The notification arrived while Marina was standing at the checkout. Her phone vibrated in her coat pocket, and without looking she swiped the screen.
“Transaction declined. Insufficient funds.”
That was odd. She knew there was more than fifty thousand on the card—her salary had been deposited the day before yesterday.
“Miss, are you paying?” the cashier asked, irritation barely concealed.
“One second, just a moment…” Marina rummaged in her bag for her second card, the one she used less often. That one had to work. She tapped it to the terminal—the device beeped in a stubborn little protest.
“Transaction declined.”
Behind her, people sighed loudly. The line kept growing. The sales consultant from the appliance section—who’d spent half an hour explaining why this washing machine was better than the cheaper one—wandered off to other customers.
Marina’s hands turned cold. She stepped out of line and pressed her phone to her ear. The ringing felt endless.
“Yes,” Victor answered. His voice was calm, almost detached.
“Vitya, my cards aren’t working. Both of them. I’m at the store—I was literally about to pay for the washer…”
“I know,” he said evenly. “I blocked your card. I’m the head of this house, so I decide what we buy.”
Silence fell. Marina didn’t understand right away what she’d heard. The words scattered into separate sounds, and her brain refused to assemble them into meaning.
“What did you say?”
“We already talked about it. I told you we don’t need a washer that expensive. But you went anyway. So I had to block your card.”
“Vitya, but I explained—”
“Marina, don’t. I looked into it. The features you actually need are in a normal model. Everything else is just paying extra for the brand. When you get home, we’ll discuss which one to buy. I’m busy.”
He hung up.
Marina stood in the middle of the showroom, where families were choosing refrigerators, where consultants smiled politely, where soft music floated through the air. She wanted to scream, but her throat clenched so tightly she could barely breathe. She walked outside. A sharp November wind smacked her cheeks, and the shock of cold jolted her awake.
He blocked her card.
As if she weren’t an adult woman, but a teenager being punished. As if the salary she earned at her job had suddenly stopped being her money. She should’ve agreed to open a separate payroll card like they suggested when she was hired. Back then she’d thought, why have multiple cards? Easier to send her salary to the one she already had—the one Victor had arranged for her. It had seemed practical. Convenient.
At home, Victor sat in his office in front of his laptop. He didn’t look up when she came in.
“Hi,” Marina said, taking off her coat and forcing her voice to stay level. “Can we talk?”
“I’m listening,” he said, eyes still on the screen.
“Please look at me.”
Victor leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. Marina knew that gesture—armor. He was already bracing for a fight.
“Vitya, why did you block my card?”
“Because you ignore our agreements. We discussed it. The old washer broke, we need a new one. I spent my evening researching, found the best value. And you just decided to buy the expensive one because you felt like it.”
“I didn’t ignore anything. I tried to explain why I need that specific model. It has quick wash, a dryer, and a steam function so I don’t have to iron as much—”
“Why do you need steam? What’s an iron for?”
“So I can iron less, Vitya. So I can free up time.”
“For what?” He smirked. “You already spend half your evening on your phone.”
It was unfair and he knew it. Marina could feel anger igniting, but she kept her tone calm.
“I do laundry every day. Your shirts—because you expect them perfectly pressed. Bedding. Towels. Artyom’s clothes—he’s seven and somehow manages to get so filthy it’s easier to burn the outfit than wash it. I iron all of it for hours. If a washer with steam and drying saves me even one hour a day, it pays for itself in six months.”
“That’s emotional talk. The numbers say otherwise. The price difference is too big. What, can’t you count?”
“And can you count my time?”
“Marina, don’t start a scene. I made a rational decision. Tomorrow you’ll go buy the model I chose. I’ll give you card access back.”
She stared at him like he was a stranger. This was her husband—the man she’d lived with for ten years, had a child with, shared joy and trouble with. And now he spoke to her like she was staff he could order around.
