My husband was standing in the entryway. His tie was loosened. His face was red from the cold. Or from that talk with his boss. I don’t know.
“I got promoted!”
I turned from the stove. The pasta was boiling. Foam crept up the edge of the pot. I should’ve turned it off. But I just stood there, looking at him.
“That’s wonderful, Seryozha…”
“Now I’ll definitely divorce you,” he cut in. “I need a wife who matches my status.”
The pasta boiled over. I turned off the burner.
I didn’t understand right away. Or rather, I understood instantly—but I didn’t accept it. My brain refused to assemble the words into meaning. “Promoted” is a good word. “Divorce” is a bad one. How can they be in the same sentence?
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
He walked into the room. I heard the TV click on—news. The usual evening news about the dollar exchange rate and the weather in the capital.
He sat there watching TV as if he hadn’t said anything.
Seven years. Seven years together. Eight, if you count the year before the wedding—back when he was a “promising young manager” and I was a “girl with a good-looking future.” That’s how he introduced me to his friends. Joking. I laughed.
Now he’s a department head. And I… who am I? A wife who doesn’t fit the status.
I sat at the table and thought: what am I going to do? Cry? Scream? Smash dishes? That would be logical. That’s what they do in movies. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to understand.
Understand—when? When did I stop being enough?
A year ago, at the corporate party, he introduced me simply: “This is Lena.” Without “my wife.” Back then I thought he’d forgotten. Nervous. He had to give a speech—about quarterly results.
Half a year ago he started staying late. “The project’s on fire,” he’d say. Coming home at midnight. He smelled like… perfume. Women’s perfume. I kept quiet. Told myself: the project. Nastya works there too. She practically bathes in Chanel.
A month ago he stopped kissing me goodnight. Just turned to the wall. I lay there staring at the ceiling.
“Are you having dinner?” I shouted into the room.
“I already ate.”
Of course. Ate somewhere. With someone. Someone who fit his status.
I got up. Went to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror. An ordinary face. Not a beauty, but not… either. Light brown hair. Gray eyes. Thirty-one. Fine lines already at the corners—shallow. Mom used to say, “From smiling.” I hadn’t smiled in a long time.
I took off my sweater—old, pilled. When was the last time I bought myself something new? I couldn’t remember.
Last week Sergey brought home a bag: a suit. Gray, pinstripe. Fifty thousand rubles. He posed in front of the mirror for an hour. “Does it look good?”
“Looks good,” I said.
But for myself I hadn’t bought anything in… how long? Six months?
I went back to the kitchen. The pasta had clumped together—an ugly lump in the colander. I took a fork, twirled some, tasted it standing over the sink. Cold. Tasteless.
My phone vibrated. Mom: “How are you, sunshine?”
I stared at the screen, thinking: what do I answer? “Hi, Mom. Sergey got promoted. He decided to divorce me. He’s looking for a better wife”?
I typed: “Everything’s great. Kisses.”
She sent an emoji. A heart. I started crying.
Not loudly. Quietly. The tears just ran. I didn’t wipe them away. Fine. I stood there crying over the sink with cold pasta.
Sergey came out of the room, looked at me. Didn’t come closer.
“Don’t make a drama,” he said. “I thought you were reasonable.”
Reasonable. Yes. I’m reasonable. I understand everything. He wants a woman who… who what? Wears stilettos to corporate parties? Speaks English? Knows the difference between a martini and a mojito? Doesn’t mix up Gucci and Versace?
I’m a country girl. My parents are teachers. I grew up in a two-room Khrushchevka. Finished college by correspondence. Worked as a sales clerk. Then a cashier. Then…
Then I got married. Seryozha brought me into his apartment…
I quit everything. He said, “Why do you need that job? I’ll provide for you.” He did. Gave money for groceries. Utilities. Sometimes—little things.
And now I’d turned into a housewife. A housewife who didn’t fit his status.
“I’m leaving,” I suddenly said.
