They announced the bonus amount on Friday, right before lunch. Marina was in the accounting office, checking the quarterly report, when Svetlana Grigoryevna—the finance chief—peeked in with a light, almost conspiratorial smile.
“Congratulations. They’re adding fifty thousand to your paycheck.”
Marina didn’t even grasp what she meant at first. Then it clicked: the quarterly bonus she’d already stopped thinking about. For three months the project had been hanging by a thread. Management had looked grim, dropping hints about “optimizing,” and Marina had accepted there would be no bonus at all. And now—this pleasant surprise. Not life-changing money, of course, but a very noticeable amount for their household budget.
On the bus ride home she ran numbers in her head. She’d been wearing the same winter boots for a second season, and the sole was cracking. She could finally buy a decent pair—not the flimsy cheap ones. Or she could put the money aside for summer, maybe manage a short vacation somewhere—at least down south, to the sea. Though with Dima’s earnings, the sea was something she could only dream about.
Dima. She grimaced, staring at the fogged window. She’d need to tell him about the bonus carefully. He’d immediately start planning what to spend it on, offering to buy something—usually not the thing they actually needed.
At home, Dima was busy in the kitchen—boiling pasta, judging by the smell. He was working “for now” at some warehouse, picking orders. Temporary, as always. Before that he’d spent nearly two months unemployed, hunting for something “worthy,” as he called it. Marina didn’t argue—she just kept grinding away at her office job and carried the household. They didn’t have children—things hadn’t worked out yet, and sometimes she thought it might even be for the best. With their finances.
“How was your day?” Dima asked without turning around, stirring the pasta.
“Fine,” Marina said, dropping her bag on a chair and taking off her shoes. “I’m tired.”
“I made pasta. We’ve got sausages.”
“Mm.”
She went to the bedroom and changed. She considered not mentioning the bonus yet, but then decided it didn’t matter—he’d find out anyway. Better to say it outright.
Over dinner she said it casually, as if in passing:
“By the way, I got the quarterly bonus.”
Dima looked up; interest flashed in his eyes.
“Yeah? How much?”
“Fifty.”
“Not bad,” he nodded, chewing a bite of sausage. “Perfect timing.”
“Perfect timing for what?”
“Well…” He put his fork down. “Ira’s birthday is coming up. Forty. A big date. I’ve been thinking what to get her…”
Marina set her fork down too.
Of course. Ira. Dima’s sister. How could she not have seen that coming?
“And what have you been thinking?” she asked evenly.
“I saw these earrings at the jewelry store on Komsomolskaya. Really beautiful. Diamonds. Small, but they look amazing. Ira loves that kind of thing—she’s told me before.”
“And how much do they cost?”
Dima scratched the back of his head.
“Thirty-eight thousand. But I’d already set aside five from my last earnings. And I figured maybe I could borrow fifteen from Lyokha, and the rest…”
“And then my bonus happened,” Marina finished for him.
“Right,” he said with a smile, as if it were obvious. “Why not? You’ve got it now.”
Marina leaned back. Something clenched in her stomach—a familiar, sour feeling. They’d been here before. Many times.
“Dima,” she began cautiously, “I don’t understand. Earrings for thirty-eight thousand? For your sister? We don’t have money like that for ourselves.”
“What do you mean we don’t?” he shot back. “You got a bonus.”
“That’s my bonus. For my work.”
“So what? We’re a family. I work too.”
“At a warehouse. Temporarily. For the third month.”
Dima’s face darkened.
“And what’s wrong with warehouse work? Honest labor. Or are you ashamed your husband works as a loader?”
“Don’t twist it,” Marina said, rubbing her face in exhaustion. “That’s not what this is about. I’m saying I’m not giving my bonus away for earrings for your sister.”
“But it’s Ira.”
“Dima, you help her every month.”
“So?”
“She has a husband and a son. Let them buy her a gift.”
“Petyka barely works, you know that. And Denis is a student. Where are they supposed to get money for a decent present?”
“And where are we supposed to get it?”
“You have it! Fifty thousand!”
His voice rose. Marina felt herself boiling inside, but she kept control.
“This is my bonus, Dima. I worked like crazy for three months to earn it. And I’ve already decided what I’m spending it on.”
