I look at the clock—five minutes to eight. Lesha will be home any minute from yet another “interview.” Though calling it an interview is generous. It’s more like meeting his buddies for a beer. A hundred explanations for why they didn’t hire him again. A hundred excuses for why he “wasn’t the right fit.”
This has dragged on for two years. Two years since he was laid off. And for two long years it’s been the same tired routine: he leaves in the morning, supposedly to job-hunt, and returns in the evening crumpled, half-drunk, with dull eyes and a tongue that can barely form words.
At first I believed him. I cheered him on. Of course I did—he was my husband, my partner, the pillar of our family. He’d landed in a hard spot; he needed time to stand back up. I understood and didn’t pressure him. I took extra shifts and side jobs, practically lived at work—just so we could keep paying for life and for the mortgage on our little two-bedroom place.
Then it hit me: he wasn’t actually looking. Or he was “looking” in a way that made sure nothing would ever come of it. More and more he sat at the computer, disappearing into shooters and strategy games. When I asked questions, he snapped and threw a fit. He insisted he needed a break, needed to “reset.” And where the money would come from? Apparently that was my responsibility.
And I couldn’t even get close enough to talk. The moment I tried, he’d start shouting, spiraling into drama. Saying I was humiliating him, that I didn’t appreciate him, that I didn’t understand how hard it was for him. And me—how hard do you think it is for me? Carrying everything alone, pinching pennies, keeping us afloat… and still having to cater to a grown man who can’t be bothered to lift a finger.
Over the last year I began to notice I was going dim beside him. I didn’t feel like a woman—desired, loved, cherished. The happiness I used to feel when he came home had been replaced with numbness and a heavy, muted irritation. He acted like I was invisible. Like he couldn’t hear me. Instead he groused and nitpicked: the soup was too salty, the shirts weren’t ironed.
How many times did I try to have a real, honest conversation? To tell him how bad it felt, how exhausting it was. And every time I hit the same wall: drunken tears, self-pity, and the endless refrain—“I’m trying, I’m looking, it’ll all work out any day now.” And nothing ever changed. Day after day. Month after month.
It could have gone on forever. But today something clicked inside me—as if the spring that had been holding me up finally cracked. I’d reached the end of my patience. The end of my hope.
I stood in the middle of the room with a pregnancy test in my hands, the one I’d bought earlier. Another one—number twelve. And again: only one line. So that’s it. Not meant to be. Not this time either.
And then the tears started without my permission—bitter and hopeless. Suddenly I understood with absolute clarity: I was alone. Completely alone in this fight for a normal life and a chance at happiness. Lesha wasn’t my teammate, not my support. He’d accepted defeat a long time ago. It was easier for him to hide inside virtual worlds and leave me to shovel through our problems by myself.
It felt like an icy hand squeezed my heart. Everything inside me went cold with a dark, ugly premonition. No. Enough. I don’t have the strength anymore. Not the hope. Not the will to fight for two people. You have to know when to stop. You have to be able to say: that’s it. Finished. We’ve run aground.
So I stood by the window, biting my lip. A storm raged inside me, turning my soul inside out. I was terrified—so terrified it made me dizzy. It hurt so much my vision blurred. But there was nowhere to retreat. The decision was made. There was no way back.
I hear the door creak. Heavy steps. Noise in the hallway. Lesha is home—drunk, as usual. By now it’s the only version of him that exists.
“Oh, you’re home?” He flops onto the couch, pulls off his shoes. He smells like stale booze and sweat. “Why the long face? Something happen?”
I’m silent, swallowing a bitter lump. My temples throb, my mouth is dry. I’m afraid to raise my eyes and look at him—to see indifference mixed with resentment in the face I once loved. Like: here we go again. She’s about to start nagging.
But instead of the familiar accusations, I suddenly hear my own voice—quiet, dull, as if it’s coming from somewhere else.
“Lesha… we need to talk. For real.”
“Oh?” he snorts, sliding down into the cushions. “Fine. Talk. Just make it short, yeah? I’m tired.”
Tired. Right. Exhausted from “interviews.” From chatting with friends and drinking beer.
I take a breath, clench my fists. My nails bite into my palms, grounding me. Time to lay the cards on the table—there’s no other way.
“Lesha, this can’t continue. I’m done. With everything. With your laziness, your lies, your hiding from life. You’ve checked out. You’ve stopped being a man I can rely on.”
He jerks upright, staring as if he doesn’t understand. Fear flashes in his eyes, tangled with offense.
“What are you talking about? Are you saying I’m not good enough for you? That I’m not trying? I am trying! I’m looking—I just can’t find anything!”
