Nadezhda had always known how to work. At twenty‑two, after earning her degree in economics, she got a job at a small company. Five years later, she was already heading the finance department at a large firm. Her schedule—six days a week, often staying late into the evening—never elicited a single complaint from her. Everyone said, “Nadya’s a real workhorse; people like her keep the world running.”
By the age of thirty, Nadezhda had paid off the mortgage on her two‑room flat in a new building entirely on her own. On the day she received the deed in the mail, she bought a bottle of champagne and celebrated her victory alone. Six months later, she purchased a modest but reliable foreign car—no loan, paid in full.
“Way to go, Nadyochka!” her friends gushed. “You did it all by yourself, with your own two hands!” Nadezhda only shrugged. How else could it be? Who could she depend on? Her parents were retired, her brother had his own family—everyone was just scraping by. She’d long since learned to rely only on herself—and she’d never let them down.
Her personal life, however, was less smooth. Nadezhda was not one of those women who desperately hunt for a husband. She lived her life, dated various men, but avoided serious relationships. After a few painful experiences, she adopted a rule: never ask for help. No money, no emotional support, no special treatment—so as never to be disappointed or feel indebted.
She met Gennady at a company party. The firm was celebrating a successful project completion at a restaurant. At the next table sat a group of men from a partner company. Nadezhda noticed one of them—nothing spectacular, but pleasant-looking, with intelligent eyes. Their gazes met; he smiled. On any ordinary day, she would’ve just nodded and returned to her colleagues’ conversation. But that evening something felt different—perhaps the festive atmosphere, perhaps the realization that her entire life took place at work and there was little warmth in it.
They introduced themselves and exchanged numbers. Gena turned out to be a programmer. Not a genius innovator, but thoroughly professional and responsible. His calm rationality and lack of ego appealed to Nadezhda. After all the wild, self‑absorbed guys she’d encountered before, Gena seemed a safe harbor.
“I like you,” Gena said. “With you, I feel at ease. You know what you want.”
Nadezhda nodded. Indeed she did—and with Gena she didn’t have to pretend to be weak or helpless. He accepted her strength and didn’t compete.
Their wedding was modest but warm. Gena moved into Nadezhda’s apartment. His parents lived in a neighboring town and came only for the ceremony. Gena’s mother, Tamara Vladimirovna, struck Nadezhda as odd—she immediately began listing all she’d done for her son and how hard it would be without him.
“You must take care of my boy,” she admonished. “He’s so sensitive, so gentle.”
Nadezhda smiled politely. Gena was thirty‑two—what “boy” was she talking about? But she stayed silent; she didn’t want to spoil the celebration.
The first few years passed peacefully. Gena worked and contributed his salary to the family budget. Of course, he earned less than Nadezhda, but she never made a point of it. “Our money is shared—what difference does it make who brings more home? The important thing is reliability, stability, and confidence in tomorrow.”
A year later, their son Artyom was born; two years after that, their daughter Alina. Nadezhda approached motherhood with the same responsibility she brought to everything else. The children received maximum care, attention, and opportunities to develop. Gena strove to be a good father too: he played with them, read them stories, and took them to the zoo on weekends.
When Artyom turned six and Alina four, the family’s smooth life began to crack. The company where Gena worked laid off employees, and he was among them.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Nadezhda hugged him when he broke the news. “You’re an excellent specialist. You’ll find something new in no time.”
Gena nodded, but his expression was one of confusion and something more—a sense of being trapped.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “A couple of weeks, and I’ll be back in action.”
But weeks turned into months and no new job appeared. Gena went to interviews, sent out resumes, but came home increasingly irritated and depressed.
“What do they want from me? I’ve been programming for twelve years, and they demand new technologies, new languages! As if I’m expected to learn something new every month!”
Nadezhda didn’t argue. She understood he needed to blow off steam. She drafted resumes for him, searched for professional courses, suggested career pivots. But Gena brushed her off more and more:
“Not now, my head hurts. I’ll handle it myself.”
