— “Well, look at that—our culinary star oversalted it again!” Igor theatrically pushed his plate away. “Mom, just look. Marina, have you ever in your life eaten normal chicken? Or have you always been satisfied with these experiments?”
— “Igoryok is right,” Valentina Sergeyevna pursed her lips. “Marina, dear, I told you yesterday—the chicken needs to be marinated in sour cream, not mayonnaise.”
— “I marinated it in sour cream,” Marina tried to keep her voice steady.
— “In sour cream?” Igor laughed. “Baby, maybe you’re confusing sour cream with PVA glue? That’s what the texture turned out like.”
Two years before this dinner, everything was different. Every Friday Igor met Marina after work with a bouquet of carnations, took her to a café where they spent hours talking about the future. He listened carefully to her stories about her coworkers, laughed at her anecdotes, and on Saturdays he made pancakes—the one dish he could handle.
— “Marinka, you’re a genius!” he’d exclaim then, tasting her homemade lasagna. “Mom will be thrilled with your recipes!”
— “Don’t exaggerate,” Marina laughed. She had never considered herself a cook—she just loved to experiment, to mix spices, to add unexpected ingredients. “I just make what I like.”
— “I’m serious! You’re perfect!”
The wedding was modest but cheerful. Valentina Sergeyevna hugged her new daughter-in-law:
— “Welcome to the family, sweetheart!”
Back then, every minute made Marina happy. At last she had a real family—not only a loving husband, but also a mother who called her “daughter.” After her parents divorced when she was fifteen, she had dreamed of exactly this—a big, close-knit family that would accept her as their own.
The first changes began a month after the wedding. Igor came home from a corporate party at the construction company where he worked as a foreman. The event was for employees only—the director believed wives would interfere with “male bonding”—and he found Marina watching a TV series.
— “Watching that nonsense again?” he flopped onto the couch. “Can’t you find something smarter to do?”
— “I worked all day. I want to relax.”
— “Worked?” Igor snorted. “You call shuffling papers work? I spent the day running around the construction site—my legs are killing me.”
He considered his job the only one that mattered—he managed people, solved serious issues, not like sitting in a warm office with a cup of tea.
— “I’m happy for you.”
— “Happy? Do you even understand what that means? Or are your brains occupied only with TV shows?”
Marina was surprised by the attack. Not long ago he used to hug her at the door; now he went straight to the kitchen, pulled out a can of beer, and grumbled about work. “He’s tired,” she thought. “Poor thing, maybe it really is hard.”
Sunday lunch at her mother-in-law’s became a tradition at Igor’s insistence. “Mom misses us,” he would say. “We have to take care of her.” Marina tried—she cooked, set the table, smiled.
— “Marina oversalted the salad again,” Olya, Igor’s sister, grimaced theatrically.
She worked as a salon administrator, was unmarried, and had the habit of frowning at any displeasure—exactly like their mother in her youth.
— “It’s Olivier salad, my grandmother’s recipe,” Marina defended herself. “I remember how on New Year’s Eve she’d get up at five to make everything. I was little then and helped her peel the eggs. She used to say, ‘The main thing in Olivier is the love you make it with.’”
— “Your grandmother?” Igor rolled his eyes. “Did she work at a truck-stop cafeteria? Only there would they appreciate that much mayonnaise.”
Marina looked at her husband in bewilderment. Six months earlier he had eaten the very same salad with pleasure.
— “Igoryosha is right,” said Valentina Sergeyevna. “I always make Olivier with homemade mayonnaise. The store-bought stuff is pure chemicals.”
— “If you haven’t noticed, Marina did her best!” unexpectedly cut in Larisa Petrovna, Marina’s mother, who had been invited.
— “Oh, the mother-in-law speaks up!” Igor turned to her with a mocking smile.
He allowed himself that tone because he considered himself the head of the family, which meant he had the right to express his opinion to anyone.
— “Larisa Petrovna, you should’ve taught your daughter to cook before marrying her off.”
“What a brazen man,” thought Larisa Petrovna, for the first time that evening really looking at her son-in-law.
Marina looked at her mother hopefully—would someone finally stand up for her?
A few days later Marina’s sister dropped by.
— “Marina, why are you crying?” Katya hugged her in the kitchen.
— “It’s fine, I’m just cutting onions.”
— “Onions? Seriously? Marina, I can see—you’ve been walking around for three months like you’ve been beaten.”
Katya looked closely into her sister’s eyes; she saw such weariness there, as if Marina hadn’t slept for a week.
— “Katya, everything’s fine, really.”
— “Fine? He humiliates you in front of everyone!”
— “Don’t exaggerate. Igor gets tired at work, he gets irritable. And his mom is used to an ideal son, so she nitpicks at me.”
— “So that gives him the right? My Maksim works too, but he doesn’t insult me.”
— “Katya, please don’t get involved. We’ll sort it out.”
