— “I told you not to be late!” Gleb barked, slamming his keys onto the dresser. “My mother came all this way and cooked all day!”
— “Gleb, I warned you I had to gather documents, and that isn’t a five-minute task,” Varvara said, tugging off her shoes and refusing to meet his eyes. “You knew.”
— “Yeah, yeah… Your job is always more important than your family!”
From the kitchen, Lyudmila Igorevna’s voice carried out:
— “Glebushka, don’t upset yourself. You and I will eat together. Some people can be content with leftovers.”
Varvara drew a slow breath and walked into the kitchen. Her mother-in-law sat at the table, making a show of removing the third place setting.
— “Good evening, Lyudmila Igorevna.”
— “What’s so good about it,” the woman sniffed, “when the ‘worker’ turns up at half past nine.”
— “Mom, enough,” Gleb muttered, though he didn’t sound particularly convincing.
— “Enough of what? We’re not allowed to tell the truth?” Lyudmila Igorevna turned on Varvara. “Go on then—what’s so important in your precious archive that you can’t be home by seven?”
Varvara perched on the edge of a chair.
— “We were collecting documents for the fund’s reorganization report…”
— “A report!” her mother-in-law cut her off. “So your papers are worth more than your husband now!”
— “Mom, calm down,” Gleb said, pouring himself tea. “Let her explain.”
— “There’s nothing to explain,” Varvara replied, straightening her shoulders. “Rimma Borisovna entrusted me with something important. I can’t let the team down.”
— “The team!” Lyudmila Igorevna snorted. “And your own husband can wait, can he?”
— “Sorry, Varya, but Mom’s right,” Gleb said, setting his cup down. “Lately you’re hardly ever home.”
— “Gleb, I’m home by eight at the latest…”
— “Eight, nine—what difference does it make? At least we used to eat dinner together.”
Had just three months of work really changed her life this much?
Author: Vladimir Shorokhov © (1791) Illustration: ArtMind ©
Three months earlier
Varvara had been sitting in a café with her friend Alisa, scrolling job ads on her phone.
— “Varyush, look at this opening,” Alisa said, showing her the screen. “It’s right near your place.”
— “Archivist?” Varvara squinted at the tiny text. “They pay next to nothing.”
— “But it’s stable. And you’re a history major.”
— “I am,” Varvara sighed. “But I have zero experience with document work.”
— “So what? You learn fast. Remember university—how you wrote that paper in two weeks while everyone else struggled for half a year?”
— “That was a long time ago…”
— “Oh, please. You’re twenty-six, you’re in great shape. Send your résumé.”
Varvara gazed out the café window. A year and a half had passed since the wedding. At first she and Gleb agreed she’d focus on the home—setting up their life, keeping things running. Then… then, without noticing, they’d grown used to that routine.
— “All right,” she said at last. “I’ll try.”
Gleb reacted calmly:
— “Good. You’ll finally do something useful. You’ve been sitting at home too long since the wedding.”
They were on the couch; he was scrolling news on his tablet.
— “Do you think I was wasting my time?” Varvara asked carefully.
— “No, of course not. It’s just… you know, it’s good for a woman to have something to do. Otherwise you can get depressed from idleness.”
— “I’m not depressed.”
— “Not yet. Later you’ll start inventing problems out of thin air.”
Varvara wanted to argue, but Gleb had already moved on to another story.
Her first day in the archive felt like walking through fog. Varvara was afraid of doing something wrong, kept asking the same questions, wrote down every instruction word for word.
— “Don’t worry so much,” Rimma Borisovna Kryuchkova, the head of the department, smiled. She was around sixty, with attentive gray eyes. “This isn’t surgery. Mistakes can be corrected.”
— “I’ve just never dealt with paperwork before…”
— “That’s fine. The main thing is to be careful and precise. And you have that.”
Elizaveta Fyodorovna Sinebryukhova, a colleague nearing retirement, showed Varvara the card catalogues.
— “See, dear, everything is arranged by year. It seems complicated at first, but you’ll get used to it.”
