I stood in the doorway of the banquet hall with a bouquet of white roses in my hands and couldn’t believe my eyes. At the long table, draped with golden tablecloths and set with crystal glasses, sat all of Igor’s relatives. Everyone except me. There wasn’t a place for me.
“Lena, why are you standing there? Come in!” my husband shouted without breaking off his conversation with his cousin.
I slowly swept my gaze along the table. There really wasn’t a seat. Every chair was taken, and no one even tried to move over or offer me a place. My mother-in-law, Tamara Ivanovna, sat at the head of the table in a golden dress, like a queen on a throne, pretending not to notice me.
“Igor, where am I supposed to sit?” I asked quietly.
He finally looked in my direction, and I saw irritation in his eyes.
“I don’t know, figure it out yourself. Can’t you see everyone’s talking?”
Someone among the guests snickered. I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. Twelve years of marriage—twelve years of enduring his mother’s contempt, twelve years of trying to become part of this family. And the result: there was no place for me at the table at my mother-in-law’s seventieth birthday.
“Maybe Lena can sit in the kitchen?” suggested my sister-in-law Irina, with barely concealed mockery in her voice. “There’s a stool there.”
In the kitchen. Like the help. Like a second-class person.
Without a word, I turned and headed for the exit, gripping the bouquet so tightly the rose thorns pierced my palms through the paper. Laughter sounded behind me—someone was telling a joke. No one called after me, no one tried to stop me.
In the restaurant corridor I tossed the bouquet into a trash bin and took out my phone. My hands trembled as I called a taxi.
“Where to?” the driver asked when I got in.
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Just drive. Anywhere.”
We drove through the night city, and I looked out the window at the shop lights, the occasional passersby, the couples strolling under the streetlamps. And suddenly I understood—I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to return to our apartment, where unwashed dishes of Igor’s were waiting for me, his socks scattered across the floor, and my habitual role of housewife who was supposed to serve everyone and lay claim to nothing.
“Stop at the train station,” I told the driver.
“Are you sure? It’s late, there aren’t any trains now.”
“Please stop.”
I got out of the taxi and walked toward the station building. In my pocket was a bank card—our joint account. On it were our savings for a new car. Five hundred thousand rubles.
A sleepy girl was on duty at the ticket counter.
“What do you have for the morning?” I asked. “To any city.”
“Saint Petersburg, Moscow, Yekaterinburg, Nizhny Novgorod…”
“Petersburg,” I said quickly, without thinking. “One ticket.”
I spent the night in the station café, drinking coffee and thinking about my life. About how twelve years ago I fell in love with a handsome guy with brown eyes and dreamed of a happy family. About how I gradually turned into a shadow who cooks, cleans, and keeps quiet. About how long ago I forgot my own dreams.
And I did have dreams. At university I studied interior design, imagined my own studio, creative projects, interesting work. But after the wedding Igor said:
“Why do you need to work? I earn enough. Better take care of the home.”
And I took care of the home. For twelve years.
In the morning I boarded a train to Saint Petersburg. Igor sent several messages:
“Where are you? Come home.” “Lena, where are you?” “Mom says you got offended last night. Why are you being childish?”
I didn’t answer. I looked out the window at the fields and forests flashing past, and for the first time in many years I felt alive.
In Petersburg I rented a small room in a communal apartment not far from Nevsky Prospekt. The landlady, an elderly, cultured woman named Vera Mikhailovna, didn’t ask unnecessary questions.
“Are you staying long?” was all she asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “Maybe forever.”
The first week I simply walked around the city. I studied the architecture, went into museums, sat in cafés and read books. It had been so long since I’d read anything other than recipes and housekeeping tips. Turned out so many interesting things had come out over the years!
Igor called every day:
“Lena, stop this nonsense! Come back home!”
“Mom says she’ll apologize to you. What more do you want?”
“Have you lost your mind? You’re a grown woman and you’re acting like a teenager!”
I listened to his yelling and marveled—had these tones really seemed normal to me before? Had I really gotten used to being spoken to like a naughty child?
In the second week I went to the employment center. It turned out interior designers were in great demand, especially in a city like Petersburg. But my degree had been earned too long ago; the technology had changed.