“Boots, I bet,” he snorted. “Or some useless clothes.”
“And if it is boots? Or anything I want. It’s my money.”
“So now it’s ‘mine’ and ‘yours,’ huh?” Dima jumped up; his chair screeched. “Fine. I’ll remember that.”
“Dima, wait—”
But he was already leaving the kitchen. Marina heard the door slam in the other room. She sat staring at the cooling pasta. She wasn’t hungry anymore.
She knew how this would end. Dima would sulk for a couple of days, then calm down. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Lately his grudges had been stretching out longer and longer. And it was always because of Ira.
Ira was three years older than Dima. After their parents died—killed in a crash while Dima was still in college—she’d become something like a second mother to him. She looked after him, helped him, pulled him out of trouble. Dima idolized her, and Marina had known that even before they married. Knowing it was one thing. Living with it was another.
The first years were tolerable. Ira kept her distance and didn’t meddle in their life. But later something shifted—maybe her own marriage started falling apart, maybe it was something else. She began calling more often, asking for help. A repair project, a loan “until payday,” getting her son Denis out of some mess. Dima agreed to everything. He never said no.
Marina tried to talk to him—carefully, gently. But Dima didn’t hear her. To him Ira was untouchable, and any criticism sounded like betrayal.
“She’s my sister,” he’d say. “My only real family. Don’t you understand?”
Marina understood. It just didn’t make it easier.
That night they didn’t speak. Dima slept on the couch in the living room, pointedly. Marina lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking maybe she really was selfish. Maybe she should have agreed. Fifty thousand wasn’t such a massive amount to start a war over.
But then she remembered how many times she’d already given in. How often she’d agreed, sacrificed, tried to meet him halfway. And Dima didn’t even notice. For him it was simply natural: help Ira. Period.
In the morning Dima left early without saying goodbye. Marina drank her coffee, got dressed, and went downtown. She stopped by the same jewelry store on Komsomolskaya—just out of curiosity, to see those earrings with her own eyes.
The saleswoman, a well-kept woman in her forties, smiled politely.
“Can I help you choose something?”
“I’m just looking,” Marina said, but she stepped up to the display.
The earrings really were beautiful. Small, elegant, with stones that caught the light and glittered under the lamps. Marina pictured them on Ira—she loved flashy things, the kind everyone noticed. She wore them with a challenge, like she wanted the whole world to see.
“Lovely piece,” the saleswoman said, noticing Marina’s gaze. “White gold, diamonds, Russian cut. Thirty-eight thousand.”
“Expensive,” Marina replied automatically.
“The quality matches the price. It’ll last a lifetime.”
A lifetime. Marina let out a short, bitter laugh. She wondered how long she and Dima would last if this kept going.
She left the store and walked around the center. In a shoe shop she tried on boots—warm, comfortable, with a sturdy sole. Exactly twenty thousand.
That evening Dima came home late. He smelled of sweat and some kind of chemical cleaner. He rinsed off in the shower and came into the kitchen. Marina was reheating soup.
“Eating?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
They ate in silence. Dima didn’t look up. Marina felt a wall between them—cold, dense, invisible.
“I talked to Lyokha,” Dima said suddenly. “He agreed to lend me fifteen thousand. Said I can pay him back by the end of the month.”
Marina slowly lowered her spoon.
“So you’re buying the earrings anyway?”
“I’ve got some savings. I’m still short eighteen.”
“And where are you going to get eighteen?”
“I don’t know,” Dima said through clenched teeth. “I’ll ask someone else. Or I’ll take out a loan.”
“From who? Dima, do you realize what you’re doing? You’re going into debt for a gift!”
“She’s my sister!” he shouted. “My only sister! It’s her anniversary—forty years, it matters! I want to give her something good!”
“At my expense!”
“Give me money for my sister’s gift,” he said hard, looking straight into her eyes. “Just give it. You got a bonus. What, are you that stingy?”
Marina felt something inside her finally crack. She stood up, folding her arms across her chest.
“Yes, I am. I’m stingy with my bonus when it comes to your crazy ideas. I’m not giving you money, Dima. If you want to give your sister diamonds—earn them yourself.”
“I work!”
