The TV in the living room had been buzzing since morning. Vasily, like always on his day off, was sprawled on the couch in sweatpants, scrolling the news on his phone with one hand and scratching his side with the other. It smelled of fried onions — I’d been busy in the kitchen since seven a.m. Or rather, not “busy” like some kind of magic, but doing what all wives do “for appearances” on holidays: cooking soup, frying cutlets, so that later no one can say, “So what did you do all day?”
It’s our anniversary today. Ten years since we got that stamp in the passport. I’d spent a week thinking what to give him. I wanted something sensible. Vasily had been eyeing a gaming laptop for a long time. I even went to the store to check the prices. The numbers were so high my heart dropped into my shoes, but I thought: well, okay, you only live once.
And then we went to visit his mother…
And that wiped everything away in an instant.
We went to see Galina Petrovna, as always, “just for an hour.” Her “hour” always turns into three, because first there’s tea, then pie, then “wait, I’ll just tell you something quickly.” Only that “quickly” is usually about the neighbors, about the weather, and about how Olya’s legs are swollen again — Olya, by the way, has her own life, but Vasya’s mom somehow knows how everyone’s health is.
— So, Olechka, — she starts when we’re already sitting at the table. Her voice is so sweet it makes your teeth ache, but she’s staring right at me. — I was thinking… Your apartment, it’s registered in your name, isn’t it?
I didn’t understand right away where she was going with this. I gave her a polite smile.
— Well, yes. It came to me from my grandmother, I had it renovated, — I say, holding my fork like a weapon.
— And that’s wrong, — she tilts her head a little, but her gaze stays sharp. — The man in the house should be the head. And the property should be in his name. You never know what might happen, life is long.
Something clicked inside me. Like someone slammed a cupboard door.
— Galina Petrovna, — I try to speak calmly. — Everything’s shared anyway. We live together, we split the expenses. The apartment, it’s just a piece of paper.
— Exactly! — she cuts me off and lifts a finger, like I’m a schoolgirl. — Just a piece of paper. So sign it over to Vasya, and then everything will be fair.
Vasily is sitting next to me, picking at his pie. I’m waiting for him to say, “Mom, come on, cut it out.” But he stays silent. Just silent.
Inside me it suddenly goes empty. So empty it feels cold to breathe.
— I’m not going to sign anything over, — I say, my voice already firm.
— Well, well, — she smiles, but it’s not a smile, more like she’s baring her teeth. — Don’t be offended, Olechka, I’m saying this for both of you. It’ll be easier on a man’s heart that way. Otherwise, you never know… — and then she pauses so long I can hear the cat licking his bowl in the kitchen.
On the way home Vasily kept quiet. So did I. All I could hear in my head was: “Right. So that’s how it is. Mom speaks — and you keep quiet.” And I was no longer thinking about the laptop, but about what had built up over these ten years: how he’s always “in between,” always maneuvering just to avoid conflict. He’s soft with me, soft with his mom, and I’m stuck between those two softnesses like between a hammer and an anvil.
In the evening, after we’d unpacked the groceries and I was putting away the bags in the kitchen, he came in and said, staring somewhere at the floor:
— Well, maybe you really should think it over. Mom makes a good point.
— Seriously? — I turned around, my voice cracking. — Are you serious right now, Vasya?
— Well, what… — he shrugged. — A man should be the head. I trust you. Don’t you trust me?
“Trust.” That word. “Trust.” It sounded so dry I wanted to laugh. I trust him — and he’s laying down conditions through his mother.
I went to bed with a heavy head. He kept tossing and turning beside me, and I stared into the dark thinking, “This is only the beginning. It’ll get worse.” And it wasn’t anger. It was disappointment. Thick, sticky, like old grease on a frying pan.
And in the morning he acted as if nothing had happened.
A week passed after that conversation at Galina Petrovna’s. A week of silence — so sticky that I caught myself waiting for someone to slam a door, just to let the air out. Vasily behaved as if nothing had happened: TV, work, lunch, couch. But I knew — this lull wasn’t because he’d changed his mind, but because he was biding his time.
And the moment came on Saturday.
I was standing at the stove frying cutlets, steam billowing into my eyes, my hair sticking to my temples. Vasily was sitting at the table drinking tea when suddenly, between sips, he said:
— Mom asked when you’re going to the notary.
I set the spatula on the edge of the pan and looked at him.
— And what did you tell her?
— That you’re thinking about it, — he sighed, like I was torturing him. — But, Ol, seriously, why are you being so stubborn? I’m your husband. This is normal.
— Normal? — I snorted and flipped the cutlets so hard the oil splashed. — Normal is when a husband defends his wife, not nods along to his mother’s nonsense.
— Ol… — he started, in that tone people use with children, — let’s not get offended over this. My mom’s elderly, she’s got her own views. It’ll make her feel calmer.