“Fine,” Marina said unexpectedly, very calm. “Let’s do it like this. If you think you understand the household better, if you’re the ‘man of the house’—then starting tomorrow, you’ll run it.”
“What?” Victor frowned.
“It’s simple. You’ll decide what we buy. Not just the washing machine—everything. Absolutely everything related to the home. Groceries—what we buy and what meals they’re for. Laundry detergent—brand, for colors or whites. What gets washed today and what can wait. What gets ironed and what doesn’t. When to change the sheets. When it’s time for new towels. Which diapers Artyom needs at night—he’s almost outgrown size three, but size four is still a little big. When to book his dentist appointment—one baby tooth is loose. What medicines we need in the cabinet. When the cat food runs out. Which shampoo to buy when ours is finished. Where to take winter clothes for dry cleaning and when to pick them up.”
Victor just stared at her, baffled.
“You’ll plan everything. Decide everything,” Marina went on, her voice getting firmer. “And I will only execute. You say ‘buy,’ I buy. You say ‘wash,’ I wash. You say ‘cook,’ I cook. But—no initiative from me. No decisions. Everything strictly according to your instructions. Deal?”
“Marina… are you serious?”
“Completely. We start now. What’s for dinner?”
“What?” he blinked, thrown off.
“It’s Wednesday. What do we eat on Wednesdays? What dish do you want?”
“Well… I don’t know. Something normal.”
“‘Something’ isn’t a recipe. Name a specific dish.”
Victor shifted in his chair.
“Cutlets with mashed potatoes.”
“Great. Cutlets from what? Beef, pork, chicken? Or mixed mince? And in what proportions?”
“Oh my God, Marina, does it matter?”
“Very much. Beef can turn out dry—you’ll need fat. Pork can be too greasy. Chicken is lean but bland. Mixed mince has multiple proportion options. So what kind of cutlets are we making?”
“Regular,” he snapped, getting irritated.
“‘Regular’ isn’t an answer. You’re in charge—you decide. What mince are we buying?”
“Half beef, half pork,” he forced out.
“Seventy-thirty? Fifty-fifty?”
“Fifty-fifty!”
“Okay. How much mince? Artyom will eat two cutlets, you usually eat three, I eat one. That’s six cutlets. One cutlet is roughly seventy grams—so four hundred twenty grams total. But mince shrinks about twenty percent while frying, so we need about five hundred grams. Right?”
“Marina, stop,” Victor said, getting up. “I see what you’re doing.”
“No, you don’t. We’re just getting started. Mashed potatoes—how many kilograms? An average potato is about one hundred fifty grams. One portion takes three potatoes. For three people, that’s nine, plus one extra—ten. That’s about a kilo and a half. But potatoes vary. Yellow ones mash better, white ones hold shape. For mash we need yellow. What variety are we buying?”
“For heaven’s sake—yellow!”
“And is the side dish only mash, or are we making salad too? If salad—what kind? Fresh vegetables or canned? Dressing? Oil? If oil—sunflower, olive, flax? Extra virgin or regular?”
“Enough!” Victor barked.
“No, not enough. We still haven’t discussed breakfast. Or lunch tomorrow. Or the day after. Or the whole week. You’re in charge—you plan. I need a detailed list. With recipes. With exact ingredient amounts. And we need to check what we have and what we don’t—inventory the fridge and cupboards. Want me to bring you a notebook? You can write it all down.”
Victor stood in the middle of the office, and Marina watched his righteous anger fade, replaced by growing confusion.
“This is absurd,” he said quietly.
“This is your logic. You said you’re the head of the house and you decide. So decide. Everything. Down to the last detail. And I’ll simply carry it out.”
She turned and left the office.
In Artyom’s room, he was playing with his building set, pieces scattered all over the floor. Normally Marina would have asked him to tidy up before dinner. Today she just sat down beside him and watched as he built something that looked like a spaceship.
“Mom, are we having dinner today?” Artyom asked about twenty minutes later. “I’m hungry.”