“Three months at a warehouse! And before that you did nothing for half a year! I work myself to the bone so we can survive, and now you want me to hand over my bonus for earrings for Ira?”
“I knew it,” Dima stood up; his face went pale. “I always knew you don’t love her. You hate her.”
“I don’t hate Ira,” Marina spoke slowly, forcing her voice to stay calm. “I just don’t understand why we’re supposed to solve her problems. She has a family. Let them help.”
“She doesn’t have a real family! Her husband is useless, her son’s a clown! No one will take care of her except me!”
“And who’s going to take care of me?” Marina blurted out. “Of us? Or do we not matter?”
Dima went quiet, staring at her with a heavy, wounded look. Then he turned and left.
This time he didn’t slam the door—it closed softly, almost silently. And somehow that silence was scarier than any shouting.
Marina stood alone in the kitchen. Her mind felt blank. She stared at the half-eaten soup, the dirty plates, the old peeling tiles on the wall. She thought about how she was thirty-six and still living in a rented apartment, wearing old boots and counting every coin—while her husband was taking on debt to buy earrings for his sister.
Maybe she really was a monster. Maybe a “normal” wife would have agreed and helped her husband. But Marina was tired of being a normal wife. Tired of giving in, sacrificing, understanding.
Over the next few days they barely spoke. Dima left for work, came home late, ate in silence, disappeared into the other room. Marina didn’t try to patch things up. Something hard and solid had formed inside her. Before, she would have been the first to make peace. Not this time.
On Wednesday, when she got home from work, Dima wasn’t there. A note lay on the table:
“I’ll be late. Don’t wait up.”
Marina crumpled it and threw it away. She sat on the couch, turned on the TV, watched some program without absorbing a word. Then she went to bed.
Dima came in well after midnight. Marina wasn’t asleep—she heard him fumbling in the entryway, then walking into the kitchen. Something clattered, something rustled. Then silence.
In the morning she found him on the couch, asleep without even changing clothes. A shopping bag from the jewelry store lay on the floor beside him.
Her heart dropped.
Marina picked up the bag. Inside was a small box. She opened it—earrings. The same diamond ones.
She stood there holding the open box, feeling a wire tighten inside her. He bought them. He really bought them. He’d gone into debt, borrowed from whoever he could, but he did it.
Dima opened his eyes and looked at her blearily.
“See?” he rasped. “I managed on my own. Didn’t need your money.”
“How much do you owe?” Marina asked quietly.
“None of your business.”
“Dima. How much?”
“Twenty-three thousand,” he sat up and rubbed his face with both hands. “I’ll pay it back. By the end of the month. I’ll find extra work—whatever. I’ll pay it.”
Marina sat down beside him and set the box on the table.
“Do you hear yourself? Do you understand what you’re doing?”
“I do,” Dima got up and headed for the door. “I’m giving my sister a proper present for her milestone birthday. Normal people do that. They take care of their own.”
He went into the bathroom. Marina stayed on the couch, staring at the little box. Thirty-eight thousand. Twenty-three in debt. All for Ira.
Saturday was the birthday. Dima was getting ready in the morning, ironing his shirt, putting the gift into a fancy bag. Marina watched him from the kitchen.
“Are you coming?” he asked without turning around.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“Ira will be offended.”
“Let her be.”
Dima turned. Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or disappointment.
“As you wish,” he said, grabbed the bag, and left.
Marina stayed alone. She sat by the window, looking out at the gray courtyard and bare trees. It was early November—cold and miserable. Part of her thought maybe she should have gone. For appearances, for peace. But something inside pushed back. She was tired of pretending.
Dima returned late that night—drunk and cheerful. Marina was in the kitchen drinking tea when he stumbled into the apartment.
“Marin!” he shouted from the hall. “You should’ve seen how happy Ira was! She loved the earrings! She cried—can you imagine? Cried from happiness!”
He swayed into the kitchen, face flushed, eyes shining.
“Everyone kept saying what a great guy I am. What a gift! Petyka was even jealous—I could tell. And Denis goes, ‘Uncle, you’re awesome!’” Dima laughed. “That’s how you do it.”
Marina said nothing. She looked at him and felt like she was staring at a stranger—drunk, pleased with himself, completely unaware of what he’d destroyed.
