The woman froze by the stove, where she was stirring a vegetable stew. The wooden spoon stopped in her hand, and her gaze sank into the bubbling mix of peppers and eggplants. For the third month in a row, Danil had been meeting her from work with the same demand.
“I already told you I’ll only get paid on Monday. Our wages are delayed at the store,” Zoya replied quietly, not turning around.
“More of your excuses!” Danil slammed his fist on the table. “Every time it’s the same thing! Either there’s a delay, or the advance is too small, or they didn’t give you a bonus!”
Zoya slowly turned to her husband. Her brown eyes looked so tired it was as if she had aged several years over the past few months. Her light-brown hair, pulled back into a ponytail, had come loose, and there was a streak of flour on her cheek.
“Danil, I work as a sales assistant in a fabric store. It’s not a gold mine. My salary barely covers groceries and utilities.”
“Exactly!” The man jumped up from his chair, and it crashed to the floor with a bang. “You earn NOTHING! You sit there all day, sorting fabrics, and what’s the use? Zero! My parents were right when they said you’re a loser!”
Zoya remembered how six months ago she’d lost her job as a purchasing manager at a textile company—the firm had gone bankrupt. She’d looked for a new position for two months, and all that time Danil had only criticized and humiliated her instead of supporting her, suggesting she “go beg his parents for charity” instead.
“And what do you suggest?” Zoya’s voice trembled. “Quit and sit at home?”
“I suggest you get a REAL job! Not pretend you’re working for pennies! My sister Alina works at a bank—she makes three times more than you!”
“Your sister has a degree in economics and five years of experience…”
“DON’T INTERRUPT!” Danil shouted. “You’re always full of excuses! Other women work properly, manage the house, and still look presentable! And you? Just look at yourself—always tired, disheveled! I’m ashamed to be seen in public with you!”
Zoya silently took off her apron and hung it on the hook. Something hot and prickly flared up in her chest—not hurt anymore, but anger. Pure, liberating anger.
“You know what, Danil? For the last eight years I’ve been giving you ALL of my salary. Every single kopeck. And you? Where are your promises of your own business? Where is the auto repair shop you dreamed of?”
“That’s none of your business!”
“It IS my business!” For the first time in many months, Zoya raised her voice. “Because I poured all my savings into your schemes! First it was the idea with freight hauling—five hundred thousand from my grandmother’s inheritance disappeared who knows where. Then the spare parts trade—another three hundred thousand from my savings. And where’s the result?”
“You don’t understand business! Those were investments!”
“Investments into WHAT? Your drinking sessions with friends? Your new phone every six months? The clothes you only buy in brand-name stores?”
Danil’s face turned purple. He took a step toward his wife, and Zoya involuntarily backed up toward the window.
“How DARE you! I’m a man! I have to look respectable! And you… you’re just jealous that you have no taste or style!”
“I don’t have the money for taste and style,” Zoya gave a bitter smile. “I bought my last coat four years ago. My winter boots have been leaking for the second season. But it’s more important to you to buy another pair of sneakers for thirty thousand!”
“ENOUGH!” Danil grabbed a plate from the table and hurled it at the wall. The porcelain shattered into tiny pieces. “You ungrateful bitch! I’ve been putting up with you for so many years, and you still dare reproach me!”
“Putting up with me?” Zoya straightened. “PUTTING UP WITH ME?! I’m the one putting up with your rudeness, your contempt, your constant comparisons to other women! I’m the one putting up with you calling me a ‘house hen’ in front of your friends and laughing that I can’t afford decent clothes!”
“Because it’s true! Look at my friend Maksim’s wife—Karina! She’s a store manager, always looks perfect, and their home is full of everything!”
“Then go to her!” Zoya shouted, and tears flashed in her eyes—not from hurt, but from rage. “GO! Nobody’s keeping you!”
“You know what?” Danil suddenly calmed down and gave a crooked smirk. “Maybe I will. I’ve already had… options. Women who appreciate a real man instead of whining about money all the time!”
