— “Galya, what, did you fall asleep? Petrov dropped his fork—bring him a clean one! And refresh the carafe too. You’re sitting there like some lady of the manor while people’s glasses are empty!”
My husband’s voice cut through the clink of dishes and the buzz of conversation. Boris sat at the head of the table—red-faced, warmed up, pleased with himself. The birthday man. Fifty-five. “Two fives,” as they’d piped in frosting on the cake waiting in the fridge for its moment.
I froze with the salad bowl in my hands. Everything inside me went very, very quiet—like someone had muted the world. An awkward silence hung over the table. Petrov, a heavyset guy from logistics, guiltily hunched his shoulders:
“Come on, Borya. I’ll just wipe it with a napkin. Don’t run your wife ragged.”
“Don’t run her ragged?” Boris chuckled, winking at the guests. “Movement is life. And who’s going to look after us if not the wife? A wife, you know, is man’s best friend.”
The guests smiled politely but wouldn’t meet my eyes. They were uncomfortable. And I felt… nothing.
Without a word I set the bowl on the edge of the table, turned, and went to the kitchen for a fork. The shoes I’d bought специально for tonight were already pinching, but I kept my back straight. Posture was all I had left.
The Profession: “Wife”
We’ve been married for thirty years. And for all thirty of them I’ve been that “reliable rear guard” men love to talk about after their third shot.
I—Galina Andreyevna, head of HR at a factory—at home turned into plain “Galya.” A convenient mechanism that took commands.
I’d been preparing for this celebration for two months. I looked for a restaurant, but Boris dug in his heels:
“I want it at home! Warm, family-style. You’re my хозяйка—why would we need strangers’ food?”
Of course. “Homemaker” meant the hundred thousand we’d save on a restaurant would go toward his new winter tires, and I would spend three straight days at the stove.
In the kitchen I pressed my forehead to the cool cabinet door. In the oven, the duck with apples was finishing. In the sink, plates from the appetizers were piled into a mountain.
“Gaaal! Where are you?!” came from the living room. “Ivanych wants to make a toast and the hostess isn’t here—so disrespectful!”
I exhaled. Took a clean fork. Looked at my reflection in the dark window: hair still holding, makeup hiding the fatigue, the dress fitting perfectly. Only the eyes were glassy.
And I still didn’t know then that the duck would be the last dish I ever served in that house.
“Tough as Nails”
When I came back, Boris was already pouring drinks. He was on a roll—telling some story from his youth, waving his hands, droplets flying off his fork onto the tablecloth. The very tablecloth I’d ironed last night.
“Oh, there you are!” He snatched the utensil from me and shoved it at Petrov. “Sit down—I’ll pour you a penalty shot. For abandoning the коллектив.”
I sat on the very edge of my chair. My legs ached. I just wanted to stretch them out and close my eyes.
“Borenka, maybe it’s time for the hot dish?” Petrov’s wife asked softly—a sweet woman with a frightened face. “Galochka, let me help you carry it?”
I’d already started to get up, but Boris slapped his palm on the table. The dishes clinked.
“Sit!” he barked. “We don’t do self-service here. Galya can handle it herself. Right, Gal? You’re tough as nails.”
It became hard to breathe. It wasn’t even hurt. It was astonishment.
I looked at the man I’d raised two sons with, the man I’d survived the nineties and defaults with—and I saw a stranger: a smug man drunk on power over his wife in front of an audience.
You know the type? At work, the life of the party. At home, a little king who’s sure shirts appear in the closet by themselves and dinner cooks itself by magic.
Silently I stood up. Went to the kitchen. Pulled out the heavy tray with the duck. The smell of baked apples and cinnamon drifted through the apartment.
When I carried the dish in, the guests perked up.
“Queen of the table!” someone exclaimed.
“Galina Andreyevna, you’re a wizard!”
I began plating portions. Boris—already pretty merry—watched my hands.
“Leg for me,” he grunted. “And more apples. Last time you slipped me nothing but bones. Saving money on your husband?”
Someone gave a nervous little laugh.
I gave him the best piece. Went back to my seat. Picked up my fork to eat at least a little salad—I hadn’t eaten anything since morning.
But what came next flipped everything upside down.
The Breaking Point
Boris stopped chewing. He stared at me, irritation in his eyes. He didn’t like that I was sitting. He didn’t like that I was eating. I ruined the picture where I was only a shadow with a tray.
“So why are you sitting there?” he asked loudly, for the whole room. “Can’t you see people are out of bread? The breadbasket is empty. Run to the kitchen and slice some. Earn your bread, wife!”
Silence dropped. Even the music seemed to hush. Petrov’s wife froze.
“Earn your bread.”
I carefully set my fork down. Looked at Boris. At the sauce stain on his shirt. At his face. He was waiting for me to jump up, fuss around, flash a guilty smile: “Oh, of course—one second!”
Like I had thousands of times.
I looked at my hands. The hands of a woman who earns more than her husband. Hands that drive a car and sign complex documents.
“Galya!” he roared. “Are you deaf?!”
