I was sitting at my laptop when Andrey came back from work. Hearing the click of the front door, I quickly minimized the tab with the bank statement and opened the translation text.
My husband peeked into the study and planted a casual kiss on the top of my head.
“Good evening, worker bee. How’s it going? Translate a lot today?”
“Bit by bit,” I smiled. “A technical job, kind of tricky. But it’s fine, we’ll manage! We’ve never backed down before!”
“At least you earned us some bread?” he smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “Because I see you just sit and sit there, and nothing to show for it! Maybe it’s time to go back to a real job? Our neighbor got into Gazprom—decent salary. What, are you worse than her?”
“No, thanks,” I tried to keep my voice calm. “I’m more comfortable like this.”
“More comfortable for her…” my husband shook his head. “And is it comfortable for me to carry the family alone? Look, Seryoga at work said his wife also used to sit at home, dabbling in translations. Then she came to her senses and went to a proper company. Now at least some money comes into the house.”
“Andrey, let’s not do this,” I turned toward him. “I have clients, the pay is good. And I like working remotely.”
“Uh-huh, especially when you spend half the day on social media,” he snorted disapprovingly.
“I’m not on social media. I’m working. And actually, I’ve got a rush order right now…”
“All right, all right, I won’t get in the way of your ‘work,’” he made air quotes with his fingers. “I’ll go take a shower. By the way, did you at least make dinner? Or, as usual, were you ‘too busy’?”
“There’s a casserole in the oven. And salad in the fridge.”
“That’s something,” he nodded condescendingly and finally left.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. These conversations were happening more and more often. Andrey genuinely thought my work was some kind of hobby that brought in pocket change.
Three years ago, when I left the office for freelancing, he patted me on the shoulder indulgently: “Well, go on then, try it.” Since then he regularly made jokes about my “little translations.”
I didn’t argue. I just worked steadily, building up my client base.
At first it really was tough: tiny orders, unreliable clients.
But gradually I found my niche in technical translation, especially in IT. I got major clients, including foreign ones. My income grew.
For the past six months I’d been consistently making about half a million rubles a month. I saved the money in a separate account Andrey didn’t know about.
To be honest, I was preparing a surprise for him. I was planning to buy a new car for his birthday in a month. His old Toyota had long been begging for retirement.
Andrey worked as a manager at a car dealership, brought home about 150 thousand, and considered himself the main breadwinner. And I supported that illusion. It was just easier that way.
My husband took others’ success painfully, especially if it was close to home. When his younger brother started a profitable business, Andrey didn’t speak to his parents for a month because they “were prouder of Dima.”
That evening we had dinner in the kitchen.
My husband told me about a difficult customer; I nodded. Then he turned on the TV, and I went back to work. Another large order needed to be done urgently.
At one in the morning, when my husband was already asleep, I checked the balance of the special account. I had saved three and a half million rubles! Enough for a good car.
I pictured Andrey’s delight at the gift and smiled. Maybe he’d finally stop being ironic about my work.
Falling asleep, I thought how well I had arranged things. Work I loved, a decent income, and no tension in the family because the wife earned more than the husband.
The only thing that bothered me a bit was having to keep secrets. But for the sake of family peace, I could bear it…
A week later over dinner Andrey brought up a topic that made my insides turn to ice.
“Masha, remember I told you about the client who bought a Jeep from us?” he set down his fork and looked at me hopefully. “Well, he offered me a stake. He’s opening a chain of car washes, he’s already picked the locations…”
I froze.
Three years ago it had started exactly the same—with a “promising offer.”
Back then Dima, Andrey’s younger brother, opened his first store. Andrey was beside himself, saying he wanted his own business too. I saw how it hurt him, how much his brother’s success got under his skin. And when a chance came up to buy a ready-made business—a small café—I supported the idea.
We didn’t have money, so we took out a loan. At the time, two million rubles was a huge sum for us. Andrey was full of enthusiasm, making plans…
And six months later it all collapsed. It turned out the previous owner had concealed real debts and cleverly arranged the paperwork.
As a result, we were left with a huge loan and shattered dreams.
What followed were three years of brutal economy: no vacations, no new things.
I took extra orders at night to pay off the debt faster. Andrey swore then that he’d never get into business again.
And now here we were again…
“Andrey, you remember how the last attempt ended, don’t you?” I began cautiously.
“This is completely different!” he brightened. “Everything’s clean here. I checked! The client’s a serious man, he—”
“Listen,” I interrupted. “Maybe it’s better to focus on your career? You’re doing well; they value you at the dealership…”
“What does the dealership have to do with it?” he brushed me off irritably. “This is completely different money! Masha, come on, understand! You get a chance like this once in a lifetime.”
“How much do you need?” I asked, already guessing the answer.
