“You’re living in my apartment, Lena. So why should I be spending money on groceries too?”
Elena stood frozen at the stove, a ladle still in her hand, not immediately grasping what he meant. Empty lunch plates were stacked on the kitchen table; the sink was overflowing with unwashed dishes. The refrigerator door hung slightly open, showing half-bare shelves: a jar of mayonnaise, two eggs, a dried chunk of cheese. The air smelled of fried onions—and something else as well: betrayal, disappointment, the final breath of a broken illusion.
Artyom sat at the table, tapping his fingers against his smartphone. A pale shirt, a neat haircut, manicured hands. A handsome man—her fiancé—the man she was supposed to marry in a month. He didn’t even lift his head when he said it. He tossed the words out as casually as a remark about the weather.
Elena slowly turned toward him, still clutching the ladle. On her apron—a gift from his mother—cheerful cherries were printed in bright red. A cozy, “happy bride” apron, made for a woman who was supposed to feel safe.
“What did you say?” Her voice came out quiet, almost a whisper.
Artyom sighed, set his phone aside, and looked at her with faint irritation.
“I’m saying I don’t understand your complaints. You live here for free—you don’t pay rent, you don’t pay utilities. That’s a huge savings. And you’re still whining that you spend money on food.”
Their first date had been in a little café by Chistye Prudy. Artyom ordered her a cinnamon cappuccino—guessed perfectly on the first try. He talked about his job at an IT company, about his future plans, and listened when she spoke about new books and authors. Afterward they wandered along the embankment for a long time, and when the wind turned sharp, he wrapped his scarf around her shoulders.
“Are you cold?” he asked then, and there was genuine tenderness in his voice.
A year earlier, everything had looked different.
Elena remembered their first meeting in a bookstore. Artyom was standing by the poetry shelves, flipping through a small volume of Yesenin. Tall, with a soft smile, in a sweater the color of coffee with milk. They reached for the same book at the same time—a collection by Brodsky.
“Excuse me,” he said. “You take it—ladies first.”
“Oh, come on,” Elena laughed. “There’s enough Brodsky to go around.”
Then came their walks along the river, where Artyom recited poems from memory. Coffee in tiny cafés where he spoke about coding and she spoke about life as an editor at a publishing house. He brought chamomile flowers for no reason, remembered how she took her coffee, knew the name of her favorite writer.
Elena lived in a rented one-room flat near Alekseevskaya—an old building, fourth floor, no elevator, windows facing a noisy street. But it was hers: bookshelves up to the ceiling, beloved paintings on the walls, and Marquis—the cat she’d picked up as a kitten near the metro.
Thirty thousand for rent, fifteen for food, plus small household needs and transportation. The rest she could save or spend on theater, books, gifts. She had enough. Life felt steady.
Artyom often came to visit. He brought wine, fruit, sometimes bouquets of wild daisies.
“It’s so cozy at your place,” he’d say, sinking into the couch. “Like being at my grandma’s when I was a kid.”
His parents—Sergey Nikolayevich and Galina Petrovna—welcomed Elena warmly. Their first family dinner took place in their apartment in Medvedkovo: a starched tablecloth, the family china, roast duck.
“Artyom finally brought home a serious girl,” Galina Petrovna smiled, piling more onto Elena’s plate. “Educated, well-bred. Not like the previous ones…”
Sergey Nikolayevich asked about her work in publishing and reminisced about how he once dreamed of being a writer himself.
When his parents sold their country house and bought Artyom an apartment in a new building, everything moved fast. A two-bedroom in Butovo, fresh renovation, a view of the park.
“Move in with me,” Artyom suggested after he got the keys. “Why waste money on rent?”
Elena didn’t hesitate long. They had been together eight months. They loved each other—at least, she believed they did.
Moving day was loud and chaotic and full of laughter. Artyom rented a van, his father helped carry boxes, and Galina Petrovna fussed over jars of homemade food.