— “And if I mix something up?”
— “Then we’ll untangle it. We’re all human—we all make mistakes. Just don’t be afraid to ask.”
By the end of the first week Varvara had learned the basic procedures. Her background in history really did help—she navigated dates quickly and understood the logic behind the classification.
— “You have an excellent memory for case numbers,” Rimma Borisovna noted. “A rare gift in our line of work.”
— “Thank you. I’m trying not to let anyone down.”
— “Effort is wonderful. But you also have a natural aptitude. In one week you learned what takes others months.”
At home Varvara spoke about work with bright enthusiasm:
— “You won’t believe it—today I found documents on an old neighborhood they demolished in the eighties! Such fascinating material…”
— “Mm-hmm,” Gleb nodded without looking up from his phone. “Great.”
— “Rimma Borisovna says I’m suited for archival work. Maybe in six months she’ll give me more complex tasks.”
— “Of course she will. You’re smart.”
— “Gleb, are you actually listening?”
— “I’m listening, I’m listening. Documents, abilities, tasks… got it.”
Varvara fell silent. His voice carried polite indifference, like she’d been describing a trip to the grocery store.
Six weeks later Rimma Borisovna called Varvara into her office.
— “Sit down. I want to discuss a proposal with you.”
— “I’m listening.”
— “We’ve decided to create a senior archivist position. It means handling the most important files and coordinating junior staff. I want to offer it to you.”
Varvara blinked in disbelief.
— “But I’ve only worked here a month and a half…”
— “And in that time you’ve shown yourself stronger than employees with many years of experience. You’re not only reliable—you’re proactive. Remember when you suggested a new cataloging system for wartime materials?”
— “I just thought it would be easier…”
— “Exactly. You think. You don’t simply follow instructions—you look for ways to improve the work.”
Varvara hesitated.
— “Won’t the others object? I’m still new…”
— “Elizaveta Fyodorovna supports you. The rest treat you well, too. And the position comes with an extra ten thousand.”
— “Rimma Borisovna, I… I’m grateful for your trust.”
— “It’s not trust—it’s recognition of your ability. So? What do you say?”
— “Of course I accept!”
Varvara nearly floated home. A promotion after six weeks! A raise! She imagined how happy Gleb would be, how they’d celebrate.
Gleb reacted coolly.
— “Promoted? And you didn’t say anything?”
— “I wanted it to be a surprise. Today I received my first paycheck with the bonus.”
— “So how much is it now?”
— “Thirty-five thousand.”
Gleb gave a low whistle.
— “Not bad for an archive. Ten thousand more.”
Something in his tone felt off—not joy, but a hint of mockery.
— “Gleb… are you happy for me?”
— “Sure. Well done. Now we’ll be rich.”
He said it with a smirk, and Varvara couldn’t tell whether he was joking.
At the construction company where Gleb worked, trouble began. Clients delayed payments; management started cutting corners on wages.
— “They’re promising next week again,” Gleb said darkly at dinner. “Third month in a row.”
— “Maybe you should look for another job?” Varvara offered carefully. “There are lots of openings…”
— “Easy to say. You think I’m not looking? Everywhere it’s either tiny pay or crazy hours.”
— “Not everywhere…”
— “Varya, you don’t understand. Your archive is stable—nine to six. Construction is different.”
Varvara wanted to point out that her days sometimes ran late too, but she kept quiet.
A few days later she was working at home on a complicated report, papers spread over the entire kitchen.
— “Your stupid papers are everywhere again!” Gleb stormed in and started sweeping sheets off the table.
— “Gleb, careful! Those are work documents!” Varvara rushed to save them. “I’m preparing an important report!”
— “You’re doing it at home? What, you don’t have time at work?”
— “Rimma Borisovna asked me to help with the annual report.”
— “Rimma Borisovna, Rimma Borisovna…” he mimicked. “Was one promotion not enough? Now you’ll be hunched over at home for free?”
— “Not for free. They pay extra for overtime.”
— “How much?”
— “Five thousand for the report.”
Gleb paused.
— “Five thousand? For some papers?”