“Why are you quiet?” Dima dropped into the chair across from her. “Still mad? Come on. I’ll pay everything back, I swear. I’ll take extra shifts at the warehouse. I’ll manage.”
“Dima,” Marina said softly, “I want you to move out.”
He froze. The smile slid off his face.
“What?”
“Move out. Live separately for a while. We need a pause.”
“You… you’re serious?”
“Completely.”
Dima stared at her like she was speaking another language.
“Because of what? Because of the earrings?”
“Not because of the earrings,” Marina stood up and walked to the window. “Because of everything. Because you don’t see anyone but Ira. Because you and I stopped being a family. We just live next to each other—that’s it.”
“We are a family,” Dima mumbled. “Of course we are.”
“No,” Marina turned to him. “Your family is Ira. I’m just… the person who earns money, cleans, cooks—and is supposed to sponsor your impulses.”
“That’s not true…”
“It is, Dima. And I’m tired. So tired.”
He sat with his head lowered. The drunken excitement had evaporated, leaving him only confused and pathetic.
“I didn’t want this,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want it to turn out like this.”
“I know.”
“Ira is all I have,” he whispered. “Family-wise. Besides you, of course. But she… she’s older, she did so much for me…”
“I understand,” Marina rubbed her face in exhaustion. “I do. But I can’t live in your sister’s shadow anymore. I can’t be second.”
“You’re not second.”
“Really?” Marina’s voice stayed steady. “Who do you call first when you have problems? Who do you tell about work, about plans? Who do you ask for advice when you have to decide something?”
Dima was silent.
“Exactly,” Marina nodded. “Ira. Always Ira. And I’m just background.”
She went into the bedroom and closed the door. Lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. She heard Dima pacing, muttering, then going quiet.
In the morning his things were packed into an old gym bag. Dima stood in the entryway, dressed, serious. The hangover was written all over his face.
“I’ll go to Ira’s,” he said. “For a week. Maybe we’ll both cool off.”
Marina nodded. She couldn’t find words.
He left, and the apartment became frighteningly silent. Marina sat in the kitchen and poured herself coffee. Her hands were shaking. She hadn’t expected it to go this far. She thought they’d talk, make up like always. But it had turned into something else.
Maybe she’d gone too far. Maybe she’d overdone it.
Then she remembered his face when he talked about Ira crying with happiness—that glowing, satisfied face. He was happy that he’d made his sister happy. And the debt, the humiliation, the wreckage of their marriage—none of it mattered.
She picked up her phone and texted her friend Olya:
“Can I come by? I need to talk.”
The reply came instantly:
“Of course. I’m here.”
Marina got dressed and left. The day was bright and icy. The sun stung her eyes. She walked down the street thinking this might be the end—her and Dima, over. And strangely, she didn’t feel despair. She felt relief, as if a heavy load had slid off her shoulders.
At Olya’s, she cried it all out. She told her everything—the bonus, the earrings, Ira, Dima’s debts. Olya listened, shook her head, poured tea.
“He’s sick,” Olya said at last. “Or codependent. On his sister.”
“He loves her.”
“Love is when you care about someone without forgetting everyone else exists. This is unhealthy attachment. He lives for her interests, and you’re just… an add-on.”
“You think he won’t change?”
Olya shrugged.
“I don’t know. Maybe if he wanted to. But does he want to?”
Marina fell quiet, staring out the window where tiny snowflakes drifted down.
That evening Dima called. His voice was low and cautious.
“How are you?”
“Fine.”
“I’m at Ira’s. She… she was upset when she found out. She said I shouldn’t have bought the earrings if they caused problems.”
“It’s too late now.”
“Marish, can we meet? Talk properly.”
“I don’t know, Dima. I don’t know what there is to talk about.”
“I don’t want us to split up,” something desperate broke through in his voice. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“Then you have to choose,” Marina said flatly. “Me or Ira. There isn’t a third option.”
“That’s impossible. I can’t choose between my wife and my sister.”
“Then you’ve already chosen.”
She ended the call. She sat there with the phone clenched in her hand and felt a strange calm settle inside her. The decision was made. Whatever came next would come.