Lena, did you forget to put sugar in the tea again?” Viktor’s voice was deliberately calm, but I already knew: it was about to begin. In the living room the conversations instantly died down. His mother averted her gaze, his sister buried herself in her phone, and his father began scrutinizing the pattern on the tablecloth. Once upon a time, Sunday family dinners used to bring joy, but now they had turned into a weekly torture.
“Sorry, I’ll bring it right away,” I said as I rose, feeling my hands trembling. The porcelain cup in his hand—a wedding gift from my aunt—seemed as fragile as our relationship of the past three years. Its golden rim and a barely noticeable crack at the bottom; he always drank from this cup, insisting that the other tableware was “unworthy.”
“No, no, sit down,” he said with that signature smile he flashed at everyone present, a smile that made my insides clench. “Tell me, then, why did you think it was acceptable to serve tea without sugar? These are elementary things every hostess should know, right, Mom?”
His mother, Nina Petrovna, mumbled something indistinctly, not even lifting her eyes from her cup. The little woman, with her frightened look, reminded me of a bird ready to fly away at any moment.
Viktor’s sister, Irina, gave me a sympathetic look which she immediately hid when her brother turned to her. The elderly head of the family, Sergey Mikhaylovich, silently tapped his fingers on the table—a habit that appeared every time his son started his “lessons.”
“Viktor, let’s discuss this later,” I murmured softly, feeling my face and neck flush with shame.
“What’s the big deal?” he said theatrically, spreading his arms as his elbow brushed against a vase of cookies. The vase wobbled but held firm. “I’m just asking. We’re family, aren’t we? We have no secrets. Lena is just… let’s say… not attentive enough to details. Right, dear?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and silently headed to the kitchen. Behind me came his chuckle and a comment: “As always—running away instead of answering.” Then, a little quieter but loud enough for me to hear: “Just like a schoolgirl.”
In the kitchen I leaned against the countertop, taking deep breaths to calm myself. Through the slightly opened window, the sound of rain that had been falling since early morning could be heard. The droplets drummed on the windowsill as though playing their own melody. On the wall, the clock ticked away the seconds of my humiliation. Next to the sugar bowl lay someone’s forgotten smartphone—probably Irina’s. The screen flashed with an incoming message.
I instinctively glanced at it and froze. The message was from my mother-in-law: “Irina, talk to your brother. He’s starting it again in front of everyone. I’m really scared for Lena. This is too much.”
Something inside me broke. That which had once seemed unpleasant yet tolerable suddenly became perfectly clear. They all knew. They always saw and remained silent. Just as I did.
Memories rushed over me like a wave: the bouquet of wild daisies at our wedding instead of the traditional roses, his whisper “you are the most beautiful bride.” And then—years of humiliation: first small jabs in private, then in front of friends, and now these public executions before the whole family.
He ridiculed my hobbies, mocked my attempts to find a job after the layoff, and when we learned that we couldn’t have children, he began joking about my “inadequacy” in front of guests. “Apparently, nature decided that my wife shouldn’t become a mother just yet,” he would say with affected laughter, and I would smile to keep from crying.
I looked at the sugar bowl in my hands—a family heirloom, old, with blue flowers and a golden rim. The very one he had forbidden me to touch after I tried to tape up the tiny crack on its side. My fingers clenched around the porcelain handles. The room blurred before my eyes, and for a moment I imagined that the sugar bowl would shatter against the wall into ringing, sharp shards.
But instead, I carefully placed it on the tray and left the kitchen, straightening my back.
Returning to the living room, I saw that the conversation had shifted to another topic. Viktor, sprawled on the sofa like a lord on his throne, enthusiastically recounted his promotion.
“…and you wouldn’t believe it, the director said: ‘Viktor Sergeyevich, we need people like you—responsible, attentive to details.’ Not like some people,” he said, nodding in my direction without even looking, but knowing I had entered. “And she can’t even put sugar in her tea without being reminded.”
His mother nervously adjusted her glasses, his father cleared his throat. Irina stared out the window, where the rain had turned the yard into an endless sea of puddles.
I placed the sugar bowl on the table. The sound of porcelain against glass rang sharply, almost provocatively. All eyes turned toward me.
“Is something wrong, dear?” Viktor asked with that same fake smile I had seen a thousand times.
Suddenly, a strange calm washed over me—as though something inside had snapped, switching from the mode of “enduring” to “acting.”
“Everything’s fine,” I replied, carefully smoothing the napkin on my lap. “Go ahead, it’s very interesting.”
He frowned, clearly expecting the usual response: a guilty smile or tears. I watched him from a distance. I observed his rehearsed gestures, his deliberate modesty, how he sought his mother’s admiring glances. For the first time I saw him truly—a person who felt significant only by demeaning others.
Outside, the rain intensified. The droplets drummed on the window, streaming down in whimsical rivulets, as if nature itself had decided to support my internal transformation.
“I filed for divorce,” the words burst out on their own, softly, yet in the ensuing silence everyone heard them. A teaspoon slipped from Irina’s hand and clinked against the saucer.
Viktor froze mid-sentence. His face contorted in an expression of bewildered grimace, his adam’s apple twitching nervously.
