Christina placed the cup on the table and calmly said:
— I’m leaving, Alyosha.
Silence fell in the room. Even the TV, which usually hummed in the background, seemed to go quiet, sensing the tension. Alexey slowly turned around, as if in slow motion.
— Have you lost your mind? Who’s going to cook? — he hissed, his voice trembling, unable to take his eyes off her as if she had announced the end of the world.
She stood in the kitchen doorway, holding a bag with documents. Inside were everything: copies of her diplomas, proof of her new job, and — most importantly — the lease agreement for the apartment she had rented for six months. In a different neighborhood. In a different life. In a different version of herself.
His words hung in the air like a cloud of dust. He was wearing an old T-shirt, scratching his heel with his foot, holding the remote. A regular evening, just like hundreds of others over the last ten years. Only for Christina, this was the last one.
Once, they had traveled on the top bunk of the Kazan-Moscow train. They laughed, munching on pastries from a station kiosk. Alexey told jokes, accidentally brushing her fingers while passing her tea. Christina laughed wholeheartedly — it was their vacation, the first in a long time, and the kids stayed with their grandmother.
She looked out the window and thought: “This is freedom.” The train rumbled rhythmically, like her heart, and everything seemed possible.
— Remember how we ran away from the corporate party and went to the park? — he asked back then.
— Of course. And you said you’d marry me, even if I snored and became a chubby girl, — she smiled.
— I said “if”, not “when”, — he winked. At the time, it seemed like a joke.
Now, five years later, those words hit like a blow.
The kitchen smelled of burnt porridge. On the table, there was a dirty stove, socks from their son under a stool, and a mountain of unwashed dishes.
— Kristina, when are you going to wash the dishes? — he yelled from the room. — There aren’t even any spoons in the sink!
She silently wiped her hands on her apron, pulled out a plastic container from the drawer labeled: “Lunch for tomorrow. Alexey.” She put it in the fridge. As always. Only today — for the last time.
She remembered the flight to Sochi. She sat by the window while Alexey sat next to her, but the whole flight he was engrossed in TV series on his tablet. She watched the clouds below: they looked like pieces of sugar. He didn’t say a word for two hours.
— Look how beautiful it is, — she said softly.
— Uh-huh, — he replied, not looking up from the screen.
On the third day of their vacation, he went to play billiards with the neighbor from the room, “Vitalik from the first floor,” and didn’t return until morning.
Late in the evening, Christina stood by the washing machine, folding the clean laundry. Laughter came from the room — Alexey was watching a show where the participants screamed, jumped, and lost millions. She listened to that laughter and felt something sharp prick her from within, getting sharper every day.
— I’m not doing anything bad to you, — he once said when she tried to talk. — I don’t hit, I don’t cheat. Others have it much worse. You’re lucky.
Lucky.
That word stuck in her memory. She couldn’t forget how she once got the flu with a fever near forty. Alexey brought her some pills, left them on the windowsill, and went off to watch football. Then he yelled from the kitchen:
— Kristina, you didn’t make the soup. What are we going to eat now?
She lay there, shaking from the fever, staring at the ceiling, as if it could answer when exactly she stopped being herself. When she became just a function: cook, clean, endure.
One day she approached the mirror and saw a face — not hers. Tired, empty, with a dead look in her eyes. Inside, only an echo rang: “You must. You must. You must…”
That night she took an old notebook with a soft cover, where she had once written poems. Her handwriting was different — alive, free, like someone who dreams. She stared at the lines of her youth and suddenly cried. Quietly, so no one would hear. Not from pain — but from surprise that she had once been someone else.
The next morning, she sent her resume for an administrator position at a private clinic. Not because it was her dream job. Just because it was outside the house. With fixed hours. With other people. With a salary on her own bank card.
Now, standing in front of Alexey, she felt, for the first time in a long time, that she was telling the truth — not to him, but to herself.
— You’ll be nobody to us, — he muttered. — Everything will fall apart without you. The kids…
— The kids grew up, — she answered quietly. — And they’ve been living like you for a long time. Waiting for everything to be given to them. I don’t want my daughter to think that this is normal.
He was silent, and for the first time, something like fear flickered in his gaze. Not of losing her — but of losing what was familiar.
— Where are you going? — he rasped.
— To where no one will ask me who will cook.
Christina walked into the hallway, put on her coat, grabbed the suitcase she had packed earlier. On the top pocket was a pen the kids had given her. She ran her fingers over it. And then she left.
Outside, the air smelled of wet asphalt, warm bread from the bakery around the corner, and freedom.
She spent the first night in her new apartment, on an inflatable mattress, under a blanket with little cars on it, left over from when her son was little. The walls were bare, and the light bulb was without a shade. But even in this emptiness, it was quieter than at home. Here, no one demanded, waited, or ordered.
She woke up in the early morning — for the first time without an alarm, without the sound of dishes clinking, without loud football games. Just silence. And soft light seeped through the curtain she bought on sale. It was almost happiness.
At her new job, they gave her an old computer and smiled warmly — sincerely, without pity. The team was diverse but friendly. She still got confused with schedules and phone numbers, but someone patiently helped, someone put a cup of tea in front of her, and someone left a chocolate on the edge of the table. She didn’t know their names yet, but she felt the old shell peeling off — the life where she was simply ignored.
A month passed. Alexey didn’t call. Her daughter sent a short message: “Mom, I’m with you. Just need some time.” Her son was silent. He was used to his mom always being around. Christina didn’t blame them. She understood: they had their own pain. But now, she had her own truth.
One day, she came back from the market — carrying a bag with potatoes, salt, and onions. All the simplest things, like before. Only now, it was for herself. At the door, there was an envelope waiting for her. No stamp, no signature. Inside was a photo: she and Alexey with the kids, about fifteen years ago. Christina in a sundress, smiling, hugging her son, and Alexey — awkwardly holding his hand as if posing.
She looked at herself — young, trusting, naive. She carefully folded the photo in half, then again, and put it in the drawer. Not in the trash — in memory. Let it stay, but not disturb.
Spring came suddenly. At work, changes began — they assigned her to the reception in the main building. They gave her keys to a cupboard and the vacation schedule. For the first time in many years, she felt: they trusted her.
One evening, she stayed at work longer than usual. The evening was cool but fresh. On the corner, they were giving away free coffee — a promotion. The barista in a pink hoodie asked:
— With milk?
— With milk, — she replied and suddenly laughed. Just like that. Because no one asked: “Who’s going to cook for us?”
She walked down the street with a paper cup in her hand, and inside, it felt light. And not a single dirty spoon in the sink.