Nadezhda’s salary was enough to maintain their lifestyle without major sacrifices, but the atmosphere at home shifted. Gena became withdrawn and irritable, spending more time at the computer—but not working, just gaming or browsing social media. He claimed it was part of the job hunt, but Nadezhda could see he was simply killing time.
During this difficult period, Tamara Vladimirovna sprang into action. She began calling almost every day and visiting on weekends.
“How’s my son?” she’d ask Nadezhda. “He looks so pale and worn. Are you supporting him?”
“Of course I am,” Nadezhda replied. “We’ll get through this—it’s just a temporary setback.”
“Uh‑huh,” Tamara would nod doubtfully. “But don’t push him too hard. Men are so sensitive; they need space to grow, not to live under someone’s thumb.”
One day, returning from work early, Nadezhda caught Gena and his mother in the kitchen. They hadn’t noticed her, and their conversation continued.
“Listen to me, son,” Tamara Vladimirovna said. “I’ve been through life and seen it all. Your Nadya is strong—but she’s cold. She does everything herself. How can you grow as a man under that kind of rule?”
“Mom, she’s not bossing me around,” Gena said wearily. “She just has a controlling nature.”
“See? Controlling!” his mother snapped. “Is that normal? Look at Petrovich from our building—he divorced his wife and says he feels ten years younger. That bossy woman drained him all his life!”
Nadezhda quietly left the apartment and returned half an hour later, slamming the door loudly. She pretended she’d heard nothing—but inside, something in her shifted. Could it be that Gena really thought she was controlling and domineering? Was caring for the family and supporting them in hard times “control”?
The children sensed the change at home. Artyom grew quieter and spent more time at school or with friends. Alina clung to her mother and avoided being alone with her father.
“Dad’s acting weird,” the little girl told Nadezhda once. “He’s always angry. I’m afraid to ask him for anything.”
Nadezhda attempted to talk to her husband, but he only snapped:
“What are you imagining? I get along fine with the kids—I’m just tired of idleness.”
Meanwhile, Tamara Vladimirovna’s calls multiplied. She began giving Nadezhda advice on child‑rearing, housekeeping, and husband management.
“Nadyusha, you should be gentler with Gena,” she cooed. “Men sometimes need to relax and feel like the head of the household.”
“Tamara Vladimirovna,” Nadezhda replied, “I never try to ‘be the boss.’ I simply do what’s needed for the family.”
“Exactly! You decide everything yourself! But have you ever asked him? Maybe he sees things differently.”
After conversations like this, Nadezhda felt completely drained, as if she were accused of shouldering the entire family and not letting things run naturally.
That evening, Gena returned late, smelling faintly of beer—just a couple of bottles—but his face looked determined and unfamiliar.
“We need to talk,” he said, sitting on the edge of the sofa.
Nadezhda set aside her book. “Yes, of course. What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” he said, staring past her. “About us, about our life. And I’ve realized I can’t go on like this.”
Nadezhda froze, her insides tightening.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m tired of living under control,” he said, his words rehearsed as though memorized. “I want to start over. Find myself, find a woman who won’t suppress me. So… I want a divorce.”
The silence that followed felt thick and viscous. Nadezhda looked at Gena not with pain or despair, but with a new, detached curiosity, as if seeing him for the first time.
“All right,” she finally said.
“What?” Gena clearly expected tears, hysteria, pleading.
“All right,” Nadezhda repeated. “I’ve heard you. I’ll file for divorce tomorrow.”
“Just like that? Can’t we discuss this?”
“What is there to discuss? You’ve already made your decision.”
The next morning, Nadezhda woke earlier than usual. The children were still asleep, and Gena too. In the kitchen, she fetched a folder with paperwork—she always kept everything in order: their marriage certificate, bank statements, car title, property deeds.