Marina didn’t want to raise the topic, because deep down she knew her sister was right. But admitting it would mean admitting she’d made a mistake—that her happy married life was an illusion.
That same day Dmitry, Igor’s friend, came to dinner with his girlfriend.
— “Marina, these are store-bought dumplings, aren’t they?” Igor speared one with his fork and twirled it in front of his face. “Dim, sorry—my wife decided we’re freshmen.”
He said it deliberately loud, flaunting his superiority, showing his friend who was boss in the house.
— “Come on,” Dmitry smiled awkwardly.
— “No, do you get it? She’s home all day! All day! And she can’t even make dumplings from scratch!”
— “Let me remind you, dear, that I was at work until six. I work just like you do,” Marina tried not to react to yet another jab.
— “At work?” Igor burst out laughing. “Dim, she calls sitting in an office from ten to six work! Can you imagine? Eight hours shuffling papers—that’s work!”
— “That’s enough, isn’t it?” Dmitry’s girlfriend looked at him with disapproval.
— “Oh, another feminist!” Igor poured himself a beer. “Women uniting!”
Dmitry thought his friend had gotten a little too into the role of domestic tyrant. Marina winked at Dmitry’s girlfriend in thanks, and dinner continued in a strained atmosphere.
No more than a month passed. In the evening, after another tirade from her husband, Marina stepped out to the store and, taking out her phone, called her mother.
— “I’m fed up with him!” she shouted into the receiver. “I can’t take this anymore!”
— “Sweetheart, be patient. All men are like that after the wedding. They relax, stop courting. Your father was unbearable the first years too—drank beer on the couch, left his socks everywhere. But later he got used to family life.”
— “Enough!” Marina cut her off, not wanting to hear excuses. “Mom, he calls me stupid in front of his parents!”
Tears ran down her cheeks—out of hurt, helplessness, and because even her own mother didn’t understand.
— “Marina, you have a roof over your head, your husband provides for the family…”
— “I earn my own money! In a month I’m getting a promotion; I’ll be making even more than he does!”
— “But he makes more right now. Honey, just learn to cook better, take better care of yourself…”
— “Mom, seriously?”
— “Marina, don’t make rash decisions. Think it over.”
Marina hung up. Instead of support she got yet another batch of tips on how to be better for a man who didn’t value her. She felt even worse—now she was alone against everyone.
The decisive blow-up happened at Valentina Sergeyevna’s birthday.
— “Mom, look at what your daughter-in-law calls a cake!” Igor pointed at the dessert.
He picked at the sponge with his fork as if he were searching for something disgusting.
— “It’s a pack of store-bought cake layers!”
— “I baked it myself!” Marina stood up. “I baked for four hours!”
“Justifying myself again,” she scolded herself. “I’d sworn I wouldn’t do that anymore.”
— “Four hours?!” Olya joined her brother. “What did all that time go to—reading the oven manual?”
She frowned exactly like their mother in her youth—just as contemptuously, just as theatrically.
— “Marina, dear,” said Valentina Sergeyevna in a patronizing tone, “I can give you my recipes. They’re tried-and-true.”
— “What recipes!” Igor waved it off. “Mom, she’s hopeless! Can’t cook, can’t clean, can’t even dress properly!”
— “That’s it!” Marina stood. “That’s it, I’m leaving!”
“They’re like a pack of hyenas,” she thought, looking at this family. “They all pounce together on one. And am I worse than they are? Why should I put up with this?”
— “And where are you going?” Igor smirked. “Running to mommy to complain?”
He wanted to humiliate his wife once and for all, to show her she was nothing without him.
— “Away from you. For good.”
Marina hadn’t expected to say it out loud, but those words had rung in her head a hundred times over the past months.
— “Oh, how scary!” Igor feigned fright. “And what are you going to do? Live on your salary? You can’t even pay bills properly! Gonna rent a room in a communal flat? Boil yourself pasta for dinner? And when you get sick—who’ll take care of you? Your girlfriends? You barely have any, they’re all married at home. Without me you’re nobody, got it? Just a plain gray mouse no one at work even notices!”
Valentina Sergeyevna nodded, looking at her daughter-in-law with disapproval—how dare she upset her precious son on her birthday? Olya finally stopped frowning and looked at Marina with open delight—serves that upstart right, finally put in her place.
A couple of hours later.
With hands shaking from rage, Igor barely got the key into the lock. The door swung open and he froze on the threshold. Open boxes were scattered around the apartment; empty hangers lay on the floor. Marina stood by the closet, neatly folding her blouses into a suitcase.
Good. Let her get the hell out, he thought, watching his wife. But for some reason something inside him tightened with a strange, unfamiliar fear.
— “So you’re running?” he threw from the doorway. “Of course—it’s easier to bail than figure things out.”
Marina didn’t even turn around. She kept folding her things with the same methodical calm.
