Marina stood by the window, watching the autumn rain drum against the glass. Voices sounded behind her—Oleg was explaining something to the kids, his voice calm and assured, as always. He was like that when he talked to Dima and Katya. With them, he was a patient father who could laugh at a joke, help with homework, listen to complaints about teachers.
With her, he was the head of the family.
“Marin, why are you standing there frozen?” Oleg slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “I was thinking—let’s invite Sergei Viktorovich and his wife for Saturday. We haven’t seen them in ages, and there’s an occasion—we finally signed the contract. You’ll whip up something special, yeah? You’re my wizard in the kitchen.”
Marina felt a familiar tension coil inside. Again.
“Oleg, maybe we could go to a restaurant? The four of us—it would be nice…”
“Why?” He genuinely didn’t understand. “It’s cozier at home. And besides, you cook so well no restaurant can compare. Remember last time, how everyone raved about your duck fillet? Sergei Viktorovich still brings it up.”
He kissed her on the temple and walked off. The conversation was over; the decision made. Marina stayed at the window.
Five years ago, when they got married, she thought she’d won the lottery. Oleg was successful, well-off, self-assured. After divorcing his first wife, he was raising two children—Dima and Katya. Marina fell in love not only with him, but with that picture: a strong family, a big house, stability.
But the picture was a storefront with a very different reality hidden behind it.
“Marina!” Thirteen-year-old Katya burst into the kitchen. “Hey, I need a white blouse for Monday. Will you iron it?”
“Katya, I taught you how to use the iron…”
“Yeah, but you do it better,” the girl was already vanishing down the hallway. “Thanks in advance!”
Marina shut her eyes. That’s how it always went. Always.
The first year she tried to become almost a mother to Dima and Katya. She cooked their favorite dishes, helped with homework, listened to teenage dramas. But the more she tried, the more they treated her like service staff. Dad’s wife, there for convenience.
When she tried to talk about it, Oleg just laughed: “They’re kids. Don’t pay attention. They’ll adjust with time.”
But time passed, and there was no adjusting.
“Marina, where are my sneakers?” Seventeen-year-old Dima poked his head into the kitchen. “I left them on the balcony yesterday.”
“They’re probably still there.”
“Ugh, they’re dirty. Didn’t you wash them?”
“Dima, you’ve got hands.”
He stared at her, surprised, as if she’d spoken Chinese.
“Fine, I’ll wash them myself,” he said in a tone that made it sound like he was doing her a favor.
Marina remembered a conversation with Oleg a month earlier. She had mustered the courage to explain that she felt like a maid, not a wife.
“Marina, what are you talking about?” Oleg had hugged her tight. “I love you. You know that. It’s just my nature, stern, you know? I’m used to being in charge, making decisions. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate you. I appreciate you very much. You bring coziness, order—you make this house a home.”
It sounded lovely. Almost convincing.
“But Oleg, I’m exhausted. These endless dinners for your partners, the receptions, the celebrations… Every time I have to amaze them with a new dish, set the table, entertain the guests, and then clean it all up…”
“Sweetheart,” he stroked her hair, “it’s part of my job. Those dinners are business meetings—just in an informal setting. And you handle it beautifully. Do you know how many times I’ve been told I’m lucky with my wife? That you’re smart, beautiful, hospitable?”
He kissed her, and once again the conversation was over.
Saturday came quickly, as days you don’t want to face often do. Marina got up early, made a shopping list, and went to the market. She chose vegetables, meat, cheeses. She came home and started cooking.
Oleg peeked into the kitchen around noon.
“So, how’s it going? On schedule?”
“Yes,” Marina answered curtly without looking up from the cutting board.
“Great. I love you.”
That phrase. He said it often—especially when he was asking for something or sensed her displeasure. “I love you” was a universal bandage meant to cover every crack.
By five o’clock the table was set. Marina had managed to shower, change into a proper dress, and do her hair. She looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize herself. When had she become a shadow? A pretty accessory to the décor?
The guests arrived on time. Sergei Viktorovich and his wife, Lyudmila—a pleasant couple in their fifties. Oleg greeted them with wide hugs, jokes, offers of a drink. Marina smiled, served appetizers, topped up wine.
“Marina, this is a masterpiece!” Lyudmila tasted the salad. “You manage to surprise us every time. Will you share the recipe?”