I stood up. Slowly. Without lowering my eyes. I pushed the chair back. It scraped sharply across the parquet.
“The bread, Boris,” I said quietly, but so everyone heard, “you’ll be slicing for yourself now.”
I turned—and without looking at the guests’ frozen faces, I didn’t go to the kitchen. I went to the hallway.
On the little table under the mirror lay my purse. And inside it—something I rarely used, but carried like a talisman.
Bright red lipstick. The color of defiance.
The Color of Battle
The hallway smelled like a mix of expensive perfume and the heavy reek of a feast. From the living room came a confused murmur.
“Borya, you went too far,” someone grumbled.
“Oh, come on! A woman should know her place. She’ll cry in the kitchen and bring it—where’s she gonna go?” Boris’s voice was still firm, but there was a faint note of resentment.
I stood in front of the big mirror. A woman in a beautiful dress, perfect hair—but eyes brimming with sorrow. Enough.
I opened my bag, found the smooth gold tube. Click—and the red bullet appeared like a cartridge.
I swept it across my lower lip, then the upper. Bright, bold. A color that didn’t suit a “meek little wifey” at all.
I brushed the kitchen apron off the table—the small floral one I’d tossed there at the start of the evening. It fell to the floor like a soft rag.
I put on my coat without buttoning it. Threw my scarf casually around my neck. Took my car keys—cool and satisfying in my palm. My car. Bought with my annual bonus. Boris called it “our little bird,” though he only got behind the wheel on holidays.
I returned to the living room doorway.
Salad with a Surprise
The voices died instantly. Ten pairs of eyes locked on me—on my coat, on my lips.
Boris sat open-mouthed, still holding that same fork.
“Gal, what are you doing?” He half stood up, playing concerned. “Going to the store or something? I was joking about the bread—there’s still a loaf in the cupboard…”
I swept my gaze over the table: the salad I’d chopped for three hours, the aspic that had set all night, the duck—everything my hands had made for a man who had just publicly pointed out “my place.”
“The banquet continues,” I said loudly. My voice sounded чужим—low and calm. “Just without the waitress. The service staff has quit.”
“What kind of performance is this?!” Boris’s face reddened. “Sit down! People are watching!”
“Exactly, Borya. People are watching. And they can see.”
I pulled the keyring from my pocket and separated one key—the long, jagged front-door key. I held it up so everyone could see, then opened my fingers over the crystal bowl of Olivier salad.
The key sank softly into the mound of mayonnaise and disappeared.
“Lock up when the guests leave. Don’t wash the dishes—I’m throwing them out anyway.”
“And where are you going to sleep?!” his voice jumped up into a shrill falsetto. “Who needs you at your age?!”
“I’m going to a hotel, Boris. That spa hotel outside the city you wouldn’t spend money on for our anniversary. And the money on the card, by the way, is mine. So call yourself a taxi.”
I pivoted on my heels.
“Stop!” he shouted at my back.
“If you leave—you’re not coming back! You’ll crawl on your knees!”
Who Owns This Place
I stopped in the doorway. Looked back over my shoulder and smiled—brightly, with my new red lips.
“Borya, you forgot one detail. The apartment is mine. A gift from my parents. And you’re only registered here. So crawling, I’m afraid, will be your job. By twelve tomorrow, I don’t want your дух anywhere near this place. Pack your things into trash bags—there are some under the sink.”
The front door slammed, cutting me off from my past.
Outside, wet snow was falling. The wind hit my face, but I wasn’t cold. I was burning with adrenaline.
I got into the car and started the engine. In the rearview mirror, my face reflected back at me. The lipstick was smudged a little at one corner, but I had never felt more beautiful than in that moment.
The phone on the passenger seat began to vibrate. The screen said: “Husband.” Decline. Again—“Husband.” Decline. “Husband.” Block.
I drove out of the yard where I knew every pothole. The windows of our kitchen floated past—where chaos probably ruled now. Where Boris, crimson with humiliation, tried to explain to the guests that his “woman’s gone crazy.” Where Petrov’s wife might secretly admire what I’d done—though out loud, of course, she’d agree with the men.
I didn’t care.
Breakfast to the Room
For the first time in thirty years, I wasn’t thinking about what people would say.
I was thinking about the hotel’s warm pool. And that tomorrow morning I’d order breakfast to my room—coffee, a croissant, and orange juice. And no one—hear me—no one would dare say to me, “Pour it yourself,” or “Earn your bread.”
Would you have been able to leave a celebration like that—guests and husband behind? Or would you have swallowed it “for the sake of peace in the family”? Thirty years of marriage isn’t something you erase overnight. But neither is self-respect a small coin to be spent.
I turned on the radio. Some upbeat song was playing. I started singing along—loudly, off-key, but happy.
Life is only beginning. Even if you’re fifty-five and you’ve just left your husband’s house key in a bowl of salad.
Especially if you left it there.
Was Galina right? Should she have made a scene in front of guests, or are things like that better handled in private? Write how you would have put a хам in his place.