— Where were you wandering until eleven, huh? — Maxim’s voice came from the bathroom. He slipped through the morning like a drop of ketchup on a white shirt: not a catastrophe, but it spoiled the mood.
Elena, already fully ready to go, keys in hand and a serious face, froze at the kitchen doorway. She turned slowly, as if this wasn’t a conversation with her husband but a scene from a detective story — now the suspenseful violin would play, and the credits would roll.
— I was at work. Where else? I have a deadline. A project. We discussed this, Maxim. More than once. Even twice. Or were you just nodding like a Chinese bobblehead on the dashboard then?
— Oh, don’t start… — came the object of the discussion himself, stepping out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, with an expression that said, “I don’t care, but I’m going to say it anyway.” — I just asked. Why are you getting all worked up right away?
— Because you “ask” like a corruption investigator in a TV series. I barely managed to pour my coffee, and I’m already under suspicion.
— Who’s jealous of you anyway, Lena? — he snorted and pretended that it was even funny. But his eyes darted around. An experienced eye would see the movement of a schoolboy caught with a phone during a test. — You’re always buried in work and deadlines. I’m just worried. You never know.
There it is. The symptoms of chronic manipulation. It always starts with “I’m worried.” Then comes “a little money for mom’s medicine,” and ends with “let’s register the car under mom’s name, she has benefits, she’s a pensioner.”
She looked at Maxim with the expression only women who have fed, sheltered, and been disappointed can afford. He was well-groomed, fit, with that same self-satisfied smirk that once seemed sexy. Now — it irritated her. Like the elevator’s sound notification passing by the wrong floor.
— Did you call your mom? — she asked, pouring herself coffee. — Or are you waiting again for me to transfer the money myself?
— Lena, you said yourself it’s no big deal. She has high blood pressure. — Maxim tried to look sympathetic with a serious face. It didn’t work well, like an actor who forgot his lines and decided to improvise.
— Sure. I just finished a million-ruble project, but I’m supposed to send your mother to the ICU. Not you, who forgot her birthday and only remembered after the message: “Son, do you still remember me?”
Maxim put on a hurt look, switching to the “I’m small but proud” mode.
— You feel sorry? Only five thousand.
— It’s not the money. It’s that I live with a man who starts interrogating me in the morning, then asks for money, then makes excuses, all under the guise of “I’m worried.”
He turned away, buried himself in his phone with a look like he was about to find a way to become a good husband on sale. No investment or obligations required.
— Everything’s clear with you. As always. You don’t care.
As always. She wasn’t even surprised. Their four years of life together fit into that “as always.” He — touchy and convinced the whole world underestimated him. She — tired and no longer believing he could be changed. Their evening show always ended with him going to the computer looking important, and her to the bathroom with a blanket and a cup.
Elena stood by the window and looked outside. Moscow’s June was in full swing: hot, dusty, and the asphalt smelled like it was fed up with everything. Everything was usual. Everything except herself.
She was tired. Really tired. Not just after work. But like people get tired when they realize: they’re not just unheard. They’re being used.
In the evening, she decided to walk. With no goal. No route. Just walking. She wanted to stop being Maxim’s wife, a project manager, an adult person — even if just for half an hour. Just someone. Maybe even a ghost.
And then — a café. Nothing special. Plastic chairs, the smell of coffee and pastries. But she froze. There, by the window, sat Maxim.
Not alone.
With a woman. Young, lively, with those very lips made only by special order at a cosmetologist. They were laughing. She poked him in the shoulder, and he looked at her the way he once looked at Elena.
And then she heard.
Not everything. One fragment. But sometimes one is enough for a whole life to come together like a puzzle. Or fall apart like a house of cards.
— As soon as she signs the power of attorney, I’ll file for divorce. It’s almost in the bag.
She didn’t remember how she got home. How she took off her shoes. How she entered the bathroom.
She stood in front of the mirror and whispered:
— In the bag, huh… In what kind of bag do you have me, bastard?..
Maxim came home late. As if nothing had happened. Smiling. Handed her a bag:
— Bought you soap. The lavender one. You said it calms you.
She took the bag as if there was a snake wrapped in cellophane inside.
— Do you remember what you said this morning? That you were “worried”? About “mom”? Or did you mean your new girl from the café? The one who will help you “divorce me”?
He froze. A moment — and everything hung in the air.
— You’re crazy, Lena.
But she was already walking to the bathroom. No shouting. No hysteria. Just closed the door.