Everything was in her name. The flat and car were purchased before marriage. Legally, Gena had no claim on them. The only shared assets were minor household items—appliances, furniture.
By nine o’clock, she was standing at the multifunction center, filling out the divorce application. That evening, she calmly told her husband:
“I’ve filed the papers. They said it will be finalized in a month.”
Gena stared at her in shock. “So soon? Why?”
“Why drag it out?” Nadezhda shrugged. “I’m not one of those women who cling to a man who doesn’t want to stay.”
“And what about me—should I move out?”
“That’s for you to decide. You’re a free man.”
Gena drummed his fingers on the table. “Then I’ll spend the night here and move my things tomorrow,” he said at last. “I’ll stay with Kostya—he offered.”
“Not your mother’s place?” Nadezhda asked.
“Mom… No,” he faltered. “They’re renovating; it’s not convenient.”
Nadezhda nodded, though she knew in her heart: Gena didn’t want to go to his mother. All those talks about freedom and a fresh start—he wasn’t ready to take responsibility. He ran away from her, yet he wouldn’t seek refuge with his own mother.
“Your documents are in the desk drawer,” she told him. “And don’t forget, Artyom needs a passport for camp in two weeks.”
“What camp?” Gena frowned.
“That one in the Moscow region. I told you about it a month ago.”
He shrugged—he didn’t remember. Like most things about the children. Schedules, extracurriculars, dietary needs—Nadezhda handled it all. Gena was a weekend dad—and not even a fully present one at that.
The next morning, after packing, Gena left. The children were silent at breakfast, but Nadezhda could see they understood. Especially Artyom, who at six looked at his father with a maturity far beyond his years.
Two days later, Tamara Vladimirovna arrived unannounced.
“Where’s Gena?” she demanded as she walked in uninvited.
“He moved in with a friend,” Nadezhda replied, closing the door behind her.
“He moved out? Why not to me?”
“Better ask him,” Nadezhda said. “Coffee?”
Tamara ignored the offer. “Did you throw him out?”
“No, Tamara Vladimirovna. Gena suggested the divorce himself.”
“I don’t believe it!” Tamara raised her voice. “My son always dreamed of a family! You drove him away with your control!”
Nadezhda inhaled deeply. Talking to her mother‑in‑law had always been difficult, but now, with the marriage effectively over, arguing seemed pointless.
“Tamara Vladimirovna, let’s not shout—there are children around.”
“Oh, you worry about the kids? But you didn’t spare your husband! You destroyed the family, ruined the man! It was all about you—career, apartment, you-you-you! And what was left for him? Nothing but a shadow!”
Nadezhda said nothing. Replying would mean endless conflict. That train had already left the station.
“Nadya, this is no longer my business,” she finally said calmly. “Gena has made his choice. You can discuss it with him directly.”
Tamara Vladimirovna, at a loss for words, fumed and stormed out. Once the door slammed, Nadezhda felt a strange relief—another bond to her old life had been severed.
A week later, Gena came by to see the children, bearing gifts—a new computer game for Artyom and a doll for Alina. Nadezhda let him in and went to the kitchen, leaving him alone with the kids.
But conversation didn’t go well. Artyom sat with his knees drawn up, staring blankly. Alina hid behind the couch.
“Well, don’t act like you’ve never seen me before,” Gena tried to joke. “Dad’s here—missed you!”
“Why did you yell at Mom?” Artyom suddenly asked, looking up.
“Me? When?” Gena stammered.
“Always. You yelled whenever she came home tired from work. She was exhausted, and you yelled.”
Gena hesitated. “Son, I didn’t yell… I was just upset.”
“And what about Mom? Wasn’t she tired? She worked, while you played on your phone.”
Alina peeked out shyly. “I don’t want to play with you. You’re mean.”
Gena tried to defend himself, but the children wouldn’t listen—they simply didn’t want him there. Finally, Artyom ran to his room, and Alina escaped to her mother in the kitchen.
