The tea at their place was always suspiciously strong. It wasn’t that Dmitry knew how to brew it—he simply believed you had to soak the bag until it turned into dark crude oil, and then boil it again “so the flavor opens up.” Olga usually added lemon to somehow neutralize that “inky brew.” But this evening lemon wasn’t saving anything—not from the taste, but from the conversation.
Olga stood at the sink with her back to the table, carefully scrubbing a cup with a sponge.
The water’s cold… fits the mood, she thought.
Behind her came the steady clink of a spoon against glass—Dmitry was stirring sugar even though he drank his tea without it. Which meant: a talk was coming. One he’d rehearsed in advance.
“You’re late from work today,” he said in an even voice, but with so much subtext that Olga actually turned around.
Dmitry was sitting with his chin propped on his hand, looking at her with the same expression salespeople use to size up a customer: will they pay, or are they just here to kick up dust?
“A meeting ran long,” she replied, turning back to the cup. “Is something urgent?”
“Urgent?” he smirked. “Let’s just say… something that’s been brewing for a while.”
Olga sighed.
“Just say it. What is it this time?”
Dmitry pretended he hadn’t heard the irritation.
“I’ve been thinking… we’ve been together what, eight years?”
“Nine,” she corrected automatically.
“All the more,” he nodded. “And in all that time we’ve been living kind of… too separately. Financially.”
Olga put the cup on the drying rack and slowly wiped her hands on a towel.
“What exactly are you talking about?”
“About the fact that there shouldn’t be secrets in a family. We have a shared home, a shared life, but each of us has our own accounts, our own savings. You know that isn’t right.”
“What isn’t right,” she said quietly but sharply, “is when a husband starts poking around in someone else’s accounts.”
“Olga.” Dmitry straightened; metal rang in his voice. “We’re a family. And I have the right to know how much we have altogether. Not in theory—in practice.”
“‘We have,’ or ‘you want to know how much I have’?” She turned fully toward him, crossing her arms.
“Don’t twist it,” he said, acting offended—though really he’d been waiting for exactly that. “It’s just… you earn more. We need to plan for the future. Maybe buy a better car, update the furniture…”
Olga gave a short, cold laugh.
“Yeah. ‘Plan for the future’ means I give you access to my money and you buy yourself a new SUV.”
“So what? We’re together!” Dmitry spread his hands, but his eyes shone like a cat that had already figured out where it would sleep on the new sofa.
“We’re together,” she repeated. “But that doesn’t mean I’m supposed to finance your ‘wants.’”
“Wants?!” He half rose from his chair. “Olga, that’s called developing the family! You said yourself you dream of a bigger apartment!”
“I do,” she nodded. “And I’m saving for it.”
“There!” He jabbed a finger at the air as if he’d caught her committing a crime. “Saving! How much?”
“None of your business,” she answered calmly, though her hands were already clenched into fists.
“So,” Dmitry leaned on the table and bent toward her, “you think it’s okay to hide things in a marriage?”
“I think in a marriage you need to respect personal boundaries,” she said, feeling something inside her begin to boil.
“Personal?!” he was practically shouting now. “We’re husband and wife—what ‘personal’ money?! Half of what you’ve saved is mine by law!”
“And as a human being—what’s yours?” she shot back. “My trust? My life? My years? Or only the money?”
He fell silent—but only for a second.
“Don’t change the subject,” he hissed. “I just want transparency.”
“Dmitry.” She narrowed her eyes. “When was the last time you showed me your bank account? Or told me how much you spend on your ‘fishing’ and your ‘trips with the guys’?”
He snorted.
“That’s different.”
“Of course it is,” she nodded. “When you spend, it’s personal. When I spend, it’s family.”
Silence hung between them. The tea had gone cold. The sink had already drained, but Olga stood there with her hands braced on the edge, staring at a single spot. Dmitry leaned back in his chair as if thinking. In reality, he was lining up his next move.
“All right,” he finally said. “I don’t want to fight. But you do understand that secrecy in a family is the first step toward divorce?”
Olga turned around. There was no fear in her gaze. No regret.
“Sometimes it’s the first step toward freedom.”
His eyebrows twitched. He wanted to respond, but at that moment the phone on the table rang. Dmitry grabbed it, tossed out a quick “We’ll talk later,” and walked into the other room.
Olga stayed in the kitchen. She understood that “later” wouldn’t be easier. This wasn’t a conversation about money. It was a conversation about who would run their life. And Dmitry had clearly decided it would be him.
She took a lemon from the cupboard, but her hands were trembling.
All right then… let’s see who wins, she thought, and for the first time in a long while her cold tea didn’t seem quite so disgusting.
Dmitry called her during the day. His voice was suspiciously sweet.
“Ol, hi. Let’s have dinner at a restaurant tonight. Like before… remember? Back when there were no loans, renovations, and endless talks about utility rates?”
She tensed instantly. Dmitry wasn’t the type to invite someone out for no reason. Usually he said, “At home it’s cheaper and tastier.”
“What’s the occasion?” she asked.
“What occasion?” There was so much performative surprise in his voice she could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “I just wanted to spend an evening with my wife.”
Yeah. Just wanted to… Olga thought, but she agreed. Curiosity is a dangerous thing—often stronger than common sense.
The restaurant was new, with trendy lamps shaped like upside-down jars and waiters in shirts without ties, which for some reason was supposed to mean “stylish.” Dmitry chose a table by the window and gallantly pulled out her chair.
How sweet. Also somehow… sticky, she noted.
“So,” he smiled, spreading out the menu as if he were about to read poetry, “shall we order something tasty?”
“Sure,” she nodded briefly, opening the list of dishes.
The waiter left with their order, and the real program of the evening began. Dmitry leaned on the table and moved closer.