Didn’t lock it.
Because she knew: the worst storms don’t start with thunder. They start with silence.
Night fell on the apartment like a heavy blanket. Maxim entered the bedroom cautiously, like a cat who knows: the curtains are torn, so it’s better not to make noise.
Elena lay on her side, the light was off, but the window let in the dim orange light of a streetlamp. In the twilight, the room looked like an interrogation zone. Only this time, she was the interrogator.
— Lena… — he began softly, as if testing the water temperature before putting his foot in. — Are you serious now?
She didn’t answer. Pretending to be asleep made no sense: even through the blanket, you could see her shoulder trembling. Not from cold — from rage. The kind that builds up over years and then bursts out when you stand in front of a mirror and whisper: “in the bag…”
Maxim sat on the edge of the bed, cautiously. He switched on the “quiet kitty” voice, though as always, it carried an inner arrogance.
— You made something up. Maybe someone said something. You’re always like that — overthinking, complicating…
— I saw you, — she said sharply. Without trembling. Without emotion. Just stating a fact. Like “it’s raining outside.” — Heard you. You were with her. In the café. She was laughing, and you said everything was almost “in the bag.”
He froze. His face looked like a frozen pizza — and not a tasty one.
— That’s not what you think…
She jumped up:
— Why do you all say that when you’re caught?! “It’s not what you think,” “You misunderstood,” “It fell by itself!” Do you have any more excuses, or is everything already rehearsed with the new actress?
Maxim exploded:
— Why are you shouting, huh?! Do you think you’re perfect?! And who am I — a dog in your rich life?
— A dog?! — she stood up. — You’ve been living in my apartment for four years! Driving my car! Your mom drinks my medicine, by the way!
He stood up too. There was metal in his voice.
— And what would you have achieved without me, huh? Our smart businesswoman! You think you carried me? You were just convenient. Convenient! You have everything: connections, money, friends. And me? I’m a shadow!
— A shadow doesn’t ask to register the car under his mother’s name, — she said. — You’re not a shadow. You’re a project. One I should have shut down a long time ago. With losses.
He turned away as if restraining himself, but she saw — that was it, the curtain. The masks were off. Now he wasn’t playing the “good husband.” Now he was real.
— You won’t give me a penny, right? Even if I leave peacefully?
She laughed. Dry and hoarse.
— I’ll give you. A toothbrush. And slippers. So you don’t walk barefoot into your new life.
Maxim chuckled.
— You’ve become cruel, Lena. Thanks to you, actually.
She turned and went to the kitchen. No dramatic door slams, no yelling. Just like someone who decided to make herself tea, because the only thing that calms her is old green jasmine tea.
He stayed in the bedroom. Then moved to the sofa in the living room. With the remote, chips, and a shadow of resentment. Lay down like a temporary tenant. Like someone who still believes: maybe she’ll come to her senses?
The morning was quiet. Suspiciously quiet. She packed her bag, documents, laptop. Everything — as usual. Except her heart. Instead of it — something cold, like a safe door. And only she knew the code.
Before leaving, she approached the sofa. He lay there with his mouth open, breathing heavily. On the table — a remote, an empty cup, a candy wrapper. A painfully domestic sight.
—I blocked the account, — she said calmly. — The apartment is in my name. The car too. You can go. To your mom. Or to court. Or… wherever you want.
He didn’t move. Only his lips twitched slightly. Maybe he hadn’t slept. Maybe he didn’t want to wake up.
When the door closed behind her, the sky was overcast. The rain hadn’t started yet but promised to. She was ready. For the first time. For a fight.
At the office, she went straight to the lawyer. He, as always, with coffee and a steel smile.
— Viktor Igorevich, file it. Divorce. Without division. Just like we discussed.
He nodded:
— No problem. Everything’s prepared. He’s not resisting — it will be easy.
— Great, — she answered. — File it today. Before I change my mind.
The whole day passed on autopilot. She sat before an Excel spreadsheet with the project budget, thinking about the spreadsheet of her life. Before him. With him. After. The last column was empty but already labeled: “Freedom.”
Maxim showed up in the evening. From the doorway. Theatrical.
— Are you crazy?! I’m not your enemy! Lena, you’re destroying everything!
— No, Maxim. You destroyed it. All these years. I only just saw it. Next time come with a lawyer. Or with your mom. Actually, better with your mom. At least she deserves some pity.