“Of course,” Marina smiled automatically.
“Our Marina is a magician,” Oleg beamed. “Can you believe she did all this herself, with her own hands? I’m telling you, I’m a lucky man.”
“Lucky,” Marina thought as she set down plates.
After dinner came the long brandy session, talk of business, politics, plans. Marina sat, nodded, poured, cleared dirty dishes. By midnight the guests finally left.
“That was some evening,” Oleg stretched contentedly. “Marina, you were fantastic. Thanks. I’m going to crash, I’m wiped. You’ll handle the rest, yeah?”
He nodded at the mountain of dirty dishes and went to bed.
Marina stood in the kitchen, looking at salad bowls with remnants of food, wine glasses with lipstick marks, the tablecloth stained with red wine. Her hands trembled.
She didn’t remember how she made it to the bathroom. She locked the door, turned on the water, sat on the edge of the tub. Only then did she allow herself to cry.
The next morning she bought a pregnancy test.
Two lines appeared almost immediately—clear, bright, unequivocal. Marina sat on the edge of the tub and stared at the little plastic stick that changed everything.
A child. Their child with Oleg.
Her first thought was warm, joyful. The second was freezing. She pictured herself with a newborn in her arms, still setting tables for Oleg’s business partners, cooking, cleaning, waiting on them—all with a stroller no one would push while she kneaded dough for yet another pie.
No.
The word rang in her head, sharp and firm.
No.
She didn’t want her child to grow up watching his mother treated like a maid. She didn’t want a daughter to learn to be convenient and invisible. Or a son to absorb the idea that a woman exists to serve.
Marina took out her phone and dialed.
“Hello, Lena? It’s Marina. Listen, you said your brother’s a lawyer, right? I need a consultation. A serious one.”
The next two weeks passed in a strange split. Outwardly, everything was as usual: Marina cooked, cleaned, smiled. But inside, she methodically gathered information.
Lena put her in touch with her brother—Maksim, a family lawyer. A young man with an attentive gaze, he listened to her story without interrupting.
“I understand,” he nodded. “First question: are you sure? That you want a divorce?”
“Absolutely.”
“All right. Let’s deal with the property, then. Tell me more about your husband’s assets.”
Marina told him. And that’s when an interesting detail surfaced. In order to optimize taxes, Oleg had registered part of his business in her name: an apartment in the center, some commercial real estate, a stake in one of the companies. On paper, she co-owned a respectable fortune.
“Formally, it’s your property,” Maksim flipped through the papers. “I get that you didn’t actually manage it, but legally… This is interesting.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that in a divorce you’re in a very strong position. Plus the pregnancy. Plus, if you can show an unequal division of household labor, emotional pressure… In short, we can proceed.”
Marina arranged for a DNA test in advance. Maksim explained it would show the seriousness of her intent—she wasn’t just leaving; she was securing the child’s future legally.
“He’ll be scared,” Maksim said. “When he realizes this isn’t emotion but a thought-out plan.”
“Good,” Marina said quietly. “Let him be scared.”
Oleg announced the next dinner a week later.
“Andrei and Olga are coming on Saturday,” he said at breakfast. “Remember them? Andrei and I have been meaning to discuss a new project. Marina, could you make something special? Maybe that rabbit in cream sauce? Everyone went crazy for it last time.”
Marina stirred her coffee in silence.
“Marina? Did you hear me?”
“I heard.”
“And?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Oleg frowned but said nothing. He probably decided she was just in a mood.
Saturday turned out sunny, despite October. Marina woke early but didn’t go to the kitchen. Instead, she spent a long time choosing what to wear. She settled on an elegant dark-blue dress she hadn’t worn in ages. She did her makeup, styled her hair.
At one o’clock Oleg looked into the kitchen.
“Marina, why haven’t you started cooking? The guests are at six.”
“I know.”
“There isn’t much time.”
“There’s enough.”
He looked at her, puzzled, but kept quiet and went to his study.
At five in the evening—when the house was usually already full of cooking smells—Oleg came out of his study and stopped dead.
The table was bare. No place settings, no dishes, not even appetizers. The kitchen held no scent of food. But on the couch in the living room sat Marina—in a beautiful dress, with a glass of mineral water, flipping through a magazine.