“A million and a half,” he looked at me intently. “I’ve got three hundred thousand… Look, you must have some savings, right? You said you’ve had more orders…”
I was silent, torn between wanting to help and fear of a repeat of the past.
On the one hand, I had the money. On the other, I remembered all too well how hard we clawed our way out the last time.
“Masha, please,” Andrey took my hand. “I’ve done the math; there’s almost no risk. In a year we’ll triple the investment, I promise.”
“Darling, I’m sorry, but… I don’t have that kind of money,” I tried to speak gently. “You know how much I make. It barely covers living expenses.”
“Come on, there must be something!” he pleaded. “Maybe your parents can help? Or friends?”
“No,” I shook my head. “And let’s not talk about this anymore.”
Andrey jumped up from the table.
“I see. So you don’t believe in me. As always! What kind of wife are you!”
For the next few days he barely spoke to me. He left early, came home late.
And I kept telling myself I was doing the right thing. Better to buy him a good car. More practical and reliable.
Only those thoughts, for some reason, didn’t make me feel any better.
There was a week left before Andrey’s birthday.
The resentment over the failed business seemed to have subsided. My husband began talking to me normally again, even tried to joke. And I immersed myself in preparing the surprise.
Choosing the car took me almost a month.
I read dozens of reviews, combed through forums, made a shortlist of five models. Andrey had long dreamed of a Volkswagen Tiguan—practical, reliable. A new one cost a lot, but I decided not to skimp.
I went to a dealership on the other side of the city in secret, while my husband was at work.
The sales manager, Oleg, warmed to the idea of a surprise and helped with all the formalities. Together we chose the trim and the color—deep blue metallic, exactly what Andrey wanted.
“Haven’t seen something like this in a while,” the young man smiled as he filled out the papers. “Usually husbands give cars to their wives, but here it’s the other way around.”
At the same time, I was organizing the party.
I reserved a room at Chester—Andrey’s favorite restaurant. I called his colleagues, relatives, friends. Everyone loved the idea, especially when they found out about the main gift.
“Masha, are you out of your mind?” gasped my best friend, Ira. “Where’d you get that kind of money?”
“I saved up little by little,” I answered evasively. “I’ve wanted to give him a special gift for a long time.”
The night before the party I almost gave myself away. Andrey caught me talking to Oleg. He was calling to confirm details about delivering the car to the restaurant.
“Who’s that?” my husband asked suspiciously.
“Uh… work,” I mumbled, blushing.
“Work? At ten in the evening?”
“A rush order,” I tried to pull myself together. “The client’s in another time zone.”
Andrey snorted skeptically but didn’t ask further.
The big day came on Saturday.
I was nervous from the morning on, checking my phone every few minutes to make sure everything was on track.
Oleg reported that the car was ready and would be delivered on time. Ira sent photos of the decorated room. Everything looked perfect.
A taxi arrived at seven.
Andrey was in a good mood and joked the whole way. He thought we were just going out to dinner together. I hadn’t said a word about the party.
When we walked into the hall and everyone shouted “Surprise!” he froze for a second, then broke into a wide smile. Thirty guests—everyone he loved and valued—had come to congratulate him.
The toasts, gifts, jokes began. Andrey beamed as he accepted congratulations. I watched him and thought that in half an hour the big moment would come.
At nine, as agreed, Oleg texted:
“All set.”
I asked everyone to go outside. Supposedly for a group photo. Andrey suspected nothing.
In front of the restaurant, under the streetlights, stood a brand-new Tiguan tied with a huge red bow. I took out the keys.
“Happy birthday, my love!”
For a second there was absolute silence. Then someone whistled; there were cries of surprise.
And Andrey… Andrey looked at the car with a strange expression I couldn’t decipher.
“This… for me?” he asked hoarsely. “From where?..”
“From me,” I held out the keys. “I’ve wanted to give you something special for a long time!”
The guests applauded and began congratulating us in unison. Someone popped champagne; someone was already taking pictures of the car.
The birthday boy stood motionless, and his face grew more strained with every second…
For the rest of the evening I watched my husband teeter on the edge. He smiled stiffly as he accepted congratulations, but I saw the muscles working in his jaw.
Andrey answered everyone in monosyllables and drank more than usual.
The guests chalked his state up to being overwhelmed by such a generous gift.
“Lucky you with your wife, Andryukha!” his boss from the dealership clapped him on the shoulder. “What a surprise! And you said she just does some translations…”
The birthday boy gave a crooked smirk and tossed back another shot.
When we drove home—he at the wheel of the new car, me beside him—the silence in the cabin rang.
“Andrey,” I couldn’t stand it, “aren’t you happy?”
“Shut up,” he hissed through his teeth. “Just… shut up.”
I fell silent. Inside, everything tightened with the sense of an inevitable explosion.
It erupted the moment the front door closed behind us.
“You!” my husband whirled toward me, shaking with rage. “You… liar! All this time you lied to my face!”
