“Who do you think you are in this house?!” Dima bellowed.
He slammed the blazing-hot iron down onto the ironing board. Steam burst from the soleplate with a sharp hiss, and a wave of damp heat hit my face. My temples pounded with that same dull, familiar ache. Three years of marriage had become one endless argument. I sat on the edge of the sofa, feeling the full weight of the injustice pressing down on me.
“I’m the one keeping a lazy freeloader alive!” my husband screamed, throwing his arms around wildly. “You sit at that computer all day, tapping your little keys, while I slave away at the factory and provide for this family! Without my paycheck, you would’ve starved ages ago!”
“Dima, stop,” I said softly, but with iron in my voice. “You know perfectly well that I work. And my work brings in money. A lot of money.”
“What money? Pocket change for your manicures?” He spat onto the carpet in disgust. “Who needs you and your stupid little online job?”
“I make five times what you do, Dima. Five times. I just never wanted to humiliate you. All these years, I’ve been the one paying the utility bills, buying the groceries, and covering the loan on your car.”
He went pale for a moment, then his cheeks flushed an ugly red. Drunken fury ignited in his eyes. His male pride simply couldn’t survive hearing the truth. It was easier for him to believe I was some useless dependent than admit his own failure.
“You lying bitch!” he howled.
A second later, he lunged toward me. I didn’t even have time to stand or throw up my hands to protect myself. The heavy, burning metal of the iron smashed straight into my bare shoulder.
A savage, unbearable pain tore through my entire body. I screamed and jerked backward on instinct. My back struck the table lamp, sending it crashing to the floor. The air filled with the smell of scorched skin and fear.
“That’s what you get for talking back to a man,” Dima hissed.
Then he threw the iron onto the floor. A dark, melted mark immediately began spreading across the linoleum. He staggered, kicked the leg of the table, and lurched into the kitchen. A minute later, I heard bottles clinking.
I sat on the floor, clutching my burned shoulder with my good hand. Tears streamed down my face. But inside my head, everything suddenly became crystal clear. All that endless pity for him, all my attempts to save our marriage, all the years I kept my real income hidden so I wouldn’t wound his ego… all of it burned away in that instant, right along with my skin.
With trembling hands, I pulled out my phone and called an ambulance. Then I dialed my mother-in-law.
“Why are you calling this late?” Elena Sergeyevna snapped.
“Your son just hit me with a hot iron. I’m on my way to the hospital.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed. “You must have pushed him to it with all your constant nagging, and now you’re whining. My Dima is a wonderful man. You’re the one sitting around his neck like a burden. Put up with it. You’re his wife.”
“I’m done putting up with anything, Elena Sergeyevna. Your son destroyed everything tonight.”
The emergency clinic smelled of bleach and medicine. The doctor examined my shoulder for a long time, his face darkening. They treated the second-degree burn and wrapped it in a thick bandage. The nurse shook her head sympathetically as she looked at my pale face.
“Are you filing a police report?” the attending doctor asked sternly. “This is serious. You can’t let something like this slide.”
“Absolutely,” I said with a nod. “I’m calling for an officer right now.”
But the police were only a small part of what was waiting for him. Sitting alone in the empty hospital corridor, I opened the banking app on my phone. Every one of Dima’s accounts, his salary card, his hidden cash reserves, all of it had been placed under my name.
We had done that a year earlier. He was in deep trouble with debt collectors because of old unpaid debts. He had practically crawled at my feet, begging me to protect his money from being seized. And I had done it. I put everything in my name. Meanwhile, the real income from my major projects went into a separate hidden account. Dima genuinely believed he was the one supporting me.
My finger hovered over the screen. His shrieking voice echoed in my head again, calling me a freeloader. I pressed the button to freeze every single account. Then I revoked his authorization to manage my deposits. Finally, I withdrew what was left from his salary card, the one that had been issued in my name to keep creditors away. The money he so proudly called his earnings.
The next morning, I returned to our apartment with a police officer beside me. He looked grim and businesslike the moment he saw my bandaged arm. Dima was asleep in the kitchen, his head on the table beside an empty bottle.