He didn’t used to talk like this, a thought flashed in her mind. Where did this venom come from? Or did I just not notice?
— “Go on, stay silent. You’ve always just kept to yourself.”
God, how vile he is, Marina thought, rolling up her favorite scarf. How did I not see it? Or didn’t want to?
Marina finished packing in an hour. Igor sat in the living room, sipping beer.
— “You seriously think you can manage without me?” he shouted. In his head spun thoughts that he was the head of the family, the man everything depended on. Some woman had decided to rebel against the natural order of things. “You can’t even pay the bills! Utilities, rent—you don’t understand numbers! And your stupid job—pays peanuts!”
Marina silently rolled the suitcase out.
— “Run along to mommy! In a week you’ll crawl back!”
The door clicked softly shut.
— “And don’t you dare come back!” Igor yelled into the empty hallway.
On the landing Marina stopped and leaned against the wall. Strange. She’d thought it would hurt more. Instead there was a kind of lightness. There was no anger. Only a surprising clarity: she had made the right choice.
A week later Igor finally decided to call. All that time he’d been sure—Marina would come to her senses, whine a little, and return contrite.
— “Marina? It’s me. Listen, our rent is due, we need to split it. You remember what we agreed on? Twenty-five thousand is your share. Transfer it by Tuesday.”
— “No, Igor.”
Short beeps.
— “How dare you, you bitch!” he bellowed into the empty apartment, waving his phone. “You think I don’t care about anything? And who supported you? Who paid for the apartment? You ungrateful piece of trash!”
Three months passed. Igor sat in his rented bachelor apartment among pizza boxes, jabbing at a calculator. Rent—thirty thousand. Utilities—five. Food, transport, incidentals—another ten. Total—forty-five. Salary—fifty-two. Seven thousand left for the month. For everything else. Before, they split the rent and it was easier. His phone had been silent for three days.
In his hands lay the divorce decree. He hadn’t thought it would come to this, but every time he saw Marina in court, he couldn’t hold back—demanded money, accused her of betrayal. And now here it was—officially single and almost out of cash. Payday was a week away.
He dialed his mother.
— “Mom? Can I come over for lunch?”
— “Igoryok, we have guests today.”
— “What guests?”
— “Marina and her boyfriend are coming. Such an intelligent man! A university professor! Victor, I think,” his mother’s voice sounded satisfied and delighted. “He tells such interesting stories! And Marina just glows next to him!”
— “What?” Igor jumped up, knocking over a mug. “Mom, are you out of your mind?”
— “Igoryok, she’s officially not your wife anymore. And Victor is so fascinating! And Marina, it turns out, cooks divinely! Yesterday she brought your father and me a casserole—delicious!”
Igor hung up. His mother had completely lost it, he fumed. Or Marina had turned them all against me. Cunning witch.
He called his sister.
— “Olya, did you know?”
— “About what? Oh, about Marina? Of course! We go shopping together now. She helped me pick out such a dress!”
Igor froze with the phone in his hand. They’d all conspired against him. Doing it on purpose to mock him.
— “You couldn’t stand her!”
— “You couldn’t stand her. We were just backing you up. You know, she turned out to be great! And Victor is a sweetheart! He gave me a psychology book, can you imagine?”
Igor disconnected without listening further.
— “What the hell!” he shouted into the empty apartment. “Everyone’s against me! Everyone!”
Igor opened VK. A photo of Marina with an unfamiliar man—tall, graying, in glasses. The caption: “Thank you, fate, for a second chance.” Likes from everyone—his mother, his sister, even Dmitry. And here I thought she was as miserable as I am. Turns out she’s doing just fine.
A comment from Valentina Sergeyevna: “What a beautiful couple! Marina, you’re glowing with happiness!”
From Dmitry: “Happy for you! Victor’s a great guy!”
From Olya: “Sis, you two are wonderful!”
Igor flung the phone onto the couch. Instant noodles were going cold on the table. In the fridge—three beers and a dried-out piece of cheese. The apartment, which used to be clean thanks to Marina, had turned into a dump. Things were strewn everywhere, dishes piled up in the sink, takeout boxes spilled out of the trash.
— “I’ve had it with all of them!” he growled, kicking an empty pizza box. “They think I’ll fall apart without her!”
Suddenly the phone rang. Igor was surprised—no one had called him for a week. An unknown number. He was about to ignore it, thinking it was ads, but answered out of boredom.
— “Igor Vladimirovich? This is Victor, Marina’s husband. I wanted to thank you.”
Husband?! She’s already married? Igor’s world flipped.
— “For what?” his voice came out hoarse.
— “For letting such a woman go. I’ve been looking for someone like her for twenty years—smart, talented, beautiful. And you just threw her away. Thank you so much.”
Dial tone.
Igor sat petrified. This couldn’t be happening. Couldn’t.
Several hours passed, and Igor was still sitting on the couch without moving; it had already grown dark. He was alone.