— Her?! — I even laughed, but the laugh came out dry, like a cough. — And when am I supposed to feel calm? When I ceremoniously hand you the keys to my own apartment?
— You take everything as an attack, — he dropped his gaze into his mug. — You know, with a character like that… you’ll end up alone.
That was below the belt. The words felt like a stake in my chest. Not because I’m afraid of being alone, but because he said it like a threat. And then I suddenly realized — this wasn’t about his mom anymore. This was him. He wanted me to bend.
That evening, when I went to the store for milk, my friend Tanya from work called. Her voice was cautious, like she was walking on thin ice.
— Listen, Ol, — she says, — I happened to overhear something… I didn’t really want to tell you, but maybe it’s better you know. Basically, your Vasily was at work having coffee with the guys and… he said his wife is digging her heels in, but he’ll still get his way and have the apartment put in his name. And that you’re “sitting on his neck.”
I stood there at the dairy section with a carton of milk in my hand, and my head was ringing. “On his neck.” That’s about me. About the woman who’s been running the household for ten years, cooking, washing, and also working.
At home I didn’t say a word. Vasily behaved as usual — he ate, turned on the football. I washed the dishes on autopilot and thought, “So that’s it. To him, I’m a burden, and his mother is a saint.”
Two days later, Galina Petrovna called herself. Her voice was strict now, no sugary notes.
— Olga, you have to understand, I want what’s best. A man must be the master. And with you it’s the other way around, that’s wrong. I lived with my late husband for thirty years, and we never had that.
— And where is this master of yours now? — slipped out of me, and I realized immediately I’d crossed a line.
She exhaled into the phone but didn’t hang up.
— You know, girl, you’re stubborn. People like you don’t stay married long. I don’t want Vasya’s life to get ruined.
— And I don’t want mine to get ruined, — I answered quietly, but inside everything was shaking.
After that the cold war began. Vasily and I stopped having dinner together. He’d either come home late or eat in the living room in front of the TV. And in the evenings I’d hear him whispering to his mother on the phone, and it made me tremble.
The climax came on Friday evening. I came home from work, and he was sitting at the table with some kind of contract.
— It’s a draft, — he said without even looking at me. — Let’s just sign it and then go to the notary. Why drag it out?
I took the sheet, tore it in half, and threw it on the table.
— Never, — I said. — You hear me, Vasya? Never.
He jumped up, the chair crashing against the floor.
— You’re insane! — he shouted. — You’re making a fool of me in front of everyone! Mom’s right — you’re an egoist!
I looked at him and knew: that’s it. It’s over. Something inside me, whatever was still holding this marriage together, just snapped. And suddenly it felt easy, almost calm.
I already knew — I wasn’t going to keep quiet anymore.
Morning of our anniversary. Twelve years of marriage. In another life I’d have gotten up early, baked something, put a present in a box, and then sat there smiling while he opened it. But today I got up with a heavy head and an empty heart.
There was no present.
Vasily was already in the kitchen, slurping tea, scrolling his phone. He didn’t say “good morning” or “happy anniversary.” Just:
— Where did you put the keys to the apartment?
I poured myself some coffee.
— Where they belong. Why do you need them?
— Mom wants to look at the place. — He didn’t even lift his eyes. — You know… talk a few things over.
— Mom wants. Mom will decide. Mom will say. — I was laughing quietly, almost silently, but it wasn’t laughter anymore. — Vasya, I don’t even know who your wife is — me or her.
He dropped his phone on the table.
— That’s it, Ol, I’m tired. Sign the papers and we’ll live in peace. If you don’t want to, then don’t torture me — let’s split up nicely.
— We’ll split up, — I said, and even I was surprised at how simple it sounded. — Today.
He blinked. He probably thought I’d cry, beg. But inside me — nothing. Just a light chill.
I grabbed my bag, went to the bedroom, took out a folder with documents. Put it into a shopping bag. Then I sat down and wrote a short message in the girlfriends’ group: “Who’s free, come pick me up.” Twenty minutes later Lena pulled up in her old Lada.
Vasily was standing by the door when I walked out.
— Are you serious? — his voice was dull. — All this because of my mom?
I stopped.
— This is because of you, Vasya. Your mom has nothing to do with it.
He exhaled, like he wanted to say something, but just waved his hand. And I left.
Two hours later I was already sitting in a lawyer’s office, and we were filing for divorce. The folder with documents lay beside me like a small shield. My phone kept blinking with missed calls from Vasily and… from Galina Petrovna. I didn’t answer.
In the evening I came back to the empty apartment. The cat was sitting by the door, meowing. The TV was off. No smell of his cologne, no drone of football commentators.
I walked into the kitchen and turned on the light. Empty.
I sat down at the table, wrapped my hands around my mug, and for the first time in a long while I felt… not joy, no, but something like relief.
Enough. From now on, things will be different.
I got up, went to the window. Outside, other people’s windows, other people’s lives. And I have silence now.
And I like myself again