“I wanted to do something nice for you…”
“Nice?!” he was almost shouting. “I asked you for money for a business! I begged! And you pretended you were broke! ‘I don’t have that kind of money, Andrey… Barely enough to live…’” he mimicked. “And what did you do? You calmly dropped three mil on a car!”
“Because I knew how your business would end!” I snapped. “You’d go under like last time and we’d be left in debt…”
“Oh, so you’re the smart one!” he kicked the coffee table in a rage. “You know better how I should live? You make the decisions for me? Who do you think you are?!”
“I’m your wife! And I wanted—”
“Wife?!” he cut me off. “A wife doesn’t betray! Doesn’t lie! Doesn’t manipulate! And you… you’re just selfish! You only think about yourself! About how you think it should be!”
“Andrey, listen—”
“No, you listen!” he loomed over me. “I asked for help! I wanted to start my own business! To become someone! And you… you decided a car was more important! Because it suits you! Because you know best! To hell with your car!”
I stood there, stunned by the torrent of anger and accusations. Three years of economizing, hundreds of nights at the computer, all those secret savings… for what? To be told I was a traitor?
“You know what?” my husband went on, quieter now, which somehow made it worse. “I thought we were a family. Complete trust. Turns out you were just playing me the whole time. Pretending to be a poor little translator…”
“I wasn’t pretending!” I cried. “I was really working! Day and night! To give you a gift!”
“A gift?” he laughed an awful laugh. “No, dear. This isn’t a gift. It’s a display of power. Your superiority. ‘Look, everyone! I can buy my husband a car! And he couldn’t even find money for a business!’”
“God, what are you talking about…” I covered my face with my hands. “What power? What superiority? I just wanted to make you happy!”
“Happy?!” he grabbed the new car keys from the table and hurled them at the wall. “It would’ve been better if you’d just told me to get lost when I asked for money! That would’ve been more honest!”
“Andrey, forgive me,” I wiped away tears. “I really thought I was doing what was best…”
“What’s best?” he suddenly calmed and smiled a cutting smile. “Fine. Let’s test that. If you really want to make me happy, prove it!”
“What do you mean?”
“We can sell the car. Right now, while it’s new, it’s worth a good amount. Just enough for a stake in the business.”
I froze and stammered:
“What?..”
“You wanted my happiness, right? Here it is! My chance! I’ll sell the car and buy into the car washes. I’ll fulfill my dream, take another shot.”
“No,” I shook my head. “No, Andrey. That’s my gift to you. I chose it with love, I saved up…”
“There!” he raised a triumphant finger. “Exactly! Your gift, your choice, your decision! And what about me? I’m just a puppet you get to move around?”
“What does that have to do with anything? If you want to prove yourself in business, do it with your own money! And a gift should be something you value!”
“Value?!” he started winding himself up again. “Will you finally get it through your head that my greatest value, my dream, is my own business! To become someone! Not just a dealership manager! And if you really love me…”
“No!” I suddenly felt a strange calm. “If you sell the car, I’ll file for divorce. Immediately.”
“What?!” he was practically choking with indignation.
“It’s not just a car, Andrey. It’s a symbol of how I feel about you. My care. If you’re ready to erase it so easily…”
“And your attitude toward me… what is that? Control?” he cut in. “‘Do this, live like that, don’t you dare sell MY gift’! You know what? Maybe a divorce really is the best solution for us. I’m tired! I don’t need a wife who thinks I’m incapable of making decisions. I want to be a man!”
We stared at each other, and I suddenly understood that this was the end. All these years we’d lived in some kind of illusion. I tried to create the perfect picture: caring wife, successful husband, happy family. And I got… this.
“All right,” I slowly took off my ring. “Tomorrow I’ll see a lawyer and prepare the papers.”
“Great,” Andrey gave a crooked grin. “Just return the car. It was a gift for me, right? That means I have the right to do with it what I want.”
“No,” I set the ring on the table. “The car stays with me. As compensation for all these years… of illusion.”
He started to say something, but I was already walking to the bedroom to pack. An hour later I called a taxi and went to my friend’s place.
Two months later we met to sign the final divorce papers.
Andrey looked fairly calm, even happy. I’d heard he did manage to find money for the business. He’s now developing a chain of car washes.
I moved to another neighborhood, changed my hairstyle, and bought myself an apartment. I still work a lot, but I no longer hide my success. And for the first time in a long while, I feel truly free.
I sold the Tiguan a month after the divorce. Not because I needed the money. It’s just that every time I got behind the wheel, I remembered that evening. And every time I realized that some gifts become too heavy a burden. For the one who receives them, and for the one who gives them.
They say Andrey still gets angry when he sees blue Tiguans on the road.
And I… I just keep living. And I’m learning to give gifts without expectations. Even if the gift is freedom.