Zoya froze. A ringing silence fell over the kitchen, broken only by the hissing of the forgotten stew on the stove.
“What did you say?” Her voice was quiet and dangerous.
“You think you’re the only one who can’t be replaced? I just have to snap my fingers, and a dozen women will be happy to take your place! Beautiful, successful ones—not worn-out losers like you!”
“GET OUT.”
“What?” Danil was actually taken aback by her tone.
“GET OUT of my apartment. RIGHT NOW.”
“Your apartment?” The man burst out laughing. “You’ve completely lost it, haven’t you? This is our apartment!”
“NO. This is my late aunt’s apartment. She left it to ME in her will five years ago. Your name isn’t on a single document.”
“But… but we’re married!”
“We’re not registered, Danil. For eight years you’ve been feeding me promises about a wedding ‘once you get back on your feet’. Remember? First you needed to save up for the celebration. Then open a business. Then buy a car. And now it turns out you have ‘better options’!”
Danil went pale. He had genuinely forgotten that the apartment belonged only to Zoya. He’d gotten used to thinking of it as his, like everything else in this woman’s life.
“Zoya, honey, you misunderstood…”
“I understood everything perfectly. You have one hour to pack. Take your things and LEAVE.”
“You can’t just kick me out like that! I’ve lived here eight years!”
“I can, and I am. And if you don’t leave willingly, I’ll call your precious friend Maksim and tell him what you really said about his wife. Remember what you called Karina a month ago? A ‘bottle-blonde idiot who sleeps with suppliers’? I think Maksim will be VERY interested to hear that.”
Danil’s face turned ashen. Maksim wasn’t just a friend—he was his boss at the transport company where Danil worked as a logistics manager. Losing that job would mean ending up on the street—with his reputation and debts to his buddies, finding a new position would be very difficult.
“You… you’re blackmailing me?”
“I’m protecting myself. For the first time in eight years. Now—OUT.”
The next hour passed in feverish chaos. Danil raced around the apartment, throwing things together and alternating between threats and pleas. Zoya stood silently in the bedroom doorway, watching as the man stuffed his shirts and jeans into bags.
“You’ll regret this!” he hissed as he zipped up his duffel bag. “You’ll end up alone, old and unwanted! Who’d ever want you—thirty-five, no real job, no prospects!”
Zoya said nothing.
“And this apartment…” Danil swept his eyes over the hallway. “You think it’ll save you? You’ll die here of loneliness!”
“Better loneliness than a life with someone who despises me and demands my salary every time.”
“Who would ever love you, huh? Look at yourself!”
Zoya walked up to the mirror in the hallway. Yes, she looked tired. Yes, she was wearing an old housecoat. Yes, she hadn’t dyed her hair in six months and gray was showing at her temples. But in the eyes looking back at her there was strength. The very strength she’d been hiding for eight years, afraid to end up alone.
“I’ll love myself,” she said quietly. “For the first time in many years.”
“Nonsense! You’re just—”
“GET OUT, Danil. Your hour is up.”
The man grabbed his bags and headed for the door. On the threshold, he turned around:
“I’ll come back for the rest of my stuff in a week.”
“NO. Whatever you didn’t take now, I’ll throw away. And leave the keys.”
“What?!”
“The keys. On the table. NOW.”
With a loud clatter, Danil threw the bunch of keys onto the side table and walked out, slamming the door. Zoya slowly turned the lock and leaned her back against the door. Her legs were weak, her hands were trembling, but her soul felt strangely light. As if a heavy stone that had been pressing on her chest for eight years had suddenly disappeared.
She went back to the kitchen and turned off the stove—the stew was hopelessly burnt. The shards of the plate crunched under her slippers. Zoya picked up a broom and started sweeping when the phone rang. The number was unfamiliar.
“Hello?”
“Good afternoon, is this Zoya Mikhailovna?” a pleasant female voice asked. “This is Yelena Arkadyevna, the owner of the ‘Golden Thread’ atelier. You sent in a résumé for the tailor-patternmaker position?”