“This is stew, these are mushrooms, and this is blackcurrant jam,” she said. “It’ll come in handy for the young ones.”
Marquis rode in his carrier, meowing in protest. Elena kept the carrier on her lap, trying to calm him, while Artyom joked, “Now we’re a real family—Mom, Dad, and our child-the-cat.”
In the new apartment Elena immediately started making it feel warm. She hung curtains with tiny flowers, arranged her books, and put her dishes on the shelves. She stuck travel magnets on the fridge and framed photos on the walls.
“You’re turning my apartment into a little nest,” Artyom laughed, hugging her from behind.
“And you’re okay with that?” she asked, turning in his arms.
“Of course. Do whatever you want. It’s your home now too.”
A month after she moved in—on the anniversary of their first meeting—Artyom proposed. Simple, without showmanship, over dinner at home by candlelight.
“Marry me, Len. Let’s officially become a family.”
The ring was modest but pretty—white gold with a small diamond. Elena cried with happiness, whispered yes, kissed his face.
“We’ll have the wedding in spring,” Artyom said. “Mom will help with the planning.”
The first uneasy signs appeared two months after the move.
Elena stood in a supermarket with a heavy cart, double-checking her list: meat, chicken, vegetables, grains, dairy, household supplies. At the register, the total climbed past seven thousand.
“That’s strange,” she thought as she counted out bills. “I used to spend three thousand a week, tops—and it was enough. But now…”
At home she unpacked the groceries, thinking about her salary—sixty thousand at the publishing house. Before, it covered rent, clothes, and even a little savings. Now her money vanished as if it had holes.
Artyom loved to eat. He demanded meat for lunch and dinner and grumbled if there wasn’t beef or pork.
“Chicken again?” he’d frown. “Maybe you could buy some proper meat?”
“Beef is expensive,” Elena would answer quietly.
“So what, I’m supposed to starve?”
She’d say nothing, go to the kitchen, and add beef to the next list.
In the evenings he could eat half a pot of soup, then ask for sandwiches.
“My metabolism is fast,” he explained. “My brain works hard at the office—I need energy.”
Elena cooked. She woke up an hour earlier to make breakfast. In the evenings, drained after work, she stood at the stove making dinner. Weekends were for bulk cooking: soups, main dishes, salads for the week.
“You’re so good at keeping a home,” Artyom praised her, devouring another serving. “Mom’s right—I found real treasure.”
But helping? He never rushed to do that. In the evenings he sat at his computer playing online games, sometimes until three in the morning.
“Artyom, can you help with the dishes?” Elena would ask.
“Yeah, yeah—after I finish this level.”
But the “level” lasted for hours, and the dishes stayed in the sink.
Elena washed them. She washed the floors too. Laundry, ironing, cleaning—it all landed on her shoulders. The bookshelf he’d promised to put up never appeared. The tools gathered dust in the closet, and her books sat in stacks on the floor.
“Tomorrow,” he’d promise, week after week.
Elena started tracking their household spending. Groceries: forty-five thousand a month. Household items: four. Cat food for Marquis: two. Fifty-one thousand out of her sixty-thousand salary. That left her under ten thousand for herself—transport, skincare, the occasional clothing purchase. By mid-month, she had nothing left.
Before, with the same salary, she paid rent, ate well, dressed herself, and still saved a little. Now, living “for free,” she spent more than she ever had while paying for her own place.
Artyom earned twice as much, but his money went to his priorities—new gadgets, games, drinks with friends.
One day Elena finally tried to talk about it.
“Maybe we should have a shared budget,” she said. “Plan expenses together?”
Artyom looked genuinely surprised.
“Why? Everyone has their own money. You buy food, I cover the apartment. Fair, right?”
“But utilities are only eight thousand,” Elena said carefully, “and food and everything else is forty-five…”
“Then don’t buy delicacies! Eat simpler.”
Elena bit her tongue. Delicacies? She bought normal meat, seasonal vegetables, discounted grains. It wasn’t luxury—Artyom just ate like three people.
