It happened on a Friday evening. I walked into the apartment carrying a large velvet box, feeling a little guilty—but happy at the same time. For the first time in many years, I’d bought myself not just a thing, but a luxury. A real mink coat the color of bitter chocolate. It was my bonus, my hard-earned money, and I decided I deserved it.
Dima, my husband, was sitting on the couch in front of the TV. He turned around, saw the box, and his face fell.
“What’s that?”
“A gift for myself,” I smiled, setting the box on a chair. “My bonus came in.”
“What gift?” He got up and came toward me. His gaze was heavy, suspicious.
I opened the box. The fur lay on a silk lining—soft, glossy, smelling of an expensive boutique.
“A coat?” Dima said the word as if I’d brought a corpse into the house. “You bought a coat?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His face twisted with anger.
“You bought yourself a coat? And how is my mother supposed to get through winter?” he shouted, jabbing a finger toward the wall—behind which, apparently, he imagined his mother sitting in rags and crying.
The air in the room thickened. Five years. For five years I’d worn my old wool coat, bought before I got married. It was worn, the elbows rubbed thin, and every winter I’d re-stitched the lining. For five years I’d listened to “we need to save,” “money is never extra,” “we have to help Mom.” His mom. Marina Petrovna.
I looked at him—red, swollen with righteous fury. And suddenly all the anger, all the resentment, all the humiliation that had been building in me for years didn’t vanish or explode. It hardened into something cold and solid.
Ice.
I slowly raised my eyes to his. My heart was pounding, but my voice came out surprisingly calm.
“In her old coat,” I replied. “Just like I have for the last five years.”
He recoiled as if I’d slapped him. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He’d clearly expected tears, excuses, pleading. Not this. Not this icy silence and this calm, indifferent look.
“You… what does that mean?” he hissed, no longer so confident.
“It means your mother has been wearing her old coat for five years—still a good one. And for five years I’ve been wearing my old coat, already full of holes. Now I have a mink coat. And she still has her coat. Fair.”
“You’re selfish!” he spat. “Mom raised me and my sister alone! She gave us everything! And you—you can’t think about an old person?”
“I did think,” I said, closing the box. “I thought about myself. For the first time in a long time. And you know what? It felt really good.”
I took the coat and went into the bedroom. He didn’t run after me. I heard him throw something at the wall and growl in helpless rage. And I hung the coat in the closet, sat down on the bed, and suddenly realized I felt neither joy nor satisfaction—only a huge, all-consuming exhaustion.
It hadn’t started right away. The first year of our marriage was almost happy. We rented a tiny apartment, we both worked, we made plans. Dima was different then—caring, funny. But after his father left the family and Marina Petrovna was left alone, everything changed. First there were frequent visits. Then phone calls about every little thing. Then her opinion became the main one in our life.
I remember buying new curtains. Marina Petrovna didn’t like them.
“Tasteless,” she said with a grimace. “And the color is cold. Your place doesn’t smell like coziness as it is.”
Dima told me to return the curtains and buy “something more decent.” Meaning something his mother would choose.
I remember getting promoted and wanting to celebrate at a restaurant.
“Why waste money on nonsense?” Marina Petrovna said. “Better buy me a new TV. The old one’s acting up.”
We bought the TV. And I celebrated my promotion with a cup of tea in the kitchen.
My salary grew, but we lived more and more modestly. Because “Mom needs it,” “we have to help my sister,” “we need money for the dacha.” Their dacha. The one I wasn’t invited to, because “you work, you don’t have time.”
I closed my eyes. Scenes from the past years replayed in my head: his mother sitting in my armchair giving orders. His sister taking my makeup without asking. Dima looking at me with empty eyes and saying, “Mom’s right. Listen to Mom.”
I got up, went to the mirror, and looked at my reflection. A woman with tired eyes in a simple house robe. I barely recognized myself. The girl who once dreamed of love and family had disappeared somewhere. In her place was a shadow—convenient and silent.
The next morning, Dima pretended nothing had happened. He drank his coffee in silence, glued to his phone. I was silent too. But this silence was different. Heavy. Ringing.
An hour later, the doorbell rang. I opened the door. Marina Petrovna stood on the threshold, her face pale with indignation.
“Hello,” she said, walking in without being invited. “Where is it?”
