Marina stood by the kitchen table, methodically sorting documents into neat piles. Each sheet had a colored sticky note—pink for utility bills, yellow for grocery receipts, green for household expenses. Her husband Anton sat across from her, leaning back in his chair with a look of complete confusion on his face.
“You lived with me for free for three years—did you like it? Want to keep living like that? Then PAY,” Marina said calmly, lifting her eyes from the papers.
Anton choked on the sip of water he’d just taken.
“What kind of nonsense is this? We’re MARRIED! What payments are you talking about?”
Marina pulled another document from the folder—a table printed on an A3 sheet. Columns of numbers were lined up in tidy rows, each line labeled in small, careful handwriting.
“See these numbers?” She turned the sheet toward her husband. “This is a detailed calculation of every expense for the thirty-six months we’ve lived together. Every single ruble is accounted for. Groceries—three hundred eighty-four thousand rubles. Utilities—one hundred fifty-six thousand. Gas for your commute—ninety-two thousand. Clothes I bought you—seventy-eight thousand. Total—exactly seven hundred ten thousand rubles.”
“Marina, have you lost your mind? What kind of accounting is this between a husband and wife?”
“Plain math,” she replied, unruffled, taking out a calculator. “In three years you contributed exactly ZERO rubles to the family budget. And you actively used all the benefits. That’s called a consumer attitude.”
Anton jumped up, his face turning red with outrage.
“But I work! I’m tired! I bring money home!”
“You bring it?” Marina pulled out another folder, this one blue. “Here are statements from your salary account for the last three years. Average salary—eighty thousand rubles. Over thirty-six months—two million eight hundred eighty thousand. Now let’s look at the spending…”
She flipped to the next page.
“A car on credit you took out without telling me—one million two hundred thousand. Monthly payments—thirty-five thousand. Over three years—one million two hundred sixty thousand. Your ‘business dinners’ with partners—three hundred thousand. Wardrobe updates—two hundred fifty thousand. Gadgets and tech for yourself—three hundred twenty thousand. Balance—zero. Actually, minus two hundred fifty thousand, which I covered from my savings.”
“That’s for the family! Everyone needs a car!”
“The car is registered to you. You have the keys. In three years you’ve never once offered to let me use it. I take the metro, even though my salary as a design engineer is one hundred twenty thousand rubles.”
Marina got up from the table and walked to the window. Outside, dusk was slowly settling, tinting the sky purple. She spoke evenly, without drama, as if delivering a lecture on mathematical analysis.
“You know, Anton, I kept quiet for a long time. I thought—family means you endure, understand, support. But yesterday something happened that made me reconsider everything.”
“And what terrible thing happened?” Anton crossed his arms, radiating skepticism.
Marina took her smartphone from her purse, opened her gallery, and showed him a photo. It was a restaurant receipt.
“Yesterday you said you were staying late at work. An important meeting, reports, deadlines. But in reality, you were having dinner at the Beluga restaurant with Kristina from the neighboring department. The bill was thirty-two thousand rubles. Paid with your credit card—which, by the way, I top up every month.”
“It was a business dinner!”
“With champagne for eight thousand a bottle? And the dessert ‘Romance for Two’?” Marina scrolled through photos, utterly composed. “Here’s a screenshot from Kristina’s social media. Caption: ‘A magical evening with a special person.’ Hearts, emojis. Geotag—Beluga restaurant. Time—9:30 PM.”
Anton said nothing, his eyes darting around the room, avoiding his wife’s gaze.
“But that’s not all,” Marina continued, returning to the table. “I analyzed your expenses over the last six months. Found an interesting pattern. Every Tuesday and Thursday—purchases at flower shops. Three to five thousand each time. Total—one hundred ninety-two thousand in six months. And I didn’t receive a single bouquet.”
“Marina, I can explain—”
“DON’T,” she said, raising a hand. “Explanations don’t interest me. Only facts and numbers do. And here’s what the numbers say: you used me as a free housekeeper, cook, laundress, and sponsor for your развлечения.”
She opened her laptop and turned the screen toward him.
“Here’s an Excel sheet. I calculated the cost of all the services I provided you free of charge. Cooking—three hours a day, three hundred rubles an hour at market rates. Over three years—nine hundred eighty-five thousand five hundred rubles. Cleaning—two hours a day, two hundred rubles an hour. Total—four hundred thirty-eight thousand. Laundry and ironing—one hour a day, one hundred fifty rubles. Total—one hundred sixty-four thousand two hundred fifty.”
Anton stared at the screen, his face gradually draining of color.
“Total value of services—one million five hundred eighty-seven thousand seven hundred fifty rubles. Add seven hundred ten thousand in direct expenses. That makes two million two hundred ninety-seven thousand seven hundred fifty rubles. That’s your debt to me.”
“You can’t be serious. This is absurd! We’re a FAMILY!”
“Family implies reciprocity,” Marina said, closing the laptop. “What we have is one-sided exploitation. So here are the new terms. Starting tomorrow you pay fifty percent of all expenses. Plus, you pay me sixty thousand a month for household services. Or you move out.”