He slammed the door. For real. And left. This time — without pause or intrigue.
The apartment became quiet. But not empty. Truly quiet. Spacious. And for the first time in a long time — free.
Three weeks passed.
Elena lived alone. And every day felt like a long-awaited vacation she could never afford. No questions: “Where were you until nine?” No claims from Sasha the accountant’s WhatsApp. No foreign socks in the bathroom and empty promises of “I’ll do it myself.”
The divorce went surprisingly fast. The lawyer even raised an eyebrow:
— He didn’t file a single objection. Almost like he was glad.
— Not glad. Just looking for other ways to cling, — Elena said calmly. — A snake doesn’t attack when wounded. It accumulates venom.
And she knew: this was not the end. Only intermission.
He came back suddenly. As always — without a call. Without “may I?” or “is it convenient?” or “hello.”
Elena just closed her laptop, was about to pour herself tea when the doorbell rang. The ring was short but brazen. Just like Maxim’s whole manner of living in her home and lying to her face.
She opened — and there they were: Maxim, with his signature smirk of “we’re just here,” and next to him — Olga.
Olga looked like she had just stepped off the poster “Woman of Dreams”: hair like a shampoo ad, lips colored “berry mousse,” smile fragile, porcelain. The kind you want to carefully put back in the box.
— Elena Nikolaevna? — she sang brightly, as if rehearsing in the car.
— Is that really me, — Elena said calmly, leaning on the door handle. — And who are you? The newbie? A direct replacement or just passing the casting?
Maxim laughed as if it was all cute. And without asking, went into the kitchen. As if he still lived here. As if it was his apartment. As if he had any shame.
— We just wanted to talk, — Olga began, stepping after him. — Maxim said you’re an adult. You’ll understand…
— Did he say that? — Elena closed the door and crossed her arms. — Well, talk. Since you came all this way.
Maxim was already settled at the table. Pulling a pizza box from a bag as if it was an important diplomatic gesture.
— Lena, we want to offer you a deal.
— How lovely. You’re a couple now, and I’m who? The sponsor? Or the venture fool?
— Don’t be like that, — Olga interrupted. — We’re not enemies. Just… a complicated situation.
— That’s putting it mildly.
— Maxim owes money. Not just to me. He has obligations. We thought maybe you…
— Maybe I’ll give you money? — Elena asked, looking at them like lost tour guides from another world. — Wait. You’re not serious…
Maxim shrugged. Scratched his head.
— You’re well-off. I invested years in you. And now you just want to cut it all off?
— Invested?! — Elena’s voice trembled. — You invested? What did you invest, Maxim? Your laziness? Or your socks in the bathroom?
He stood up. His eyes hardened, his face like an actor who wasn’t cast in the series and came to find out why.
— I invested myself. My best years. I supported you when you cried after meetings. I was there!
— You were there when I ordered sushi and you got half. And when I was really sick — you left. Or drank. Or went to your mom to discuss how “difficult a woman” I am.
— Screw you, Lena! — he yelled. — You think I put up with you for love? I thought you were smart! But you’re just a bitch in a business suit!
Then Olga stood up. Her voice was ringing. Too ringing.
— Enough! We’re going to have a child!
Silence.
At that second, the whole world froze. The air, the tea in the cup, the drops on the windowsill. Only that “we” sounded like a shot. Or like a bankruptcy declaration.
Elena looked at her as if she saw a “detour” sign. Didn’t believe. Neither in the child nor that Maxim was the father.
— Child, — she repeated. — Well, congratulations. Maxim is a dad? Well, good luck. You’ll quickly learn how much diapers cost. And how often he will “not cope.”
— We want to start over, — Olga whispered. — Just need help.
Elena silently went to the closet. Took out an envelope. Handed it over.
— Here. Help. The last one. A gift, you might say.
Olga took it. Opened it. Inside — a copy of the lawsuit. All transfers. Documents. Receipts. His IOUs, carefully retyped and bound.
Maxim paled.
— You have no right…
—I do. Everything’s legal. And now — get out. Both of you. Good luck. I sincerely hope the child is someone else’s. Because if it’s yours, Maxim — he doesn’t stand a chance.
They left. Olga — in tears, Maxim — with the “we’re underestimated again” face.
Elena sat down. Looked at the turned-off TV. Then took her phone and booked tickets. Bora Bora. A hotel with an ocean view and breakfasts without whining.
She didn’t smile. But she breathed freely.
It was not emptiness.