It was late. After tucking the children in and smoothing the blankets one last time, Liza drifted to the kitchen. She set the kettle on, watched the tiny lights flicker under the metal, poured tea, and sat at the table with both hands around the cup. Roma still wasn’t home. Lately he’d been drowning in work, often coming back after midnight. Liza felt sorry for him. She shielded him from chores whenever she could, wrapping the man she loved in small, constant acts of care. Roma was the family’s only breadwinner—at least that’s how they had built their life.
They had agreed on it right after the wedding: he would provide, she would tend the home and, when they came, the children. And that’s exactly how it turned out. Three little ones now filled the apartment with noise and crumbs. Roma worked and brought in enough; Liza kept the home front from collapsing. He rejoiced with each new baby and spoke dreamily of a fourth, but Liza was bone-tired. The babies were endlessly hungry for attention, there was always a hill of damp diapers in the bathroom, her milk ran low and every night she measured out formula by the soft blue light of the stove. Quietly, without proclamations, she had decided: three was enough. It was time to stop.
He came in one night smelling faintly of cigarettes and bar spice, a little drunk around the edges. When she asked, he said the whole team was exhausted and had stopped by for a quick drink to decompress.
“My poor thing,” Liza murmured, stroking his sleeve, “come, I’ll heat you dinner.”
“I’m full. We had plenty of snacks. I’ll just sleep.”
International Women’s Day loomed. Liza asked her mother to watch the children so she could run errands alone—groceries for a special dinner, a small romantic evening. She’d leave the kids with her mother, cook something festive, maybe light a candle. After buying food and gifts, she allowed herself a final indulgence: a new outfit. Her clothes were tired and thin at the elbows; she owned nothing that felt like a holiday.
She stashed her bags at the cloakroom and slipped into a popular boutique. Several dresses over her arm, she stepped into a fitting stall. She’d just eased off her nylon jacket when a voice from the adjacent stall slid through the thin wall—Roma’s voice, unmistakable:
“I want to undress you right now.”
A laugh answered him, bright and syruped, a young woman’s voice: “Not much longer to wait. Go buy something for your wife instead.”
“She doesn’t need anything. All she cares about is the kids. I’ll get some kitchen gadget—she loves living in that kitchen.”
Liza went still. Breath trapped. The dress on its hanger felt suddenly heavy, like an iron weight. She made herself try it on, stared at her reflection, and understood she didn’t want any of it anymore. The voices kept going.
“What if she asks where the money went?” the girl teased.
“I don’t report to her,” Roma said lazily. “I hand her the household cash. She has no idea what I actually make.”
Footsteps, the swish of curtains, the brief hush of the corridor. Liza eased her curtain aside. At the register, Roma was paying. A slender blonde stood beside him, his hand resting casually—intimately—on her waist.
“Are you all right?”
Liza flinched. She’d been sitting on the little bench for too long, apparently with her face rearranged by shock. A saleswoman hovered in the doorway, worried. Liza nodded, gathered herself, and—almost out of spite—bought the dresses she’d chosen. At home she sent her mother off with thanks, put the children down for their nap, lay on her back, and stared at the ceiling.
Maybe it was her fault. She had let herself disappear. But no—whatever the mirror said, betrayal was betrayal, a blunt strike from behind. She had never imagined Roma would cheat. And that tone—how he spoke about her, as if she were nothing, at best the maid. Even his “gift” ideas were for scrubbing and chopping.
Divorce tempted her like a cool door in a burning room. But walking through it would free the two of them most of all. He’d go straight to his mistress; she would be left shouldering three children on alimony that would likely shrink to a trickle. For now, she would keep quiet and watch.
That night Roma drifted in late again, saying work was devouring him. Liza looked at him like at a stranger who resembled her husband and said nothing. Something in her chest iced over, clean and absolute.
The next morning she opened the laptop and wrote a résumé. She sent it everywhere—every listing that looked remotely possible. Days began to start with the ping of email. Many didn’t respond; a few refused. Then a call: an interview invitation—from the very company where Roma worked. Liza hesitated, then squared her shoulders and went.