Zoya’s heart began to beat faster. That atelier was known throughout the city, and she had sent her résumé there a month ago, not really expecting a reply.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“We’d like to invite you for an interview. You see, I saw your work at a handicraft exhibition three years ago. Those dresses with the hand embroidery… Those were yours, weren’t they?”
“Yes, they were mine,” Zoya sat down, afraid her legs wouldn’t hold her.
“Stunning work! Back then I wanted to contact you, but I lost your details. And now I’ve seen your résumé… Tell me, could you come in on Monday at ten in the morning?”
“Of course! I’ll definitely come!”
“Wonderful. And, Zoya Mikhailovna… If you show even half of the skill I saw at the exhibition, the position is yours. With a salary three times higher than in the fabric store, plus a commission from orders.”
When Zoya hung up, tears were running down her cheeks. But these were different tears—tears of relief and joy.
The next few days flew by in a blur of chores. Zoya put the apartment in order, throwing out everything that reminded her of Danil. She pulled her sewing machine out from the back of the closet—a gift from her aunt that she hadn’t used in three years because her husband thought sewing was “an old-lady hobby for pensioners.” She spent the whole evening sewing herself a new blouse for the interview from a piece of silk she’d once bought “just in case.”
On Monday morning, Zoya stood in front of the mirror and didn’t recognize herself. For the first time in many months she was well rested (no one snored next to her or demanded breakfast at six in the morning), and she looked younger. The new blouse fit her perfectly. Her hair, washed with a good shampoo (she could finally afford it), gleamed in the sunlight.
The interview went brilliantly. Yelena Arkadyevna turned out to be a refined woman in her sixties, in love with her work. She asked Zoya to demonstrate a few stitches, assessed her speed and accuracy, and then offered her terms that took her breath away.
“We have many VIP clients,” Yelena Arkadyevna explained. “They need exclusive pieces, handmade. And you have talent. Not just the ability to sew—talent for creating beauty. When can you start?”
“As soon as tomorrow!”
“Excellent. Then we’ll expect you tomorrow at nine. The first week you’ll get acquainted with our processes, and after that—welcome to the team!”
As Zoya was leaving the atelier, she bumped into a young man at the door carrying a huge box of fabrics.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” He nearly dropped the box.
“No, I’m sorry!” Zoya helped him steady the load.
“Artyom,” the man introduced himself once they managed the box. “I work next door, at the architecture bureau. I ordered fabrics for a project presentation—Yelena Arkadyevna is helping with the decor.”
“Zoya. I’ll be working here now too.”
“Really? Congratulations! It’s a great place. Want to celebrate? There’s a lovely pastry shop nearby, and it’s just about lunchtime.”
Zoya wanted to refuse—the wound from her breakup with Danil was still too fresh. But Artyom’s gaze was so open and friendly, without a hint of sleaze or pushiness, that she nodded:
“All right. Just for a little while.”
“That little while” turned into two hours of fascinating conversation. Artyom turned out to be well-read and interesting, passionate about his work but not obsessed with it. He told her about a children’s cultural center project he was working on, and his eyes lit up with enthusiasm.
“And how long have you been sewing?” he asked as they sipped their third cup of tea.
“Since childhood. My grandmother taught me. But professionally… I haven’t practiced in a long time.”
“Why not?”
Zoya paused, then answered honestly:
“There were circumstances. A person in my life who thought this occupation was beneath me.”
“Foolish person,” Artyom said simply. “Creating beauty with your own hands is a gift. My mother sews, too, though just for fun. I’ve always admired how a simple piece of fabric becomes a work of art.”
They exchanged phone numbers, and Artyom promised to call. Zoya walked home, and for the first time in many years a smile wouldn’t leave her face.
Meanwhile, Danil was sitting in a rented room, counting his remaining money. The apartment his “better option” had promised him turned out to be fiction—the woman had just been amusing herself, flirting with him. When Maksim found out about the breakup, he coldly remarked that “personal problems shouldn’t affect work” and cut his bonus. The friends he turned to for help were suddenly all too busy.