That evening Elena came home especially exhausted. Work had been a mess—they were preparing a new book for print, and the author sent last-minute edits. Elena stayed over the text until seven, then spent an hour stuck in traffic.
Artyom was sprawled on the couch, playing on his phone.
“Hey,” he grunted without looking up. “So what’s for dinner?”
Elena set her bag down and kicked off her shoes. Her feet ached from a full day in heels.
“Nothing,” she said evenly. “We’re out of food. I’m out of money too.”
Artyom finally looked up, staring at her as if she were speaking nonsense.
“What do you mean, out of food? You went shopping yesterday.”
“Yesterday I bought milk and bread with my last money. Payday is in a week.”
“Then go to the store and buy something.”
“With what?” Elena sat down, irritation rising. “I’m telling you—I don’t have any money.”
“Use a credit card.”
“I don’t have one. And I’m not going into debt for groceries.”
Artyom sat up, frowning.
“I don’t understand where your money goes. You make fifty thousand, you don’t pay rent…”
“Everything goes on food and household things,” Elena said, forcing herself to stay calm. “Maybe we could split groceries fifty-fifty?”
And that was when he said it—calmly, almost puzzled, as if he were explaining something obvious to a child:
“Why would I? You live in my apartment, Lena. For free. I pay the utilities, I pay for internet. Why should I also pay for food? That’s not fair. I’m already giving you a roof over your head.”
Elena felt something snap inside her. A year of relationship, the engagement, the wedding plans—it all suddenly looked like scenery on a stage, covering an ugly truth underneath.
“A roof over my head?” she repeated softly. “Like I’m a stray dog you took in?”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic. I’m just saying everyone contributes. I provide housing, you provide food. Logical.”
“And me cleaning, washing, ironing, cooking—none of that counts?”
Artyom shrugged.
“That’s just women’s stuff. My mom’s done it her whole life and never complained.”
Elena spent that night in the kitchen. She brewed tea—the last teabag in the box—and sat there warming her cold hands around the mug. Marquis jumped onto her lap, purring, pressing his damp nose into her palm.
“Well… what did we get ourselves into, my friend?” she whispered, scratching behind his ear.
Photos were stuck to the fridge—pictures of her and Artyom together. There they were at his parents’ dacha, laughing, fingers intertwined. There at the beach in Sochi—their only trip together, which she’d paid for more than half of, by the way. A theater selfie—tickets she’d also bought, as his birthday gift.
Elena stood, walked to the fridge, and took the photos down one by one. She studied their faces—so happy, so in love. When had it changed? Or had it never changed at all, and she simply refused to see it?
She remembered Galina Petrovna’s words from recently, when they’d been having tea alone:
“The most important thing, Lenochka, is that you and Artyom respect each other. Without respect, a family doesn’t last. I respect my Seryozha more than anything—that’s why we’ve lived thirty years together.”
Elena had nodded then. Now she understood—there was no respect. Artyom didn’t see her as an equal partner. To him she was a convenient add-on to his apartment: a free housekeeper, with an extra bonus—sex.
Toward morning she dozed off right at the table. Artyom woke her, yawning as he wandered into the kitchen.
“Why are you sitting here? Go to bed.”
Elena lifted her head and looked at him. Messy hair, sleepy face, striped pajamas—another gift from his mother, this one for New Year’s. A stranger.
“I’m leaving,” Elena said quietly.
“Leaving where? It’s too early for work.”
“No,” she said. “I’m moving out. Today.”
Artyom blinked, not immediately understanding.
“This is because of yesterday? Lena, come on—why are you acting like a kid? You got offended and now you’re packing?”
Elena stood and walked past him into the bedroom. She pulled out her suitcase—the same one she’d arrived with.
“Hey—are you serious?” Artyom stood in the doorway watching her fold clothes. “You’re making a scene over something stupid?”
“It isn’t stupid,” Elena said, neatly folding a dress. “It’s about respect. And you don’t have any for me.”