“Ask your dad,” Marina replied. “He’s the one in charge of food today.”
Artyom looked at her in surprise, but he trotted off to his father. Marina heard muffled voices—Victor saying something, Artyom answering. Then silence. Then the fridge door opening.
Ten minutes later Victor appeared in the doorway.
“Marina… there’s some chicken in the fridge. What is it… for?”
“I don’t know,” Marina said calmly, not taking her eyes off Artyom. “You’re in charge—you figure it out.”
“Is it cooked or raw?”
“Look.”
“I did! It’s in some kind of marinade. What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Not my problem.”
Victor stood there, clearly expecting her to give in. Marina didn’t. He went back to the kitchen. Dishes clattered. Oil hissed in a pan.
Dinner was ready forty minutes later: chicken seared on both sides—burnt on the outside, still pink inside. Pasta clumped into a sticky mass—apparently Victor forgot it on the stove. No salad.
“Dad, why is the chicken black?” Artyom poked at the suspiciously dark crust with his fork.
“It’s crispy,” Victor muttered. “Eat.”
They ate in silence. Marina carefully cut her meat, avoiding the raw bits. Victor chewed through the gummy pasta with a scowl. Artyom picked at his plate and ended up eating three spoonfuls before announcing he wasn’t hungry.
After dinner, Victor stacked the dishes in the sink—didn’t wash them, just piled them up—and went back to his office.
That evening, when Marina was putting Artyom to bed, her son asked:
“Mom… did you and Dad fight?”
“No, sweetheart. Dad just decided to try being the one in charge of the house.”
“And you were in charge before?”
“I just did what needed doing. Without any ‘boss.’”
“And tomorrow Dad’s going to cook again?” Artyom asked, and by Marina’s tone she could tell he didn’t love that idea.
“We’ll see,” she said, kissing his forehead. “Sleep.”
That night she lay on her side of the bed, staring at the ceiling. Victor was turning beside her—awake. She could feel it.
Morning started with Artyom bursting into the bedroom:
“Dad! What’s for breakfast?”
Victor groaned and pulled a pillow over his face.
“Porridge,” he mumbled.
“What kind?” Artyom bounced onto the bed.
“Regular.”
“Dad, ‘regular’ isn’t porridge. Mom always says: oatmeal, buckwheat, or rice. Which one are you making?”
Marina lay facing the wall, smiling. Smart kid. He caught on fast.
“Oatmeal,” Victor surrendered.
“On water or milk?”
“Artyom, oh my—”
“Mom always asks! Milk tastes better, but sometimes you say your stomach hurts from milk.”
“Milk,” Victor moaned, sliding out of bed.
The porridge burned. Marina could tell by the sounds—he didn’t stir for too long, milk stuck to the bottom. Then came swearing, the scrape of a spoon against the pot, running water. Victor tried to clean the scorched mess.
At breakfast Artyom poked at his bowl again.
“Dad, there are lumps.”
“Eat.”
“But Mom always makes it so there aren’t any lumps.”
Victor looked at Marina. She ate her porridge calmly—lumpy, but edible.
“Marin, come on…”
“You’re the boss,” she reminded him. “You decide how it’s cooked.”
After breakfast the real fun began. Artyom was getting ready for school, and Victor discovered his school trousers were in the laundry. Marina usually washed them the night before.
“Where are his clean pants?” Victor asked, panicked.
“I don’t know,” Marina said, finishing her tea. “I don’t make decisions about laundry anymore. You were supposed to check last night what he needed today and wash it. But you didn’t give instructions.”
“Marina, he’ll be late!”
“Then you need to decide quickly. You can dress him in his house pants. Or start a quick wash—it’s thirty minutes, plus twenty to dry with a hairdryer. Or take him as he is and tomorrow explain to the teacher that you couldn’t handle your own household. Your choice.”