“You need to take refresher courses,” the counselor advised. “Learn the new programs, the current trends. But you have a solid foundation—you’ll manage.”
I enrolled in courses. Every morning I went to the training center, learned 3D software, new materials, design trends. My brain, unaccustomed to intellectual work, resisted at first. But gradually I got into it.
“You have talent,” the instructor said after looking at my first project. “You have an artistic eye. Why the long break in your career?”
“Life,” I answered briefly.
Igor stopped calling after a month. But his mother called.
“What are you playing at, you fool?” she screamed into the phone. “You left your husband, destroyed the family! For what? Because you didn’t get a seat? We just didn’t think of it!”
“Tamara Ivanovna, it’s not about the seat,” I said calmly. “It’s about twelve years of humiliation.”
“What humiliation? My son carried you in his arms!”
“Your son let you treat me like a maid. And he treated me even worse.”
“Bitch!” she shrieked, and hung up.
Two months later I received a certificate of advanced training and began looking for a job. The first interviews went poorly—I was nervous, stumbled over my words, had forgotten how to present myself. But at the fifth interview I was hired by a small design studio as an assistant designer.
“The salary isn’t large,” the manager, Maxim, a man of about forty with kind gray eyes, warned me. “But we have a good team and interesting projects. And if you prove yourself, we’ll increase it.”
I would have agreed to any salary. The main thing was to work, to create, to feel needed—not as a cook and cleaner, but as a specialist.
The first project was small—designing a one-room apartment for a young couple. I worked on it like a woman possessed, thought through every detail, made dozens of sketches. When the clients saw the result, they were thrilled.
“You included all our wishes!” the girl said. “And even more—you understood how we want to live!”
Maxim praised me:
“Good job, Lena. It’s clear you put your heart into it.”
I did put my heart into it. For the first time in many years I was doing what I truly loved. Every morning I woke with anticipation for a new day, new tasks, new ideas.
After six months my salary was raised and I was given more complex projects. After a year I became lead designer. My colleagues treated me with respect, clients recommended me to their friends.
“Lena, are you married?” Maxim asked once after work. We had stayed late at the studio discussing a new project.
“Formally, yes,” I said. “But I’ve been living alone for a year.”
“I see. Do you plan to divorce?”
“Yes, I’ll file soon.”
He nodded and didn’t pry further. I liked that he didn’t meddle in my personal life, didn’t give advice, didn’t judge. He simply accepted me as I was.
The winter in Petersburg was harsh, but I didn’t feel cold. On the contrary, it seemed to me I was thawing after many years in a freezer. I enrolled in English courses, started doing yoga, even went to the theater—alone—and I liked it.
Vera Mikhailovna, my landlady, once said:
“You know, Lenochka, you’ve changed a lot this year. When you arrived—you were a frightened little gray mouse. And now—you’re a beautiful, confident woman.”
I looked at myself in the mirror and realized she was right. I really had changed. I let down my hair, which I had worn in a tight bun for years. I started wearing makeup, bright clothes. But most importantly—my gaze had changed. There was life in it.
A year and a half after my escape to Petersburg I got a call from an unfamiliar woman:
“Is this Elena? You were recommended by Anna Sergeevna—you did the design of her apartment.”
“Yes, speaking.”
“I have a large project. A two-story house; I want to redo the entire interior. Can we meet?”
The project turned out to be truly serious. The wealthy client gave me full creative freedom and a solid budget. I worked on the house for four months, and the result exceeded all expectations. Photos of the interior were published in a design magazine.
“Lena, you’re ready to work on your own,” Maxim said, showing me the magazine. “You already have a name in the city; clients are asking for you specifically. Maybe it’s time to open your own studio?”
The thought of my own business was both frightening and inspiring. But I decided to go for it. With the money I had saved over two years, I rented a small office in the city center and registered as a sole proprietor. “Elena Sokolova Interior Design Studio”—the sign looked modest, but to me those were the most beautiful words in the world.
The first months were difficult. There were few clients, the money ran out quickly. But I didn’t give up. I worked sixteen hours a day, studied marketing, created a website, opened social media pages.