“You… what?” he slowly said, setting down his cup. A tea puddle spread across the white tablecloth.
“I will no longer be your target for humiliation,” my voice remained even, though everything inside me trembled. “Neither in private, nor in front of your family, nor in front of anyone.”
His mother pressed her hand to her mouth. For the first time that evening, his father looked him straight in the eyes—firmly, with a barely noticeable reproach. Irina stood there, fixed on me.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Viktor spat. “What humiliations? I’m just joking. You have absolutely no sense of humor.”
Viktor glared at his mother as if she had suddenly transformed into an alien.
“The tablecloth is expensive!” he shouted, leaping from his chair. “I’ve bent over backward to teach you everything, and you’re ungrateful! Well, soon you’ll understand how lucky you are to have me. Just don’t crawl back here!”
I said nothing. In the bedroom, a suitcase was already standing there, packed that very morning with only the most essential items. Everything else could stay behind—I no longer needed it.
A minute later I stood in the hall, buttoning my coat. Behind me the voices could be heard: Irina was saying something to her brother, raising her tone for the first time. I placed my keys on the small table next to his favorite bull figurine—a symbol of his supposed might.
When I opened the door, I hesitated for a moment. Outside, it was pouring—a true downpour. I had no umbrella, only an address for a friend who had promised to let me stay.
“Maybe I should go back? Wait it out?” the thought flickered by.
And then I heard Viktor’s voice from the living room: “She’ll be back. Where else would she go?”
I stepped into the rain and closed the door behind me. With that movement, I drew a line between my past and my future—a line I would never cross again. The cold drops drummed on my shoulders, my hair instantly became wet. I walked forward without looking back.
Behind me, the sound of a door opening and rapid footsteps could be heard.
“Lena, wait!” It was Irina. She ran after me, holding an umbrella. “At least take this.”
I wanted to thank her, but the words got stuck in my throat. Awkwardly, Irina wrapped her arms around me and whispered, “I always wanted to do the same. You’re brave.”
She quickly returned to the house, and I opened the umbrella and kept walking. A little lightness settled in my heart. I knew I was not alone in this new life.
A bus pulled up, splashing puddles. I boarded, leaving the umbrella at the entrance—perhaps someone else might need it. I sat by the window and watched the droplets stream down the glass, blurring the outlines of the city I once considered my own. Whether the wet streaks on my cheeks were rain or tears, I could no longer tell.
Ahead lay uncertainty, but it was my uncertainty. My very own life, which I had finally decided to live.
I pulled my phone from my coat pocket and checked Zhenya’s address. Six bus stops or a half-hour walk. In such downpour, the transport would surely get stuck in traffic. I decided to walk and got off at the next stop—after five years of emotional imprisonment even the pouring rain felt like liberation.
Stepping into the downpour, I closed my eyes and allowed myself a smile. I recalled how as a child I loved to run in the rain, raising my face to the drops, much to the dismay of my mother who was afraid I’d catch a cold. “The rain washes away all the bad things, Mom,” I used to say. How right I was.
I walked on without looking back, knowing I would never return to that house again. My wet clothes clung to my body, water splashed from my shoes, but with every step I felt more alive.
Passersby gave me puzzled looks—a soaked woman without an umbrella, walking through the rain with a smile on her face and a suitcase in her hand. Perhaps I looked like a crazy person. Maybe I was—maybe I had lost my mind from the freedom I’d found.
Ahead lay uncertainty, but it was my uncertainty. My own life, which I had finally decided to live. Without concerning myself with others’ opinions, without fear of making mistakes, without the need to live up to someone else’s high standards.
The rain grew heavier, yet with every step I felt an inner warmth spreading. Perhaps it wasn’t the temperature of the air, but the fact that I finally felt alive. Lifting my face toward the sky, I allowed the droplets to wash away the last traces of makeup—the mask I had worn for so long.
Through the curtain of rain, blurred lights of a café appeared. Usually I would pass by, hurrying home to prepare dinner for Viktor. But today was different. Today I could step in, order a hot cup of tea, dry off, and think about the future. My own future.
Pushing open the door, I immediately felt the cozy warmth and caught the smell of freshly baked goods. Behind the counter stood a girl with bright blue hair. In the past, I would have condemned such boldness, but now I thought, “Why shouldn’t I change too?”
“Oh my, you’re soaked through!” she exclaimed. “I’ll get you a towel right away.”
“Thank you,” I replied, and my voice sounded somehow more confident, freer. “You know, sometimes you have to get completely wet to start afresh.”
She smiled, as if understanding something important, and handed me the menu. I chose green tea and a blueberry pie—small indulgences I had almost never allowed myself before. Viktor considered sweets a “sinful luxury.”
Seated by the window and watching the rain taper off, I texted Zhenya: “I did it. I left. I’ll be there in an hour.” Almost immediately his reply came: “Proud of you. My door is always open.” Four simple words, yet they meant more to me than any grand promises.
Outside, the rain began to ease, and with it the storm in my soul. Sure, difficulties awaited me, but I was ready to face them. For the first time in a long while, I felt not fear for the future, but a gentle, pleasant curiosity.
Perhaps it was the very spring I had been waiting for so long.