He turned.
“What?”
“I’m leaving. On my own… I’m leaving.”
He smirked.
“Where? To your mother’s? To that Khrushchevka?”
“Somewhere.”
“And what will you live on? You don’t have a job. No money. Nothing.”
He was right. I had nothing. For seven years I’d invested in him. In his career. In his comfort. Ironed his shirts. Cooked lunches. Listened to his stories about office intrigue. Supported him. And what did I get in return?
“I have a degree,” I said.
“A correspondence degree in HR management?” He laughed. “Lena, you can’t even put together a decent résumé.”
I said nothing.
He walked past me into the bedroom. A minute later he came back holding a pillow and a throw.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he tossed over his shoulder. “We’ll talk in the morning. Reasonably.”
The door closed behind him.
I stood in the kitchen, staring at the clock. Ten p.m. Tomorrow he’d go to work—to a new office, a new title, a new life.
Without me. And me?..
I opened the laptop. Old. He bought himself a new one last year and gave this to me. “Use it. I was going to throw it out anyway.”
I went onto a job site. Stared at the search bar for a long time. What could I do? Cook. Clean. Listen. Wait. Those aren’t professions.
I closed the laptop and looked up at the ceiling. There was a little crack—tiny. I’d never noticed it before.
I wondered: how long had it been there?
Or did it appear only today? And a crack had appeared in my life too. Not a crack—a break. A turning point…
And then I thought: what if…
What if this is a chance? Not the end—an opening.
I got up, splashed my face with cold water, looked in the mirror again.
Thirty-one. Not seventy. Not eighty. Thirty-one. You can start over.
You can… you have to.
I went back to the laptop, opened it, typed into the search bar: “Job. No experience. Urgently.” There were a lot of listings. So many. I started reading.
Behind the wall Sergey was watching TV, laughing at a comedy. His life went on as usual. Everything was fine for him.
And for me? I had the laptop screen. A blinking cursor. And a strange feeling in my chest—not fear, not anger. Something else. Hope? Maybe.
I smiled for the first time in a long while.
Morning began with the smell of coffee.
Not mine—his. Sergey stood by the coffee machine in his new suit, ironed. I hadn’t ironed it last night. So he did it himself…
“Good morning,” he said.
I didn’t answer. Walked past him into the bathroom and closed the door. Looked at myself.
I’d slept four hours. Red eyes. Puffy face. But inside—something had changed. I didn’t know what exactly, but it had.
I remembered last night: the job site. I’d sent three applications right away—café administrator, assistant accountant, consultant at a children’s goods store.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Is this Elena? This is the ‘Happiness’ café. You applied for the vacancy yesterday. Can you come in today for an interview?” My heart started pounding.
“Yes, I can. What time?”
“Would two o’clock work?”
“It would.”
I hung up and looked at my reflection. Smiled.
First step.
When I came out of the bathroom, Sergey was finishing his coffee, staring at his phone without lifting his eyes.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began. “We can do everything civilly. I don’t want scandals. You’ll get compensation. Not much, of course. But enough to get by at first.”
“What compensation?” I asked.
“Well… one hundred thousand. That’s enough to rent a place for a couple of months. Find a job.”
One hundred thousand for seven years.
Fourteen thousand per year.
I laughed. I didn’t even understand why. I just laughed.
“What’s so funny?” He finally looked at me.
“Nothing. Everything’s funny. You know what, Seryozha—keep your hundred thousand. I don’t need it. Benefactor. You’ve lost what little conscience you had.”
“You have nowhere to go.”
“I’ll find somewhere.”
He shrugged.
“Suit yourself.”
He grabbed his briefcase—the leather one I’d given him for his birthday two years ago. Back then he’d said, “Was it expensive? You shouldn’t have spent it.” And he’d been glowing.
The door slammed.
I was alone. I sat at the table, poured myself tea, and looked around the kitchen. An ordinary kitchen. White cabinets. A fridge with travel magnets. We traveled rarely. He didn’t like vacations. “Work is more important,” he’d say.