The phone rang—an unfamiliar number.
“Danil Sergeyevich?” an official male voice said. “This is ‘Doverie’ Bank. We’re calling to remind you of your overdue loan payment. You took out a consumer loan in the amount of five hundred thousand rubles a year ago…”
Danil hung up. He had taken that loan behind Zoya’s back, telling her the money was his savings. It had gone toward an expensive watch, a new phone, and a trip to Sochi with friends where he claimed he’d gone “on a business trip.”
The next call was from his mother:
“Danil, is it true that that Zoyka kicked you out?” his mother’s voice shook with indignation.
“Mom, she just went crazy…”
“I told you not to get involved with her! Look who you picked—a shop girl! Now, Alina, she did well—married a businessman, lives in comfort!”
“Mom, can I stay with you for a while?”
“With us?” Her voice turned cold. “Danil, you’re thirty-seven. You’re a grown man. Deal with your own problems. Your father and I are retired, we don’t need extra expenses.”
“But, Mom…”
“That’s all, I have no time. We’re going to a restaurant with Alina, her husband invited us.”
The line went dead.
Danil looked around the rented room—peeling wallpaper, a sagging sofa, a view of the dumpster outside. That was all he had left. His expensive things would have to be sold to cover the loan. The job that depended on his friendship with Maksim was now at risk. The friends he drank with and bragged to had vanished as soon as there was no money left for treats.
And at that moment, Zoya was standing by the window in her apartment—HER apartment, free of shouting and humiliation. In her hands she held an invitation to the atelier’s corporate party—Yelena Arkadyevna had invited her to meet the team. On the table lay a sketch of a dress she was drawing for her first VIP client. Her phone showed a message from Artyom: “Good evening! How was your first day at work? Would you like to have dinner together tomorrow?”
Life was just beginning. A real life where she wasn’t a shadow beside a successful man, not free housekeeping, not an object for ridicule. She was Zoya, a talented craftswoman, an interesting woman, a person worthy of respect and love.
And looking at the sunset painting the sky in soft pink tones, she thought: “I’ll be fine. I deserve happiness. And I’m going to find it.”
Six months passed.
Zoya became the lead specialist at the atelier. Her work was in huge demand, and clients booked appointments with her a month in advance. Yelena Arkadyevna couldn’t stop rejoicing over such a find and was already thinking about making Zoya a co-owner of the business.
She and Artyom were seeing each other regularly. He turned out to be attentive and caring, but not clingy. He never criticized her and always encouraged her ideas. When Zoya decided to take French courses (many clients were foreigners), he gave her a beautiful dictionary and said, “You’re capable of anything you set your mind to.”
The apartment was transformed. Zoya did a small renovation, turning one room into a studio. She bought new furniture—simple but cozy. Her works in frames—those same embroideries that had once amazed Yelena Arkadyevna—appeared on the walls.
And Danil… Danil lost his job after Maksim found out about his debts and constant lateness. His attempts to find a new position crashed against bad references. His expensive things had been sold, but the money still wasn’t enough. His parents refused to help, his sister Alina pretended he didn’t exist. The friends he used to drink with and boast to disappeared as soon as the free booze ended.
One day, while standing in line at the employment center, he saw Zoya through the window. She was walking down the street with Artyom, laughing at something, looking happy and younger. She wore an elegant coat—obviously one of her own creations—and looked exactly the way he had once demanded: well-groomed, stylish, confident. Only now she was all that for herself, not for him.
Danil turned away. His pockets were empty, the future uncertain, and the woman he had belittled and used for eight years had flourished without him, like a flower after a long drought.
Justice doesn’t always come right away. But it always comes. And everyone gets what they deserve—be it a new, happy life or loneliness in a rented room with a view of the dumpster.
Zoya never saw Danil again. She didn’t wish him harm—she simply crossed him out of her life like a failed chapter. Ahead of her lay new pages—bright, interesting, filled with love and respect. The kind of love and respect she had finally learned to give herself