“Olga, I’ve been thinking… We’re both adults. We need to talk seriously.”
“About what this time?” She took a sip of water, already suspecting it was a mistake—everything was about to get stuck in her throat.
“About us. About the future.” He paused like an actor right before the climax. “I want us to have a joint account.”
“Again?” She lifted an eyebrow. “We already discussed this.”
“No, then you turned it into a joke.” He clenched his hand into a fist on the table. “This time I’m serious. We need a joint account. That’s normal for a family.”
“Dmitry, what’s normal for a family is respect. Not control.” Her voice stayed calm, but her eyes narrowed.
“Olga, you’re hiding money from me!” he said, barely keeping his voice down even though people were all around. “I don’t understand why. Did I ask to take it all? I’m not suggesting we spend it on me.”
“On a car, on furniture, on ‘developing the family’—go on, say it out loud,” she smiled with the corner of her mouth. “And don’t pretend the amount doesn’t matter to you.”
“Fine.” He nodded, leaning in. “The amount matters. Because it’s our money. We earn it together.”
“You’re mistaken,” she answered quietly. “I earn it.”
He fell back against his chair as though she’d hit him.
“So I’m nobody? I work for nothing? You think my money is worth less than yours?”
“I think your money is yours and mine is mine,” she said, calmly picking up a napkin. “And don’t swap the meanings.”
“Why you—” He cut himself off, noticing the neighboring table was openly listening. He paused, then suddenly pulled out his phone and lit the screen. “All right. If that’s how it is, let’s do it right now. Open your banking app and show me your balance.”
Olga froze, staring at him the way you stare at someone who has just publicly misplaced the last scraps of shame.
“Are you serious? Here? In front of people?”
“So what? Afraid someone will find out there’s money in our family?”
She slowly placed her hands on the table.
“Dmitry… do you realize you look like a man who came to a restaurant not with his wife, but with an accountant?”
“And what, accountants are bad people?” he sneered.
“For you, it seems the perfect wife is an accountant without a salary,” her voice turned icy.
At that moment the waiter brought their food. The silence between them could have been cut with a knife. Dmitry poked at his steak with a fork but didn’t eat.
“All right, if you don’t want to do it the nice way…” he said softly, but with a threat underneath. “By law, half your savings are mine. I can take you to court.”
“Go ahead,” she leaned back and for the first time that evening smiled for real. “But you’ll have to prove it’s marital property.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“And what, it’s not? You earned it before the marriage?”
“Almost,” she said, picked up her fork, and began eating calmly. “But I’ll tell you about that later.”
Dmitry went quiet—not because he’d calmed down. He was clearly rebuilding his attack plan. In his eyes flickered irritation mixed with confusion: he’d been sure he could corner her, and instead he’d landed in a dead end.
Olga ate slowly, savoring every bite, and for the first time in a long while the food actually tasted good—because now she knew for sure: the decision to leave had already ripened.
When they left the restaurant, Dmitry kept a pointed silence. Olga didn’t try to talk. She knew another attack was coming, most likely at home.
But now she was ready.
You wanted transparency, Dima? she thought. You’ll get transparency. Just the kind that’ll make you stop envying yourself.
Home met them with its usual silence. Only the wall clock measured the seconds until the explosion with its ticking. Dmitry went to the kitchen first, poured mineral water into a tall glass, and downed it like vodka. He set the glass on the table with a dull thud.
“So you decided to wage open war on me?” His voice was quiet, but that familiar cold rage Olga knew by heart was hidden inside it.
“I decided to protect what’s mine,” she set her bag on the chair without taking off her coat. “And spare me the drama.”
“No drama?!” He stepped closer. “Do you understand that I can take half your savings? It’s community property. The law is on my side!”
“Did you read the law, or just headlines in online articles?” Her voice stayed calm, but sparks already danced in her eyes.
“I know that everything we earned in the marriage is split!” He jabbed a finger at the floor, as if there were a safe with her money hidden under their parquet.
Olga slowly took off her coat, hung it over the back of the chair, and stepped right up to him.
“Dmitry. Let me explain how it works, so there are no surprises later.”
“Go on,” he smirked, confident he was about to hear a pathetic excuse.
“My business is registered in my mother’s name. Before the marriage. And all the income you’re so eager to count as ‘ours’ is legally hers. I’m just an employee who receives a salary. A small one, by the way. Want to see my contract?” She raised an eyebrow.
He blinked as if he’d been punched.
“What?”
“What you heard,” she shrugged. “You have no right to that money. Not by law, and not by conscience.”
“That’s… that’s vile!” He wasn’t angry now—he was almost shouting with wounded indignation. “You did it on purpose so I wouldn’t get a single penny!”
“No. I did it so that if someone like you ever appeared in my life, he couldn’t clean me out,” her voice was soft, almost tender, but steel rang in it.
“Someone like me?!” He stepped closer and grabbed her by the elbow. “You think I lived with you for the money?”
“I think money has always mattered to you more than I did,” she yanked her arm free, “and tonight you proved it.”
He stepped back—not because he was scared, but because he suddenly felt that any words he said now would sound pathetic.
“So that’s it… you’re just leaving?”
“No, Dima. I already left,” she picked up her bag from the chair. “Tonight you’re just finding out.”
She walked into the hallway and threw on her coat. Dmitry stood in the kitchen doorway, stunned, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white.
“Olga!” His voice cracked. “You’ll regret this!”
“I already did,” she turned to him, “nine years ago.”
The slam of the door was so loud that even the clock on the wall seemed to pause for a second.
He was left in the apartment alone—with mineral water, grievances, and empty hands.
And she walked down the night street, feeling the weight slide off her shoulders with every step. She had the same amount of money as she had that morning.
But now she had the most important thing: freedom.
The End.