She did well. Management liked her calm, her clarity, the steadiness in her voice. They offered her a position. The salary wasn’t large at first, but enough to feed the children. Liza flew home buoyed by a lightness she hadn’t felt in years. Her mother met her at the door, already brimming with questions.
“Roma has a mistress!” Liza announced—and to her own surprise, almost laughed as she said it.
Her mother blinked, misreading the laughter as shock, poured tea, and sat her down. “Sweetheart, what are you saying? He stays late for you and the kids, and you… accuse him of—”
“He’s with a young one,” Liza said, still half-smiling at the bitter absurdity, and told her everything.
“Do you want a divorce?”
“Of course. But first I have to build a routine. I got a good job with flexible hours. We’ll put the little ones in kindergarten, and I’ll move to full-time.”
“It’s your choice,” her mother said quietly. “I won’t talk you out of it. Someone who betrays once will do it again. Do what you think is right. I’m disappointed in him. And to speak about the mother of his children like that to a stranger…” She squeezed Liza’s hand. “I’ll help with the kids.”
“Mom, what would I do without you?” Liza hugged her hard.
On the eve of the holiday, Roma came home past midnight again. Liza didn’t ask. Her face told him enough. He launched into an explanation about late hours and the bar afterward. Liza cut it short and told him to sleep.
Morning. While she spooned porridge into small bowls, Roma produced a glossy box. “Look—my gift. To help you a little with the housework,” he said, leaning in to kiss her. She turned away. The box remained sealed on the counter.
Liza wiped her hands and said, almost ceremonially, that she had a gift for him, too. She led him to the hall. Two suitcases stood by the door.
“These are your things. I’m divorcing you. Now you won’t have to invent stories about friends and late nights and how you ‘need to relax.’ Go relax. Don’t keep your blonde waiting.”
“Who told you?” He hadn’t expected the ground to give way under his feet.
“I saw you choosing her a present,” Liza said evenly. “Give her the food processor, too. Maybe she enjoys ‘fiddling in the kitchen.’”
Cornered, Roma lashed out. “Look at yourself! She’s beautiful, and in bed— You don’t even dress properly. You’ve let yourself go, turned into a clumsy housewife. And the funniest part? You live off my money. Or do you keep accounts and just don’t want me spending any on someone else? You have no right.”
“‘My money, my money’—is that your life’s banner?” Liza’s voice was dry. “You didn’t ‘give me money.’ You gave cash for the household. You ate that food too.” She opened the door, nudged the suitcases into the hall, and with a strength she didn’t know she possessed, pushed him out. “Don’t you dare come back.”
That night she slept deeply, like someone who had finally put down a load. In the morning she woke light. That day she filed for divorce and for child support. A few days later the bell rang and the front door burst open to admit her mother-in-law, already shouting.
“What are you doing! You throw my son out and now you want to squeeze money out of him? He owes you nothing. Withdraw that alimony claim!”
“How curious,” Liza said. “Why do some men think they’re paying their ex-wives and not their children? Afraid there won’t be enough left for the mistress? Not my problem anymore.”
“Look at you, all businesslike now! You haven’t worked a day since the wedding. You lived off him and got cozy. Don’t think you’ll get rich on alimony. He’ll ask his boss to pay him cash, and you’ll get pennies.”
“Out,” Liza said. “Like mother, like son. I’m only sorry I realized it this late.” She opened the door. “One more word and I’m calling the police.”
The woman left, and the apartment exhaled. Soon after, the children got spots in kindergarten and started going happily, proud of their tiny backpacks. Liza moved to full-time. Roma, of course, learned they now worked under the same roof. In a corridor of glass and carpet, they nearly collided.
“Hi,” he said, trying on a half-smile. “Let’s talk.”
“Sorry,” Liza answered, eyes on the folder in her hands. “I have work.”
“Then… lunch together?”
“The word ‘together’ doesn’t apply to us anymore,” she said, and walked past.
She glanced back only once. He looked somehow diminished, edges dulled. The blonde had left as soon as she learned that half of his paycheck now went to his children—exactly where it belonged.