— “For an analytical report on the archive collections. It’s hard work.”
— “Hard work…” he smirked. “Sure. The hardest job in the world.”
Varvara gathered the documents.
— “I’ll go to the bedroom so I’m not in your way.”
— “Sit wherever you want! You’ve turned the whole apartment into an office anyway!”
Three months later came a second promotion. Varvara was appointed deputy head of the archive. Her salary rose to fifty thousand—an amount she hadn’t even dared to dream about.
— “Congratulations, Varvara Sergeyevna!” Rimma Borisovna shook her hand firmly. “You earned it.”
— “I… I didn’t expect it so soon…”
— “You systematized the entire archive for the nineties. That’s an enormous job. The administration noticed,” Rimma Borisovna said, smiling in a motherly way. “You know, I’ve worked here thirty years. People like you are rare.”
— “I just did what needed doing…”
— “Exactly! You didn’t wait for instructions or hunt for excuses. You simply did it.” She leaned back. “Now go home and celebrate. This doesn’t happen every day.”
At home Varvara found Gleb sprawled on the couch with a bottle of beer in front of the TV. He was wearing the same T-shirt she’d seen that morning.
— “How was your day?” she asked carefully.
— “Same. They pay whenever they feel like it, promise the moon. Today again—‘hold on, guys, soon everything will get better.’” He took a sip. “And you?”
— “I… I got promoted. I’m deputy head now.”
Gleb switched off the TV sharply and turned to her.
— “What? Deputy? After three months?”
— “Rimma Borisovna retires in a year. She’s training her replacement.”
— “Damn…” Gleb set the bottle down. “So how much will you make now?”
— “Fifty.”
Gleb sprang up so fast the beer almost tipped.
— “Fifty? Are you kidding? I don’t even make that now! And my pay is always late!”
— “Gleb, that’s good for our family,” Varvara tried to sound happy.
— “For the family?” He paced the room. “You come home at nine now! What family? I sit here alone like an idiot!”
— “Gleb, the work requires—”
— “Work! It’s always work!” he threw his hand up. “Before we could at least have dinner together, watch a movie. Now you’re like a stranger.”
Varvara wanted to respond, but the words stuck. Maybe he was right. Maybe she really had changed.
The fights became daily. Everything annoyed Gleb: Varvara staying late, her stories about colleagues, even the new clothes she bought with her first raised paycheck.
— “New suit?” he looked her over one morning.
— “Yes. I need to look appropriate for work.”
— “Who are you dressing up for? Your Rimma Borisovna?”
— “Gleb, stop it. I’m a deputy. I have to look professional.”
— “Professional…” he sneered. “Before, what you had was enough.”
— “Before I was an ordinary archivist. Now I have a different status and different responsibilities.”
— “Status…” Gleb poured tea and banged the mug loudly on the table. “Listen to yourself—‘status,’ ‘professional’… Where did you pick up those words?”
— “It’s normal business language.”
— “Normal for who? Your new friends at the archive?”
Lyudmila Igorevna fanned the flames whenever she could. She began visiting more often, as if she sensed instability in her son’s home.
— “Glebushka, my son, you’re the man of the house. You can’t let your wife behave like this,” she’d say, shaking her head.
— “Mom, don’t interfere,” Gleb would answer.
— “How can I not? She doesn’t value you at all! Her job is more important!” Lyudmila Igorevna would shoot pointed looks toward Varvara. “In my day wives respected their husbands.”
— “Lyudmila Igorevna, I do respect Gleb,” Varvara tried to defend herself.
— “Respect?” her mother-in-law scoffed. “You run around other people’s homes until night—is that respect?”
— “I’m not running around. I’m working.”
— “Working… And who will cook borscht? Who will keep the house?”
— “I manage both.”
— “You manage?” Lyudmila Igorevna surveyed the apartment. “Dust on the shelves, dirty windows. That’s what you call ‘managing’?”
Gleb didn’t say anything, but Varvara saw how intently he listened to his mother’s reproaches. And each day, his gaze grew colder.