“Who?” I asked, though I knew perfectly well whom she meant.
“That… your coat!” she blurted. “Dima told me everything! How could you? With what money? Those are our shared funds!”
I looked at her—at her new coat we’d bought with my money two months earlier. At her expensive handbag. At the gold earrings we’d given her for her anniversary.
“Mine,” I said. “My bonus.”
“What’s the difference!” she threw up her hands. “In a family everything is shared! You should have consulted your husband! Me!”
“Why you?” I asked.
“Because I’m the mother! I know what the family needs best! And the family doesn’t need your stupid coat! The family needs the elderly to be clothed and shod!”
At that moment Dima came out of the bedroom. He looked rumpled and miserable.
“Mom, don’t,” he tried weakly.
“Be quiet!” she snapped. “You’ve completely lost control—letting your wife behave like this! Larisa, take that coat back immediately! We need the money for repairs at the dacha.”
I looked at them—mother and son. Two people who saw me as nothing but a wallet. A servant. A supplier of resources.
“No,” I said.
“What?” Marina Petrovna didn’t understand.
“I said no. I’m not giving back the coat. And I’m not giving money for your dacha.”
“Have you lost your mind?” she screamed. “Dima, tell her!”
But Dima was silent. He stared at the floor, and it was obvious he was being torn between his mother and his wife. And I knew perfectly well who would win this fight. She always did.
“Fine, I’m leaving,” Marina Petrovna said, pulling on her gloves with exaggerated dignity. “If these are the rules in this house, I won’t set foot here again until she apologizes.”
She left, slamming the door. Dima lifted his eyes to me.
“Happy? You got what you wanted?”
“Yes,” I answered honestly. “Very.”
That day, I didn’t cook dinner. I took my purse and went to that very restaurant where we never celebrated my promotion. I ordered the most expensive dish and a bottle of wine. I sat alone, watched people, and realized I felt more comfortable among them than in my own home.
When I came back, Dima was sitting in the dark.
“Where were you?” he asked hoarsely.
“At a restaurant.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. And you know—it was wonderful.”
He didn’t reply. A new week of silence began. Marina Petrovna didn’t call. Dima came home from work and disappeared into his room. We lived like neighbors.
And while that was happening, I was doing important things. First I went to the bank and opened a new account, where I started transferring part of my salary. Then I found the old apartment documents. We’d bought it during the marriage, but the down payment had been mine—saved before. I went to a lawyer to understand what I could claim in a divorce.
I didn’t rush. I watched. And I waited.
Two weeks later, Dima cracked.
“Alright,” he said over breakfast. “Enough of this circus. Mom called. She’s ready to forgive you if you apologize and… return the coat.”
I took a sip of coffee.
“I’m not apologizing. And I’m not giving back the coat.”
“Lara, stop being stubborn!” he slammed his fist on the table. “I’m tired of this war!”
“This isn’t a war,” I shook my head. “It’s a capitulation. Yours. You surrendered to her a long time ago. I just stopped fighting for a place in your life. It’s not worth it.”
He stared at me, genuine astonishment in his eyes. For the first time he saw his manipulations didn’t work. His threats didn’t scare me. His anger had no power.
“You… you want a divorce?” he asked quietly.
“I want to live,” I answered. “And that’s not the same thing.”
That evening, I put on my mink coat and left the house. I walked down cold streets, and passersby turned their heads. I didn’t feel like just a woman in expensive clothes. I felt free.
The divorce was long and nasty. Dima tried to dispute the property division, demanded half my savings. But my lawyer was good. I kept most of it.
On the day the court decision went into effect, I got a text from his sister:
“You destroyed our family! Mom is crying! Are you happy now?”
I deleted the message. Then I blocked all their numbers—Dima’s, his mother’s, his sister’s. I erased them from my life the way you delete unnecessary files from a computer.
Six months have passed. I live alone in a small but cozy apartment. I bought the very curtains I once wanted. I go to restaurants alone or with friends. And I wear my coat—often, in any weather.
Sometimes I think about Dima and his mother. They probably still consider me selfish—a woman who chose a fur coat over family harmony.
But I know the truth. I didn’t choose the coat.
I chose myself.
And it turned out to be the warmest, most precious thing I’ve ever had