“Marina,” Oleg spoke slowly, as if to a child, “the guests will be here in an hour. Where’s the food?”
“I don’t know,” she didn’t lift her eyes from the magazine. “In the stores somewhere, I suppose.”
“You… what? You didn’t cook?”
“No.”
“How can it be no?!”
Now she looked at him. Calm, intent.
“Very simply. I didn’t cook.”
“But I told you the guests are coming! What are we going to eat?”
“You said your guests are coming. For your project. I figured you’d handle the food yourself.”
Oleg opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Katya and Dima, hearing raised voices, peered out of their rooms.
“Marina, are you out of your mind? People will be here in an hour and there’s nothing to eat!”
“Order from a restaurant,” she shrugged. “Delivery is fast nowadays. Or cook it yourself. You’ve got hands.”
“I don’t know how to cook!”
“Too bad. Maybe you should have learned.”
The doorbell rang. Oleg darted to the door in a panic—too early for the guests. It was a courier with a large box.
“Marina Sergeevna? A parcel for you.”
Marina signed and took the box. Elegant, tied with a ribbon. Oleg stared at it, bewildered.
The guests arrived at six on the dot. Andrei and Olga, cheerful, with a bottle of wine. Oleg greeted them with a strained smile, shooting baffled glances at Marina.
“Come in, come in,” he fussed. “Marina, maybe at least slice some cheese? Or sausage?”
“No,” she sat in the armchair, legs crossed. “Tonight I’m not the help. I’m the wife. Or just a guest. Your choice.”
Andrei and Olga exchanged looks. The air was tight, electric, like before a storm.
“You know what, let’s just order something,” Olga tried to defuse it. “Sushi? Or pizza?”
“Great idea,” Marina smiled at her. “Oleg, you order. You’ve got the card.”
While Oleg nervously scrolled through the restaurant menu on his phone and placed the order, Marina stood, took the ribboned box.
“Oleg,” she called.
He looked up, still wrestling with the app.
“Hang on,” he covered the receiver. “What?”
“You’re celebrating today, right? The new contract?”
“Well… yes,” he said, not understanding where she was going with this.
“Then I want to give you a gift, too.”
She handed him the box. The room fell silent. Oleg took it carefully, as if it might explode.
“Open it,” Marina sat back in her chair.
He untied the ribbon, lifted the lid. And froze.
Marina watched the color drain from his face. His fingers tightened on the edge of the box. His eyes flicked from one item to another: a pregnancy test with two lines, a home DNA test kit, an envelope with documents.
“What… what is this?” His voice came out hoarse.
“A gift,” Marina said evenly. “The pregnancy test shows I’m expecting a baby. Our baby. The DNA test will confirm it when the time comes. And the documents are a petition for divorce and division of property.”
The silence was so dense it felt like the air had stopped.
“You… you’re joking,” Oleg stared at her in disbelief.
“Not at all. Here’s a list of the assets registered to me: the apartment on Tverskaya, commercial property on the Garden Ring, thirty percent of StroyInvest, LLC. Legally it’s my property. Factually, it will be too.”
“Marina,” Oleg sank onto the couch, still holding the box. “I don’t understand. What is happening?”
“What should have happened long ago. The husband thought I’d wait on his guests again, but I set a gift box in front of him that made him go pale with fear. That’s all.”
“But… but we… I love you!”
“No,” Marina shook her head. “You love convenience. You love that I make things cozy, that I cook, that I host your guests, that I don’t object or argue. But that’s not love for a person. That’s love for comfort.”
“I can change!” He jumped up. “I really can! I’ll help, I’ll—”
“Oleg, stop,” there was no anger in her voice, only weariness. “This isn’t a punishment. It’s simply the end. I’m tired of being invisible. Tired of being a maid in a pretty dress. I want my child to grow up in a family where there’s respect, not exploitation.”
Andrei and Olga rose quietly.
“We should probably go,” Andrei mumbled. “This… doesn’t seem like the best time.”
“No, stay,” Marina smiled at them. “Food’s been ordered. And we have reasons to celebrate. Two of them: Oleg’s new contract, and my new life.”
“Marina, please,” Oleg took a step toward her. “Let’s talk. Really talk. Without guests, without—”
“We’ve talked. Many times. I explained how hard it is for me, how tired I am, that I need support. Every time you hugged me and said you loved me. And then everything went on as before.”
