Mikhail shoved his plate away, annoyed. At the bottom sat a lonely portion of plain pasta, barely sprinkled with cheap grated cheese. The sight of that “dinner” filled him with a heavy, bitter resentment—he’d busted his back on a construction site all day, and this was the “welcome” waiting for him at home.
“Valya, I don’t understand—where’s the main course?” he asked, trying to sound calm, though his voice quivered with tension. “Where’s the meat? Where’s at least some gravy? I’m a man—I need real fuel, not this plastic.”
Valentina didn’t even turn around. She stood at the sink, focused on scrubbing an old pot. Her back, stretched under her house robe, looked like a solid wall—one neither pleas nor reproaches could crack.
“The food’s at the store, Misha,” she replied, her tone dry as stale bread. “It’s sitting right there on the shelves—pretty, fresh, wrapped up. Pick what you like, pay for it, and cook it. We’re each on our own now, aren’t we? That’s what you decided a month ago.”
Mikhail froze, not sure what to say. He remembered the recent conversation when he’d announced that from now on he’d be setting aside most of his paycheck into his personal “savings fund.” He wanted a new car badly. Their neighbor Seryoga had upgraded twice in a single year, and Mikhail felt pathetic driving his two-year-old foreign car.
“I’m saving for something important, Valya!” Mikhail stood up; the chair screeched across the linoleum. “We need status. I want people to see we’re doing well, that we’re steady on our feet. And you’re making a scene over one piece of pork like it’s the end of the world.”
“People can see that Romka’s outgrown last year’s jacket,” Valentina finally turned to face him. “The sleeves are too short, the shoulders are tight. But you don’t care about that. What matters to you is what Seryoga will say about your leather seats.”
In their single room—part bedroom, part nursery—Romka shifted at his small desk. The boy was doing homework, trying not to get in the way. Mikhail glanced at his son and felt a stab of guilt, but he smothered it quickly with the thought that a new car was “for the family,” too.
“Status is an investment!” Mikhail snapped, grabbing his jacket. “Fine—I’ll go buy food myself. Since the lady of the house has apparently forgotten how to feed her husband.”
He stormed out into the hallway and slammed the door. The stairwell smelled damp. He headed to the nearest supermarket and loaded up on ready-made frozen meals. His pocket burned with irritation—he was spending money that was supposed to go into the “fund.”
When he got back, he found Valentina sitting on the sofa that doubled as their bed, studying a brochure. On the cover, the sea glowed blue and palm trees leaned over white sand.
“What’s that supposed to be?” Mikhail dropped the grocery bag onto the table. “More fantasies about things we’ll never have?”
“Why ‘never’?” Valya lifted her eyes—clear, steady, completely calm. “I’ve already done the math. During the autumn school break, Romka and I are flying to the sea. I booked the trip.”
Mikhail felt his throat go dry. He sat down on a stool, staring at her.
“And with what money, exactly?” he managed. “You said we don’t have any!”
“We don’t have your money, Misha,” she said evenly. “But I have mine. I took extra jobs all year—did translations at night. I’ve been saving for our son to have a holiday. He’s never seen the sea in his life. And he’s going to see it.”
“And what about me?” Mikhail blurted out before he could stop himself. “I’m just supposed to stay here alone while you stroll along beaches?”
Valentina shrugged. There was so much indifference in that one gesture that it made Mikhail uneasy—as if he weren’t her husband, but some random roommate in a shared apartment.
“You’ll stay with your status,” she answered. “You can polish your new car and show it off to Seryoga. You can even sleep in it, if you want. From now on, we’re living for our own happiness. You—your way. Us—ours.”
She got up and began packing Romka’s things for the next day. Mikhail watched her precise, confident movements. She wasn’t waiting for his approval anymore. She wasn’t asking. She was simply living—building a life where there was less and less space left for him.
Mikhail stepped out onto the balcony. Down below, under the streetlights, stood the neighbor’s car: a massive SUV taking up half the sidewalk. Seryoga loved bragging about its power, but Mikhail knew the neighbor lived alone—his wife had left six months earlier, tired of constant debts and “status” purchases.
Mikhail pictured himself in Seryoga’s place. There he was, sitting in a brand-new black Jeep. The interior smelled of expensive leather. He pressed the gas; the engine purred with satisfaction. And then he came back to this empty one-room flat. A bag of store-bought dumplings on the table. Silence in the room. No one asking how his day went. No one hugging him. No son running up to show a grade in his school diary. Romka would remember the sea. He would remember that his mom took him there. And about his dad, he’d remember only that he was always saving up for a piece of metal.
The cold air cooled Mikhail’s temper. He went back inside. Valentina had turned off the overhead light, leaving only the small lamp near their son’s desk.
“Val…” he called softly.
“Sleep, Misha,” she replied. “Tomorrow’s an early start. You have work. I have to go to the bank—to pay the remaining balance for the tour.”
Mikhail lay down beside her, trying not to make a sound. He stared at the ceiling where the headlights from the street painted shifting reflections. His “savings fund” suddenly felt like a pile of useless junk.
Something had to change. Right now—before that turquoise sea from the brochure washed away the last scraps of their shared home.
“I don’t want the Jeep,” he said into the darkness.
Valentina went still. He could hear her uneven breathing.
“I mean it, Val. Tomorrow I’ll take everything I put aside. We’ll add it to yours. We’ll get Romka good swim gear—fins, a mask, whatever he needs. And… a ticket for me too—if you still want me there.”
Silence stretched on. Mikhail ran through a thousand ways she could refuse. And then, under the blanket, Valentina’s hand found his. She didn’t squeeze—she only touched. But it was enough.
“The food is at the store, Misha,” she whispered. “But family is here. Remember that.”
“I will,” he breathed.
The next morning, the apartment smelled of berry compote and clean freshness. Mikhail got up early, went out for groceries, and made breakfast himself. When Romka saw a plate with real food, he looked at his father in surprise. Mikhail winked.
“Get ready, champ. Tonight we’re going to pick out your fins. And a mask. We can’t go deep without proper gear.”
Valentina smiled—that smile he’d fallen in love with years ago: warm, genuine, without a trace of bitterness. And Mikhail finally understood: real happiness isn’t “doing whatever you want.” It’s when what you want lines up with the joy of the people you love.
That day Seryoga was bragging again—this time about new tires. Mikhail listened for a couple minutes, nodded, and went home. He had more important things to do: study the travel guide and decide which dolphin show they’d visit first.
Happiness isn’t status. Happiness is having someone to buy meat for at dinner—and someone to share a turquoise sunset with by the sea.
And what would you have done in Valentina’s place? Was it worth forgiving him so quickly, or should she have let him live a while in his “status” loneliness? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s talk about it.