When the officers woke him, he blinked at them with swollen eyes, unable to understand what was happening.
“Pack your things,” I said firmly from the doorway. My shoulder was burning with pain, but my back remained perfectly straight.
“What the hell is this?” he rasped, glancing nervously at the officer. “Why are the police here? Vera, come on, we’re family. So I drank too much, so I lost my temper. That happens!”
He reached into his pocket for his phone. The screen lit up, and his face changed instantly. He saw dozens of bank notifications about frozen accounts and zero balances.
“Hey, what happened to my cards? Why is everything blocked? Vera, unlock them right now! I have a loan payment due today! Have you lost your mind?!”
“There are no cards anymore, Dima. And there’s no money left for you, either.”
“What do you mean, no money?!” He shot up from the chair, but the officer immediately rested a hand on his holster and ordered him to sit back down.
“The few pennies that were there went toward my medical treatment,” I said evenly. “You thought I was your kept woman? Now try keeping yourself alive for once.”
“How dare you?!” he sobbed, breaking down completely. “I fed you! I clothed you! You’ll be out on the street without me!”
“You fed nothing but your own delusions,” I replied, staring at him with disgust. “This apartment is rented. The lease is in my name. The landlady already knows you’re moving out today.”
Dima opened his mouth like a fish gasping on shore. He couldn’t believe the comfortable little world he had taken for granted was collapsing in front of him.
“And your car was bought with my money,” I added. “Tomorrow my lawyer is filing for division of property. And one more thing, you’ll have problems at work. I sent a copy of the hospital report to your boss. They don’t like employees involved in police scandals.”
“Vera, don’t do this…” His voice trembled. The arrogance was gone without a trace. Suddenly he looked pitiful and cowardly. “I’ll end up on the street.”
“You chose that street the moment you picked up a hot iron.”
From that terrible morning on, my life changed completely. I rented a bright new apartment in a quiet neighborhood. The burn on my shoulder healed slowly and painfully. It left behind a pale scar. But that scar became my greatest reminder, a reminder that no one should endure humiliation just to preserve the illusion of a family.
The court process moved quickly. Dima tried to make scenes, called me at night, threatened me. But without financial support, his fire died fast. The court awarded me the car. My ex-husband really did lose his job. No bank would give him a new loan because his credit history was ruined.
His debts grew out of control. Mutual acquaintances told me he had sold off everything he owned and was drifting between cheap rented rooms, surviving on odd jobs. I didn’t gloat. I simply didn’t care.
I was rebuilding my life from scratch. I worked when I wanted, traveled, went to exhibitions. Before long, a dependable, caring man entered my life. He was proud of my success instead of trying to crush me out of jealousy.
That winter was bitterly cold, thick with snow. My new husband and I were leaving an expensive restaurant after a wonderful dinner. Snow sparkled beneath the yellow streetlights. I laughed at something he said while adjusting the warm collar of my elegant coat. I felt light, peaceful, free.
Near the entrance, a man in a dirty orange work jacket was hacking at the ice with a heavy metal bar. The groundskeeper lifted his head as we passed. Beneath an old hat pulled down almost to his eyebrows, I saw familiar eyes, only now they were completely lifeless. His face had sunken in and was hidden under a patchy, neglected beard.
It was Dima.
He froze, leaning on the tool in his hands. He stared at me, at my well-dressed companion, at the nice car waiting by the curb.
I recognized him. But my heart did not move at all. I looked past him with the same empty indifference I would give a lamp post or a snowbank. I didn’t slow down. I simply walked by, got into the warm car, and smiled at my husband.
My ex was left standing alone in the cutting winter wind. Fine, sharp snow settled onto his filthy work clothes. Across the street, the brightly lit window of an appliance store glowed against the dark. Behind the glass, brand-new irons stood in perfect rows.
Dima watched the car disappear with a hollow, miserable stare. He sniffed loudly through his reddened nose, tightened his frozen hands around the handle of the metal bar, and muttered under his breath:
“I was the one supporting her… that freeloader.”