A photo hung on the fridge—our wedding. Both of us young. Happy. He’s looking at me. I’m looking at him.
When did it end? When did I become nobody to him?
My phone buzzed again.
Mom: “Sunshine, did you sleep?”
I typed: “Mom. Can I come stay with you? For a little while. I’ll explain later.”
The reply came instantly: “Of course! You can always come. What happened?!”
“I’ll tell you later. Love you.”
I stood up, went to the bedroom, opened the closet. I didn’t have many things. Two sweaters. Three pairs of jeans. A dress I hadn’t worn in three years. Underwear. That was it.
His things took up three quarters of the closet: suits, shirts, ties—neat. I’d always kept everything in order.
I took a large gym bag and started packing: toiletries, hair dryer, a book I hadn’t finished, a photo of my parents, a notebook with old notes. Everything fit into one bag.
Seven years of life. One bag.
I walked through the apartment: room, hallway, bathroom—my traces everywhere. Curtains I’d chosen. A painting I’d brought from a flea market. A doormat by the door I’d embroidered myself.
And what would remain of me here? Nothing. He’d throw everything out. Renovate. Bring in a new wife. A status wife.
She’d sleep in this bed. Cook on this stove. Hang her own curtains.
And nothing would remind anyone of me.
Strangely, it didn’t hurt. It was just… empty.
I closed the door.
Went down the stairs and out into the street.
It was freezing—minus fifteen. Snow squeaked under my boots. I walked toward the metro. The bag was heavy, but the walking felt light.
The subway car was crowded. I stood by the doors, staring into the window. Darkness in the tunnel, then sudden flashes of station lights.
A young woman sat nearby—about twenty-five, beautiful, in an expensive coat. She was on the phone:
“No, Mom, I won’t marry him. He’s good, but I don’t love him. I don’t want to repeat your mistake. Remember how you used to say, ‘The main thing is that he provides’? And then you cried at night for twenty years.”
I turned away. Twenty years. And I had seven. I was in time. It wasn’t too late.
The “Happiness” café was small, in an old neighborhood. Windows frosted with snow. Inside it was warm. It smelled like coffee.
Behind the counter stood a woman in her mid-forties—plump, kind-faced.
“Elena?”
“Yes.”
“Come in. I’m Irina, the owner.”
We sat at a table. She poured coffee and slid the cup toward me.
“No work experience, is that right?”
“Yes. I haven’t worked for seven years. I was… married.”
“Was?”
“I left yesterday.”
Irina nodded.
“I understand. Same thing happened to me. Fifteen years ago. He left for his secretary. I was left with two kids. Not a penny. I wanted to die.”
Then she smiled.
“But here. I’m alive. Opened a café. The kids grew up. Everything’s fine.”
“Will you hire me?” I asked. “I’ll try hard. I’ll learn everything. I swear.”
Irina looked me in the eyes for a long moment, then held out her hand.
“You start tomorrow. Eight a.m. Pay isn’t big at first. But you eat free. Tips are yours.”
I shook her hand.
“Thank you.”
“No need. We women have to help each other.”
I left the café and sat on a bench by the entrance.
My phone buzzed.
Sergey: “Where are you?”
I looked at the message and thought for a moment.
I typed: “Doesn’t matter.”
He typed something for a long time. Then:
“Seriously? You really left?”
“Yes.”
“Where to?”
“To a new life.”
He didn’t write again.
I stood up and headed to the metro. To my mother. To that same Khrushchevka—cramped, old furniture, Mom sighing, “Sunshine, how could this happen?!”
But warm.
And there I wasn’t nobody. Not a wife who didn’t fit the status. Just Lena. Thirty-one. A whole life ahead.
Snow fell in big, soft flakes, landing on my shoulders and melting. I walked without looking back.
For the first time in seven years, I wasn’t thinking about my husband… and you know what? It felt like freedom.