Anton burst into laughter—nervous, with hysterical notes.
“Marina, do you hear yourself? This is our apartment! I’m registered here!”
“The apartment was bought with my money before the marriage,” she replied calmly. “Here’s the purchase agreement. Date—March fifteenth, two thousand eighteen. We got married June twenty-seventh, two thousand nineteen. Under Article 36 of the Family Code, this is my personal property.”
“But I did the renovation!”
“Renovation?” Marina pulled out yet another folder. “Let’s calculate. Here are the receipts for materials—two hundred eighty thousand, paid from my card. Here’s the contract with the crew—three hundred fifty thousand, transferred from my account. Your contribution—choosing the wallpaper for the bedroom. By the way, a terrible choice; those stripes make the space look narrower.”
Anton sprang up and started pacing the kitchen.
“This is all wrong! That’s not how it works! In normal families wives don’t invoice their husbands!”
“In normal families husbands don’t spend family money on mistresses,” Marina shot back. “By the way, about Kristina. I did some checking. Twenty-three years old, lives with her parents, works as a secretary. Salary—thirty-five thousand. Do you seriously think she sees your soul? Face the truth—you’re a wallet with legs to her.”
“DON’T you dare talk like that! What we have is real!”
“Real feelings?” Marina opened a tablet. “Here’s her chat with her friend. Yes, I hired an information security specialist. Perfectly legal, by the way. Quote: ‘Picked up an old guy with money. While I keep him on the hook, I squeeze out gifts. When I’m bored, I’ll dump him.’ The ‘old guy’ is you, just so you know. You’re thirty-seven, she’s twenty-three. To her, you’re practically retired.”
Anton’s face turned purple.
“You were spying on me?!”
“I was collecting evidence. Do you know the difference between an emotional reaction and a rational one? Emotions make you scream and slam doors. Rationality makes you gather facts and draw conclusions. Here’s my conclusion: you’re a bad investment. Time to cut losses.”
She took a folder from the drawer with the label “Divorce.”
“Here’s the petition to dissolve the marriage. I already consulted a lawyer. We don’t have a prenup, but the apartment is my pre-marital property. There’s no jointly acquired property—everything big is registered to you and bought on your loans. No alimony—no children. The process will take a month.”
“YOU’VE ALREADY DECIDED EVERYTHING?!”
“I ran the numbers,” Marina said, opening a notebook with charts. “Option A: you stay, pay your share, end things with Kristina. Probability—five percent, based on your reaction. Option B: you move out and we divorce. Probability—ninety-five percent. There’s also option C, but it’s unlikely.”
“What option C?”
“You realize your mistakes, apologize, and start valuing what you have. Probability—zero point one percent. Statistical error.”
Anton collapsed into a chair, clutching his head in his hands. His shoulders trembled with anger and humiliation.
“Marina, why are you doing this? We were happy!”
“Happy?” She opened another file on the tablet. “Here’s my mood diary for three years. I kept it in an app, rating each day on a ten-point scale. Average for the first year—seven. Second—five. Third—three point two. The graph is steadily declining. That’s not happiness—that’s a degrading quality of life.”
“You even turned happiness into numbers!”
“Numbers don’t lie, unlike people. You know what I realized? All your ‘I’m tired,’ ‘not now,’ ‘we’ll talk later’—it was manipulation. You created the appearance of being busy so I’d take on all the housework. And while I did, you entertained yourself.”
Marina took keys from her bag and placed them on the table.
“These are the keys to a safe deposit box. My savings from ten years of work are in there—three million rubles. You didn’t know because you never cared about my finances. You only demanded money for your needs.”
Anton lifted his head; greed flickered in his eyes.
“Three million? And you kept quiet?”
“Did you ever ask? In three years you never once asked how I manage my salary. You didn’t ask about my plans, dreams, goals. To you I was a function—cook, clean, pay bills.”
She got up, went to the fridge, and took out a bottle of water.
“The saddest part? I really did love you. The first year, for sure. I was ready for anything. But love without reciprocity is a mathematically unprofitable operation. You invest one hundred percent and get zero back. Negative infinity in the end.”
“Marina, let’s fix everything! I’ll change!”
“Will you?” She pulled out her phone. “It’s 7:43 PM. You promise you’ll change. Let’s test that. Here’s the list of chores for tomorrow. Wash the floors—one hour. Cook lunch—two hours. Do the laundry—one hour. Iron shirts—forty minutes. Go grocery shopping—one hour twenty. Total—six hours. Can you handle it?”
“That’s women’s work!”
“STOP!” Marina raised a finger. “There’s the key phrase. ‘Women’s work.’ So you’re not ready to change. Then option B remains—divorce.”
Anton jumped up, fists clenched.
“You’re BLACKMAILING me!”
“I’m operating with facts. Blackmail is threats without grounds. I have grounds. Here are printouts of your texts to Kristina: ‘Sunshine, I’ll buy you an iPhone.’ ‘Bunny, dinner in Paris tomorrow.’ Not the city of Paris, of course—the restaurant. But the bill looked like a ticket to the real Paris.”