“Oh, please! I’m planning to marry you!”
“Why?” Elena looked at him. “So you can have a free servant forever?”
Artyom’s face tightened.
“You’re being unfair. I love you.”
“Love me?” Elena turned fully toward him. “When was the last time you asked how my day at work went? What I’m reading? What I’m thinking about? Do you even know I’ve been working on a presentation for a new author for a month? That I get migraines from lack of sleep? That I’ve been dreaming about going to St. Petersburg for the book fair, but I can’t—because every ruble goes to feeding you?”
He said nothing, staring at her as if she were speaking a foreign language.
“Exactly,” Elena nodded. “You don’t know anything about me. And you don’t want to.”
Elena stood on the doorstep of her parents’ house outside Moscow, suitcase in one hand and Marquis’s carrier in the other. Her father, Nikolai Ivanovich—a gray-haired man in a knitted vest—opened the door.
“Lenochka?” He blinked in surprise, then took one look at her face and simply opened his arms.
Her mother, Lidiya Stepanovna, appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Our girl is home!” she cried, hurrying over to hug Elena without asking a single question. “You’ve gotten so thin. Come on—I’m baking cabbage pies.”
The house smelled like childhood—vanilla, yeast dough, apples. The kitchen was warm from the stove. On the table lay the embroidered tablecloth Elena had remembered since she was five.
“Sit,” her mother said, pouring tea into Elena’s favorite mug with forget-me-nots. “Eat.”
Her father sat beside her silently and placed a hand on her shoulder. A question lived in his eyes, but he didn’t push.
“We broke up,” Elena said quietly. “Artyom and I.”
“And good,” her mother replied unexpectedly. “At the engagement I watched him—empty eyes. That boy doesn’t know how to love.”
On Saturday the three of them went to the market. Lidiya Stepanovna chose apples carefully, bargained with the seller, laughed. Nikolai Ivanovich carried the heavy bags and winked at his daughter. Elena walked between them and suddenly realized she could breathe—calmly, deeply—without the stone that had been pressing on her chest for months.
“Mom, should I make pancakes tonight?” Elena offered that evening. “Like when I was little.”
“Of course, sweetheart. Just don’t forget—the secret is letting the batter rest for an hour.”
They stood in the kitchen shoulder to shoulder, mother and daughter, and Elena felt it: she was home. Truly home.
A week passed quickly. Artyom didn’t call, didn’t text—as if that year together had never existed. Elena browsed rental listings, marking down the options that looked workable.
“Don’t rush,” her mother told her. “Stay with us as long as you need.”
But Elena knew it was time to start again. On her own.
In the mailbox she found a note from Katya, her university friend: an invitation to a contemporary art exhibition. Come обязательно! It’ll be interesting!
The exhibition was in a loft at Winzavod. Elena wandered among installations—strange objects made of wire and glass—when she heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Elena? What a coincidence!”
She turned. Alexey—her colleague from the neighboring department at the publishing house—stood there holding a catalog.
“Alexey! You’re here too?”
“A friend has a piece in the show,” he said. “I came to support him. And you—how are you? I haven’t seen you at work in a while.”
“I was on leave,” Elena said. “I’m back tomorrow.”
They began talking. Alexey told her about a new author he’d discovered; Elena shared an idea for a book series about modern art. Without noticing, they ended up in the gallery café.
“You know,” Alexey said, stirring his coffee, “I’ve always admired the way you work. You feel the text like no one else.”
Elena smiled—genuinely—for the first time in a long while.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “That means a lot.”
They walked outside together. Moscow glittered in the evening lights.
“Want to take a walk?” Alexey asked.
“Sure,” Elena said.
They strolled along the boulevard, talking about books, plans, life. No one hurried. No one kept score. No one measured who owed what.
And Elena thought: love isn’t about “living in someone’s apartment.” Love is living together—side by side, as equals.
She was free.
Not from a man—
from an illusion.