defend myself.
When he finally fell asleep and began snoring that night, I quietly slipped out of bed.
I opened the chest of drawers and removed the folder containing our important documents.
I checked every paper carefully.
The apartment belonged to me.
The country house was also registered in my name.
Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.
I returned the folder to the drawer, went back to bed, and, for the first time in nearly a month, fell asleep almost immediately.
Several days later, I called Zinaida, our neighbor at the country house.
For three years, she had occasionally asked whether we were considering selling the property because some acquaintances of hers were interested in buying it.
Previously, I had always given her the same answer.
“We’ll think about it.”
Now, however, I realized there was nothing left to consider. We hardly visited the place anymore.
By the following day, the sale had been arranged. Tolya was at work and knew nothing about it.
 
I divided the proceeds equally between us.
No matter how angry I was with my husband, I remembered that when we were younger, he had also invested money and effort in that property. So I set aside half of the money for him.
I immediately reserved my share for the operation and subsequent rehabilitation.
Three days later, we celebrated our pearl wedding anniversary.
Thirty years of married life.
Our daughter Natasha had offered to pay for the banquet.
At first, everything went peacefully. The guests chatted, raised their glasses, and recalled old family stories.
Then Tolya stood up.
“I’d like to make a toast,” he announced.
Everyone fell silent.
He lifted his glass.
“Well… Raya and I have been together for thirty years.”
He cleared his throat before continuing.
“Of course, my wife is hardly a gift. She has a difficult personality and is always complaining about something. As for her cooking—well, it’s edible. But what can I do now? I put up with her. Raya, the important thing is that you continue listening to me. We’re not getting any younger. Who else would want you with all your health problems? So you’d better hold on to me tightly.”
He gave a self-satisfied grin and was about to drink.
I saw Natasha lower her head.
At that moment, I knew the time had come.
I placed my palms against the edge of the table and slowly rose. After straightening my dress, I picked up my glass of mineral water and looked directly at my husband.
“Thank you, Tolya. Yes, we have indeed spent thirty years together. But during all that time, you never once told me I was beautiful.”
Tolya grunted and stared at me.
I continued.
“In thirty springs, you never brought me even a tiny branch of lilac. When I was lying in bed with a temperature close to forty, your only concern was why I had not heated your dinner. When I spent years saving money for treatment so that I wouldn’t lose my ability to walk normally one day, you emptied our savings account without asking me and spent everything on your car. Then, in front of our friends, you humiliated me and dismissed all my work at home as nothing more than an attempt to earn your approval.”
My husband scowled.
“Raya, what is this performance? Sit down immediately!”
 
I shook my head.
“No, Tolya. I will not sit down.”
I looked straight into his eyes.
“You just asked who would want me with all my health problems. The answer is very simple: I need myself.”
I opened my handbag.
From it, I removed the thick white envelope I had prepared beforehand and placed it on the festive tablecloth in front of Tolya.
“I sold the country house. That envelope contains exactly half of the money from the sale. It is your share. I kept the other half, and I will use it to pay for my treatment and rehabilitation.”
Absolute silence descended over the table.
I smiled before adding one final thing.
 
“The apartment belongs to me as well. I expect you to pack your belongings and move out by tomorrow evening. I will file for divorce myself.”
I placed my glass back on the table, picked up my handbag, and headed toward the exit.
I did not wait for his outrage, his explanations, or another lecture about what an ungrateful wife I had become after thirty years of marriage.
Six months have passed since that evening.
I received the treatment I needed, and I feel well now.
Tolya and I are officially divorced. After our separation, he moved in with Natasha.
My daughter, incidentally, was deeply offended by my decision. Many relatives and mutual acquaintances also decided that I had acted wrongly. They believed that after thirty years of marriage, I should have shown more patience.
For the first time in a very long while, however, I have stopped thinking about what everyone else expects from me.
Of all the words spoken at our pearl wedding anniversary, one sentence has remained with me more powerfully than any wedding vow:
“I need myself.”