“ENOUGH! Stop digging through my phone!”
“The phone was bought with my money. I pay the plan. Technically it’s my property, temporarily given to you to use. Like everything else in this apartment.”
Anton paced the kitchen, his face turning red then pale. Marina sat calmly at the table, sipping water and making notes in her notebook.
“You know what?” he suddenly stopped. “To hell with you! I’ll go to Kristina! She really loves me, not counting every kopek!”
“Do you know her address?” Marina asked coolly. “Vesennyaya Street, building twelve, apartment forty-eight. Three-bedroom. Her parents live there, her younger brother, and her grandmother. Your love sleeps on a fold-out cot in a room with her brother. You sure there’s space for you?”
“We’ll rent an apartment!”
“With what money? Your salary is eighty thousand. Minus thirty-five for the car loan. Minus fifteen for the credit card minimum payment. That leaves thirty thousand. A one-bedroom is at least forty. And that’s not counting utilities, food, transport.”
Anton went quiet, calculating in his head.
“And Kristina, as a reminder, makes thirty-five. Of that, she gives twenty to her parents—they have a mortgage. She has fifteen left. Your combined budget is forty-five thousand. For two people. Good luck.”
“I… I’ll find a side job!”
“When? You work sales management nine to six. Then two hours in traffic. You’re home at eight. What side job? Night taxi? In a financed car the bank will repossess in three months if you miss payments?”
Marina stood and went to the window. Streetlights flickered on; the city was getting ready to sleep.
“Anton, I’m not gloating. I’m genuinely sorry you chose an illusion over reality. Kristina is a mirage. Once the money runs out, so will the love. That’s the law of relationship economics.”
“YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND LOVE!”
“Maybe not. But I understand math. And math says you’re bankrupt—financially and morally. Your assets are zero. Your liabilities are two point two million in debt. Credit score at the bottom. Outlook negative.”
Suddenly Anton’s phone rang. The screen flashed: “Kristina.”
“Answer,” Marina said calmly. “Put it on speaker.”
Anton pressed the button.
“Hi, babe!” a bright voice rang out. “Where are you? We said we’d meet!”
“I… I’m home. Talking to my wife.”
“She’s nagging you again? Listen, when are you finally getting divorced? Alyoshka proposed to me, and I’m still waiting for you to do something decisive!”
Anton turned pale.
“Which Alyoshka?”
“My ex. He started a business, wants to marry me. Promises to buy an apartment. So hurry up and decide. I’m twenty-three, the clock is ticking!”
“But you said you loved me!”
“Oh, Antosha, don’t be a child. Love is love, but you have to live somewhere. Anyway—either you get divorced within the next month and propose, or I marry Alyoshka. Bye, kisses!”
The dead line hung in the air like a sentence.
Marina looked at her husband with sympathy.
“Relationship math, Anton. She’s twenty-three. She’s looking for the best option. You were an intermediate stage. Sorry.”
Anton slid down the wall onto the floor. His eyes were empty, his arms limp.
“So what do I do now?” he whispered.
“You have three options,” Marina said, sitting across from him. “First: accept my terms. Start paying your share, get a second job, pay off the debts. In a year or two, you’ll be back on your feet. Second: leave and try to survive on your own. Odds are low, but possible. Third: go back to your parents in Saratov. Your mom will be happy.”
“To my mom? I’m thirty-seven!”
“Age is just a number. Your mental age, judging by your behavior, is about sixteen. Perfect for living with your parents.”
Anton looked up.
“Marina, give me one more chance! Please! I get it—I’ll change!”
She shook her head.
“Anton, trust is like a bank account. You zeroed it out. You can rebuild it, but it takes years. And I’m thirty-five. I don’t have extra years for your re-education.”
Marina stood and headed out of the kitchen.
“I’m giving you a week to pack. You can stay in the guest room. Make a list of what you want to take. But keep in mind—I’ll check the receipts. If it was bought with my money, it stays here.”
“Marina!” Anton shouted after her. “You’ll regret it! You won’t find anyone better than me!”
She turned in the doorway.
“You know what your biggest mistake was? You thought I was a free add-on to your life. But I’m a full program with my own code. And I just deleted you from the system. Permanently. WITH NO POSSIBILITY OF RESTORATION.”
Two weeks later Anton left to live with his mother in Saratov. The bank took the car for nonpayment. Kristina married Alyoshka. And Marina signed up for Italian language classes—a long-time dream she’d never had time or money for before, because everything went to supporting a grown, infantile child named “husband.”
A month later Anton texted: “Marina, can we talk? I’ve been thinking a lot…”
She looked at the message, smiled, and replied: “Consultation fee—five thousand rubles an hour. Prepayment required. I’ll send the payment details in a separate message.”
No reply came. Relationship math worked flawlessly.
In her new life, everything was calculated and balanced: income exceeded expenses, time was distributed rationally, and—most importantly—no one treated her like a free add-on anymore. She became the CEO of her own fate. And at last, the balance sheet finally matched