I let out a bitter, tired laugh. Same song. Two years running.
“Lesha, don’t do that. No whining. No self-pity. You’ve been ‘looking’ for two years. And we’re still in the same place. Nothing changes. I can’t live like this anymore. I won’t.”
I jump up and pace the room. Everything inside me boils. I want to scream, smash a plate, throw something—anything. But I force myself to stay steady. If I’ve decided, I have to say it all.
“Lesha, I don’t feel like your wife anymore. Not someone you need. Not someone you love. We’ve become strangers. You don’t hear me. You don’t see me. You don’t care about my feelings—or our marriage.”
“That’s not true!” he cries, his voice turning watery and pleading. “I love you, Katya! It’s just a hard time. We’ll get through it—please, don’t leave me!”
There he goes again—pressing on pity, hoping tears will do what effort never did. But his sobbing doesn’t move me anymore. I’ve grown immune.
“Are you even listening?” I cut him off, staring straight at him. “I’m sick of dragging this burden for both of us. I’m not going to support you anymore. I can’t—and I don’t want to.”
A ringing silence falls. He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. His lips tremble; his fingers crush the couch fabric.
“So that’s it—you’re leaving me?” he forces out, his voice pitching high. “You’re kicking me out like a stray dog? Now, when I’m in total hell?”
I feel heat surge up my spine. He’s still acting like a tragic hero. No shame. No conscience.
“And who put you in that ‘hell,’ Lesha?” I spit, each word sharp. “You did. With your lies. With your irresponsibility. You stopped being a man a long time ago. You gave up. And I don’t need a husband like that.”
He leaps up, reaches for my shoulders. In his eyes: panic and pleading.
“Katya, don’t! Let’s talk, let’s figure it out! I’ll fix everything, I swear! Just give me one last chance!”
I wrench away and step back. My throat tightens into a hard knot. I’ve heard those promises too many times. I believed them too many times. Enough.
“I’m sorry, Lesha,” I breathe, shaking my head, turning to the window because I can’t stand his desperate eyes. “It’s too late. There’s no faith left. No strength left to wait. I’ve decided.”
“I packed your things. They’re in the hallway. I’ve prepared the divorce papers. I’m done supporting you. The apartment stays with me—and you’ll pay your share of the mortgage.”
Behind me I hear a choking gasp. Footsteps, a crash. Lesha paces the room, trying to break through to me, his voice thick with tears and wounded pride.
“Katya, think again! How can you do this? Why are you doing this to me? I tried—I really tried!”
Sure you did, I think bitterly. Tried so hard you nearly wore yourself out. I close my eyes and count to ten. I just have to survive this conversation. Take the hit. Don’t melt. Don’t give in.
“Lesha, listen,” I turn and look at him, exhausted. “I’ve made up my mind. There’s no point continuing this farce. Our marriage burned out a long time ago. We became strangers—people who don’t interest each other anymore. There’s nothing left to share except irritation and old wounds.”
He freezes in the middle of the room, staring at me with wide, tear-filled eyes. Like a child. Honestly—like a child. Unemployment and idleness had knocked him off the rails. He’d turned into a big, whining boy.
“But… but I love you,” he whispers, smearing tears across his cheeks. “We’ve been through so much together. Is it all for nothing?”
I sigh and shake my head. How do you explain that love isn’t just tears and begging? That love has to be protected and fed—that you have to work on a relationship, grow, become better for yourself and for each other.
And he’d let it all slip away. He didn’t understand what he had. Didn’t value it. Didn’t want to change—maybe he was afraid. And this is the result: natural, predictable, inevitable.
“Lesha, I’m sorry,” I say softly, choosing my words. “You can’t flip a switch and turn love off. It drains away little by little—when you don’t cherish it, when you don’t support it. You haven’t been a real husband to me for a long time. And the love… it ran out. It ended.”
He shakes his head, sniffling, like a little kid. It’s embarrassing—and it breaks my heart. But what does that have to do with me now? Didn’t I believe in him? Didn’t I wait? I gave everything I had to give.
“Katya… what about our dreams?” he says, wiping his face with his sleeve. “We wanted a baby. A house of our own. Walks in the park together, trips to the sea. You forgot all that? Is the past just… gone?”
I smile bitterly, eyes closing for a moment. Naïve. Still naïve—a grown child. Thinking you can lounge forever, do nothing, and dreams will simply fall into your lap. That the wife will stay no matter what.
“Lesha, listen carefully,” I step closer, meeting his gaze. “Wanting isn’t enough. Dreams need fuel. You have to move toward them—every day, stubbornly. And you… you threw it all away. Our feelings. Our plans. Our future. I’m sorry, but we stood still for too long. It’s time to admit it—we didn’t make it. Nothing worked.”
