I came into the apartment after work, kicked off my shoes, and immediately knew—something was wrong.
Dmitry stood in the middle of the living room, arms crossed, his face tense.
“We need to talk.”
I froze with my bag still in my hand.
“I had dinner with Andrey today,” he said without waiting for an answer. “He and his wife keep their budgets separate. Everyone pays for themselves. Fair, honest, grown-up.”
I slowly hung up my coat.
“And what are you trying to say?”
“Our family budget isn’t fair,” he blurted out. “I’m paying off the mortgage for the apartment—huge payments, every month. And you spend your money on whatever you want. In the civilized world, everyone is responsible for themselves. Eat separately, dress separately, have fun separately. I’m tired of supporting everyone.”
I looked at him closely. He was waiting for tears. A scene. But I was too tired for hysterics.
“Fine. Starting tomorrow, everyone for themselves.”
Dmitry blinked.
“So you agree?”
“Absolutely. Thanks for bringing it up. It really is time to put things in order.”
I went into the kitchen, took a salad out of the fridge, sat down to eat. Dmitry stood there, confused, then went into the bedroom. I opened my laptop.
By two in the morning, the spreadsheet was ready. Nine years of marriage—every receipt saved; I’m a meticulous person. Utilities. Gas for his car—he never filled it up himself. Gifts for his parents. Medicine for his father. Groceries—his favorite steaks, expensive cheese. Vacations paid for entirely by me. The final number was impressive.
In the morning, while he slept, I opened a separate account and transferred everything from our joint card there. I called the management company and asked them to split the bills. I canceled his premium TV package.
That evening I bought myself jamón, a fresh baguette, and a bottle of dry red wine. I came home, set a plate nicely, and sat down to dinner. Dmitry returned half an hour later and looked in the fridge.
“And what about me?”
“I don’t know. You wanted everyone to be responsible for themselves.”
He frowned, took out a pack of dumplings, and silently started boiling them. I kept eating, savoring every bite.
A week passed. Dmitry lived on frozen meals and delivery. I cooked the things I’d always wanted but never made—because he didn’t like them. Seafood. Vegetable casseroles. Light salads. He watched my plates with barely concealed envy.
On Friday evening he said:
“Listen, aren’t you done messing around? You could cook for two.”
“I could. But I won’t. You set the rules.”
“I was joking back then! What, are you offended?”
“No. I simply agreed.”
He tossed the burger wrapper into the trash and stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door.
Saturday began with his nervous phone call from the doorway.
“Mom and Dad are coming in two hours. Will you cook?”
I was sitting on the bed with a book.
“No.”
“What do you mean, no? They come every Saturday!”
“I know. For nine years straight I stood at the stove from morning till night. Your mother never said thank you once. Now it’s your problem.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“Not at all. Everyone for themselves, remember? Your parents are your responsibility, not mine.”
Dmitry went pale, turned around, and slammed the door. I heard him calling delivery, arguing with the operator, clattering pots in the kitchen.
When the doorbell rang, I was wearing a pretty dress, my hair styled, light makeup on. I opened the door, greeted Larisa Viktorovna and my father-in-law, showed them into the living room, and went back to my book.
Larisa Viktorovna walked to the table. Froze.
On the table were three pizza boxes and bottles of soda. Paper napkins. Nothing else.
“What is this?” Her voice was quiet, but every word landed like a blow.
Dmitry tried to smile.
“Mom, well, today we decided to keep it simple…”
“Where is Elena? Why isn’t she at the table?”
I lifted my eyes from the book.
“I’m here, Larisa Viktorovna.”
“Are you sick?” Something strange sounded in her voice. Not sympathy. Suspicion.
“No. Dmitry said everyone should be responsible for themselves. Your son is your responsibility, not mine.”
Larisa Viktorovna slowly sat down. Looked at the pizza boxes. Then at her son.
“Explain.”
Dmitry started babbling about fairness, modern relationships, his friend Andrey. Larisa Viktorovna listened in silence, her face like stone.
“So you decided she’s eating you out of house and home,” she finally said. “You.”
“Mom, I just wanted honesty…”
“Shut up. Who bought groceries for this house for nine years? Who cooked every Saturday while you sat in front of the TV? Who bought medicine for your father last year?”
“Well… Elena, but—”
“Who paid for the gift for my sister’s anniversary? Who set the table every time so we’d be comfortable? And what did you do? Show up, sit down, and wait to be served.”
Dmitry went pale.
“Mom, what does that have to do with anything? I pay for the apartment!”
“For your apartment! And you’ve been rubbing it in her face for nine years, like she’s some freeloader here!”
Larisa Viktorovna stood up and picked up her purse.
“Let’s go,” she said to her husband. “I don’t want to eat this pizza. And I don’t want to sit at a table where my daughter-in-law is being humiliated.”
She turned to Dmitry.
“You should be ashamed. For nine years she carried this household, and you treated it like it was a given. I raised a greedy, petty man—and it hurts me to admit it.”
They left. Dmitry stayed standing in the middle of the room. The pizza cooled. The soda went flat.
I stood up, walked over to him with my laptop, and opened the spreadsheet.
“Look. Nine years. Every receipt, every bill. Utilities—which I always paid. Gas. Groceries. Gifts for your relatives. Vacations. Your medical insurance. Everything you never noticed. Here’s the total.”
Dmitry stared at the screen. The number was enormous.
“This… can’t be…”
“It’s true. You didn’t support me, Dmitry. You lived off me and called it marriage. I provided your comfort, and you thought you had the right to lecture me about fairness.”
I closed the laptop.
“I rented an apartment. I’m moving out tomorrow. I’ll file for divorce next week. You can keep your apartment, your mortgage, and your fairness. I don’t need them anymore.”
“Lena, wait…”
“Don’t. You got what you wanted. Now everyone’s on their own.”
He opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the words. He stood in the living room next to the cold pizza, watching as I packed in the bedroom.
I put my favorite frying pan into the suitcase—the one I used to sear steaks for him. From now on I’ll cook only for myself. My makeup. My books. The dresses he said were too bright.
Dmitry never came into the bedroom. He stayed in the kitchen with his fairness.
And I understood that freedom is when the front door closes behind you and you walk toward a place where you don’t have to prove your right to exist. Where no one calls your contribution not enough. Where you simply live. Without demands. Without excuses. Just live.
I walked out of the apartment with my suitcase. I didn’t look back.