Two weeks later, Nadezhda came home from work to find Gena waiting at the front door with a bouquet of flowers. His eyes were downcast.
“Hi,” he said, handing her the flowers. “Can we talk?”
Nadezhda wordlessly let him in. The kids were at Grandma’s, so they could speak privately.
“Nadya, I’ve thought it over,” Gena began, sitting on the sofa’s edge. “I acted too hastily. Maybe we could give ourselves a second chance?”
Nadezhda looked at him and saw a stranger—a man who had lived off her care and then fled because he felt “controlled.”
“No, Gena,” she shook her head. “Life isn’t a TV series you can reshoot. You made your choice.”
“But I made a mistake!” he pleaded. “Mom said all sorts of things, and I fell for it…”
“So you listened to your mother’s influence,” Nadezhda retorted, “and now you want to go back under mine? Decide whose influence suits you better.”
That evening, Gena left with his head bowed. A week later, the court hearing took place—fast and perfunctory. Property division was clear, the children would stay with their mother, and Gena didn’t object. When the judge asked for the reason for divorce, Nadezhda answered succinctly: “Irreconcilable differences.” Gena nodded in agreement.
Stepping out of the courtroom, Nadezhda felt a lightness she hadn’t known in years. Not happiness—she’d once felt that, believing she was building a family—but relief, as though she’d removed a splinter that had festered for too long.
After Gena left, she decided to refresh the apartment—not a major renovation, just cosmetic touches: new wallpaper, rearranged furniture, new curtains. She removed items that reminded her of her ex‑husband and bought new bedding—a small ritual of liberation.
Artyom and Alina gradually adjusted to their new life. No more evening shouting matches, no tense atmosphere hanging in the air. The children laughed more, shared stories eagerly. Especially delightful to Nadezhda was seeing the old, open‑hearted Artyom she remembered before the family trouble.
When vacation time came, Nadezhda decided they would all go to the seaside—by car. She packed the luggage, strapped on a rooftop rack, double‑checked Alina’s car seat.
The journey turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant. They stopped in scenic spots, took photos, ate ice cream right from the car. They cranked up the music, sang together, laughed. Artyom—ever serious and thoughtful—suddenly began belting out a long‑forgotten children’s song, and Alina chimed in joyfully. Watching her children in the rearview mirror, Nadezhda felt tears well up—not from sorrow, but from the realization that they had made it. They were free.
One day after returning home, Nadezhda opened the door to find Gena on the doorstep—and behind him, Tamara Vladimirovna.
“We need to talk,” Gena started. “I’d like to see the kids…”
Nadezhda stepped onto the landing and closed the door behind her—letting the children remain inside, away from whatever she might say.
“You wanted a divorce? Here it is!” she said firmly, looking Gena in the eye. “The flat is mine, the car is mine, and the children don’t want to see you.”
“But I have rights…” Gena began.
“Rights?” Nadezhda interrupted. “Of course you have legal rights to visit the children. But as for conscience—you lost that when you decided your freedom was more important than their stability. I won’t forbid them to see you, but I won’t force them either. They’ll choose for themselves whether they need a father who ran away because he was tired of being one.”
Tamara Vladimirovna tried to speak, but Nadezhda raised a hand, silencing her.
“And you, Tamara Vladimirovna,” she said coldly, “have no part in my family anymore. Your visits are over.”
Nadezhda returned to the apartment and closed the door. A new silence settled over the home—not the tense kind that once reigned, but a peaceful quiet. In the living room, the children sat playing a board game they’d brought back from the sea. Artyom showed his sister the proper way to place the pieces; Alina laughed whenever something went awry.
Leaning against the door, Nadezhda smiled. She was thirty‑six now—two children, a career, an apartment, a car. Exactly as before, only now she no longer carried the weight of an adult man who wasn’t prepared to be a pillar of support. Life went on—only now, it was lighter and brighter. And it was their life alone.