Pain and despair wash in his eyes. He wants to scream, grab me, beg me to change my mind. But he knows it’s useless. Nothing can be glued back together now.
“So… that’s it?” he whispers, swallowing tears. “It’s over? We just split as if none of it mattered?”
I nod silently. What else is there to say? To soothe him? To justify myself? It’s too late. Too late to rewrite what we already lived.
“I’m sorry, Lesha,” I exhale, my voice beginning to tremble. “This isn’t sudden. I thought about it for a long time. I suffered over it, weighed every ‘for’ and ‘against.’ Believe me—I didn’t want it to end like this. I hoped until the very last moment you’d come to your senses. But…”
I stop, rubbing my temples. My head spins, words stick in my throat. The lump rises again, threatening to break into a full-blown sob. No. Hold it together. At least right now.
“Okay,” I say, forcing steadiness. “What’s done is done. There’s no point digging through the past. Let’s just separate with dignity. No screaming, no scenes, no war over property. I’ve thought it through. I’m prepared. Help me move the things—and that’s it. Our roads go different ways.”
He nods, rubbing his red eyes. He looks awful—pale, hollowed out. I have to fight the urge to walk up, hug him like I used to, say everything will be fine.
But it won’t. Not for us. Not together. I’m done lying to myself. It’s time to start a new life—without dead weight, without guilt.
“Well. I’m going,” I say sharply, stepping toward the door. “Get ready if you want to finish this today. I already called a taxi. It’ll be here in half an hour. Don’t be late.”
I step onto the stairwell and close the door carefully behind me. Only then do I allow myself to crumble. I slide down the wall and curl into myself. Tears run down my cheeks; my whole body shakes.
God, it’s terrifying. It hurts so much it feels filthy, unbearable. Like my heart is about to tear in two. So many years together, so much tied to him—and now… that’s it. The end. Curtain down.
I swallow my tears and bite my lip. No. Enough crying. Enough hysteria and self-torture. I didn’t drive this marriage into the ground. I wasn’t the one wasting days at the computer, forgetting life. I’ve paid my share—and more. It’s time to think about me. About my life. My future.
My phone buzzes in my pocket: a text saying the taxi is waiting by the entrance. Time to go. To gather papers, sign what needs signing, put a thick final period at the end of our story.
I stand, tug my sweater straight, wipe the last tears away, lift my shoulders. I look at the apartment door—no longer my home—and I feel the grip around my heart loosen.
This is right. It has to be. Cutting hurts, but later it eases. Wounds close. Resentments fade. And what remains are the warm, bright memories—how we loved, how we dreamed, how we planned. Even if nothing came true… it did exist. It was real.
I’ll keep those moments. Lock them in the far corner of my soul. Maybe someday I’ll take them out like prayer beads—turning them over with a soft ache, with gentle tenderness. Like something precious that once lived in my hands.
But for now… I have to live on. Day by day. Step by step. Learn how to be myself again. Look forward with hope. I will manage. I’m still young. I have a whole life ahead of me. There will be love. There will be a home and a family fire. There will. It will happen.
I take a breath and push open the heavy building door. I step into the cutting wind—into a new life. Terrified to the point of dizziness. In pain—yet it will pass.
In the end, I’m not the first woman to do this, and I won’t be the last. Thousands have walked this road—ended relationships, started again from scratch. And they survived. They healed. Some even became happy—in a different way, in a new way.
And I will be okay too. I will. The main thing is to believe in myself. Not to quit. Not to lower my hands. To keep moving forward, no matter what.
…The car pulls away, carrying me from the past into the unknown—into a place where everything will have to be built again.
I lean back, close my eyes, and breathe deeply, feeling the tension drain out of my body. My chest feels light and empty—as if a mountain has slipped off my shoulders.
This is right. It had to happen. Sooner or later I would have had to choose. It’s too late for tears and regret. No more self-pity. No more mourning what never became real.
Now I need to think about the present. About what waits ahead. About new dreams and new hopes. About myself—whole, singular, irreplaceable.
I open my eyes and smile at my reflection in the window. Pale. Red-eyed. Tear-streaked, but alive. Ready to keep walking, whatever comes.
I’ll make it. It will come together. It will heal. I just have to believe. Love myself. Value every new day. And one day happiness will smile at me—like bright sun after a long storm.
I believe that. I know it.
And for now… hello, new life. Let’s meet again—without fear, without reproach. Just living each moment. Each breath. Each step.
I will handle it. I can.
I will make it.