Gradually things picked up. Word of mouth worked—satisfied clients recommended me to their acquaintances. After a year I hired an assistant; after two, a second designer.
One morning, while checking my email, I saw a message from Igor. My heart skipped for a second—I hadn’t heard anything about him for so long.
“Lena, I saw an article about your studio online. I can’t believe you’ve achieved such success. I want to meet, to talk. I’ve understood a lot over these three years. Forgive me.”
I reread the letter several times. Three years ago those words would have made me drop everything and run to him. But now I felt only a light sadness—for my youth, for my naive faith in love, for the years I had wasted.
I wrote a short reply: “Igor, thank you for your letter. I am happy in my new life. I wish you find your happiness too.”
That same day I filed for divorce.
In the summer, on the third anniversary of my escape from home, the studio received an order to design a penthouse in an elite residential complex. The client turned out to be Maxim—my former boss.
“Congratulations on your success,” he said, shaking my hand. “I always believed you’d make it.”
“Thank you. Without your support I probably wouldn’t have managed.”
“Nonsense. You did it all yourself. And now let me invite you to dinner—to discuss the project.”
Over dinner we did talk about the project, but at the end of the evening the conversation turned to personal matters.
“Lena, I’ve long wanted to ask…” Maxim looked at me intently. “Do you have someone?”
“No,” I answered honestly. “And I’m not sure I’m ready for a relationship. It takes me a long time to learn to trust people.”
“I understand. What if we just see each other sometimes? No obligations, no pressure. Just two adults who enjoy each other’s company.”
I thought for a moment and nodded. Maxim was a good man—intelligent, tactful. With him I felt calm and safe.
Our relationship developed slowly and naturally. We went to the theater, walked around the city, talked about everything in the world. Maxim never rushed things, never demanded declarations of love, never tried to control my life.
“You know,” I told him one day, “with you I feel equal for the first time. Not a maid, not a decoration, not a burden. Simply equal.”
“How else could it be?” he was surprised. “You’re an extraordinary woman. Strong, talented, independent.”
Four years after my escape, my studio had become one of the best known in Petersburg. I had a team of eight, my own office in the historic city center, and an apartment with a view of the Neva.
And most importantly—I had a new life. A life I chose myself.
One evening, sitting in my favorite armchair by the window and sipping tea, I remembered that day three years earlier. The banquet hall, the golden tablecloths, the white roses I had thrown into the trash. The humiliation, the pain, the despair.
And I thought: thank you, Tamara Ivanovna. Thank you for not finding a place for me at your table. If not for that, I would have spent my whole life in the kitchen, content with scraps of someone else’s attention.
And now I have my own table. And I sit at it myself—the mistress of my fate.
The phone rang, interrupting my thoughts.
“Lena? It’s Maxim. I’m near your building. Can I come up? I want to talk about something important.”
“Of course, come up.”
I opened the door and saw him with a bouquet of roses in his hands. White roses, like that time four years ago.
“Is this a coincidence?” I asked.
“No,” he smiled. “I remember you told me about that day. And I thought—let white roses be associated with something good for you now.”
He handed me the flowers and took a small box from his pocket.
“Lena, I don’t want to rush things. But I want you to know—I’m ready to share your life. Just as it is. Your work, your dreams, your freedom. Not to change you, but to complement you.”
I took the box and opened it. Inside was a ring—simple, elegant, without any excess. Exactly the kind I would have chosen myself.
“Think about it,” Maxim said. “There’s no hurry.”
I looked at him, at the roses, at the ring. And I thought about the long path I had traveled—from that frightened housewife to a happy, independent woman.
“Maxim,” I said, “are you sure you’re ready to marry someone so headstrong? I will never again keep quiet if something doesn’t suit me. I will never agree to play the role of a convenient wife. And I will never allow anyone to treat me as a second-class person.”
“That’s exactly the woman I fell in love with,” he replied. “Strong, independent, and aware of her worth.”
I slipped the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly.
“Then yes,” I said. “But we’ll plan the wedding together. And at our table there will be room for everyone.”
We embraced, and at that moment a wind from the Neva burst through the window, billowing the curtains and filling the room with freshness and light—like a symbol of the new life that was just beginning.