“I didn’t know you felt this strongly…”
“Exactly. You didn’t know. Because you didn’t ask. You weren’t interested. You didn’t see.”
Katya and Dima stood in the doorway, eyes wide, watching the scene.
“Dad, what’s going on?” Katya asked quietly.
“Your stepmother decided to destroy our family,” Oleg still couldn’t believe what was happening.
“No,” Marina looked at the children. “I decided to build my own family. One where people are loved, not used. Where a child sees that his mother isn’t a servant but a person.”
“So it’s about money then,” Oleg suddenly laughed—bitter, wounded. “You found out property was registered to you and decided to grab it.”
“If it were about money, I would have kept my mouth shut and put up with it. That would have been more profitable. But I chose dignity.”
She stood and walked to the window. Outside, the autumn dusk was settling in.
“You’ll receive the papers officially from my lawyer. Everything’s fair, by the book. But the property registered to me stays with me. That will be the foundation for our child. He’ll be provided for. But he’ll grow up with me. Without your toxic presence, without your certainty that money grants you the right to boss people around.”
“You have no right,” Oleg took a step toward her, then stopped at her look.
“I do. I have the right to be happy. To be respected. To not be a shadow in my own life.”
The doorbell rang again—this time it was the food delivery. Marina opened the door, took the bags, set them on the table.
“Your dinner,” she nodded to Oleg. “Bon appétit.”
She picked up her handbag and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To a friend’s. For now. I’ll pick up my things on Monday while you’re at work.”
“Marina!”
She turned in the doorway.
“You know, Oleg, the saddest part isn’t that you treated me like a maid. It’s that you genuinely didn’t understand why that was hurtful. To you, it was normal. Your first wife probably left for the same reason. But you never stopped to wonder why.”
“I really do love you,” he said it more softly now, almost desperately.
“Maybe. In your own way. But it isn’t enough.”
Marina stepped out into the cool evening. She got into the car, started the engine. Her hands were shaking, her heart pounding. But inside, for the first time in many years, there was a sense of rightness.
She placed a hand on her belly, where soon her child would begin to grow.
“We’ll manage,” she whispered. “We’ll have a different life. Better.”
Three months later, the divorce was finalized. Oleg tried to fight—hired lawyers, threatened, pleaded, promised. But Marina was resolute. Maksim, her attorney, handled the case flawlessly. The property registered in Marina’s name remained with her. Plus child support for the baby-to-be.
Oleg tried to argue that the ownership had been a mere tax formality, but the court ruled: documents are documents. She was a co-owner and had every right to dispose of the property.
Katya and Dima wrote to her a couple of times. Katya apologized for her behavior, said she hadn’t understood. Dima was more concise: “You really went nuclear. Dad seriously got burned.”
Marina held no grudge. They were children raised in a certain system. Maybe the lesson would do them good.
In spring, as the trees were budding, Marina gave birth to a daughter. Tiny, dark-haired, with a serious gaze. She named her Vera.
“Because I finally believed,” she explained to Lena, who came to visit. “Believed that I have the right to be happy. That dignity matters more than comfort. That I can do this on my own.”
The apartment downtown that was in her name brought in a good rental income. The commercial property did, too. Marina quit her old job, where she had idled away meaningless hours between housework, and opened a small business of her own—a studio for event planning. It turned out her talent for creating beauty and coziness could be put to use outside someone else’s home.
Oleg once came to see his daughter. He stood by the crib, looking at the sleeping baby for a long, quiet moment.
“She’s beautiful,” he said at last.
“Yes.”
“She looks like you.”
“Maybe.”
A pause.
“I realized a lot,” Oleg spoke softly. “After you left. I hired a housekeeper. She lasted a month and quit. Said I was too demanding. Then another. Then another. And suddenly it hit me… You did all that for five years for free. And not just the work—you smiled, and endured, and kept quiet.”
Marina said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” he looked at her. “Truly sorry.”
“I know.”
“If I could…”
“Oleg,” she stopped him. “You can’t change the past. But you can change yourself. For the next woman, if there is one. Or at least for your children. Teach Dima and Katya to respect people. All people, not just those with higher status.”
He nodded, looked once more, turned, gave a final nod, and disappeared from her life. This time for good