Victor raced around the apartment, found some old track pants, pulled them onto a protesting Artyom. The boy whined that you can’t go to school like that, but Victor was already dragging him toward the door.
“We’ll deal with it tonight,” he threw over his shoulder.
When they left, Marina poured herself another cup of tea and sat quietly in the kitchen. The apartment was chaos—dirty dishes, clothes tossed around, a wet towel on the bathroom floor. Usually by that hour she’d already restored some basic order. Today she simply sat and drank her tea.
Later, while Marina was out on work errands, a message from Victor popped up:
“What’s for lunch today? Also, we’re out of toilet paper.”
Marina smiled and typed back: “You decide what’s for lunch. And you were supposed to notice we were running out of paper. I don’t buy anything without your instructions now.”
His reply came a minute later: “Marina, this is childish.”
“Not at all. Yesterday you said you’re the head of the house and you decide. So decide.”
Her phone stayed quiet for about twenty minutes. Then: “Buy paper. Any kind.”
“‘Any kind’ isn’t specific. Three-ply or two-ply? White or colored? Perforated or not? Scented or unscented? What brand?”
“Marina, PLEASE.”
“That’s not an instruction. I’m waiting for clear directions.”
He called. His voice sounded exhausted.
“Three-ply. White. No scent. Eight rolls. Okay?”
“I’ll note it down,” Marina said briskly. “And lunch?”
“I don’t know about lunch,” he admitted, desperation breaking through. “Anything. Some soup.”
“What soup? Recipe? Ingredients?”
“Marina…” He went silent, breathing into the phone. “I can’t do this.”
“It’s not even evening yet.”
“I don’t know how you manage,” Victor said, words tumbling out. “I thought it was simple. Cook, wash, clean. But it’s a million details. I don’t know where anything is. I don’t know what runs out and when. I don’t know what Artyom eats and what he won’t touch. I don’t know which cleaner goes on the sink and which one ruins the stovetop. My head is splitting from all these little things.”
Marina said nothing.
“And you also have a job,” Victor continued. “And you still manage everything—home, meals, homework, doctor appointments, and… God, it’s endless. I’ve lived in this house for ten years and never noticed. I thought it just… happened.”
“It doesn’t just happen,” Marina said quietly. “It’s called domestic labor. Invisible, undervalued, and absolutely necessary. And it requires constant attention, planning, and hundreds of small decisions every single day.”
“I’m sorry,” Victor’s voice shook. “I’m sorry. I was an idiot. A complete idiot. That thing with the card… I had no right.”
“You didn’t.”
“I just… I thought you were wasting money. That I had to control it. But I didn’t understand how much you put into this home—time, effort, focus. And I erased it all with one sentence.”
Marina looked out the window. A thin rain was falling; November was settling in.
“Victor,” she said, “I don’t want a war. I don’t want to prove I’m right. I just want you to understand: the house isn’t my private kingdom where I rule alone. But it’s not your territory either, where you make decisions for both of us. This is our shared space. And if we both work, both earn money, then we make decisions together—talking them through, respecting each other.”
“I understand,” he said quickly. “I swear. Buy the washing machine you wanted. The one with steam and drying. I’ll unlock the card right now. And… I’ll be involved. For real. Not just taking out the trash when you ask—actually helping carry this whole load.”
“You’ll have to learn,” Marina warned him. “And not in one day.”
“We have time,” he said, a shy hope creeping into his voice. “Right?”
“We do,” she smiled. “Come home tonight—we’ll sort through things together. And we’ll decide what to do with the burned pot.”
“I’ll buy a new one!” he promised too fast.
“You will,” Marina agreed. “But first I’m going to teach you how to cook porridge without lumps.”
Household life really did require attention—but for the first time in many months, Marina didn’t feel like it was only her burden. Something had shifted. Not magically solved—no. There would still be talks, adjustments, arguments. But at least there was a crack in the wall of misunderstanding that had been growing between them for years.
Her phone chimed: a notification that the card had been unblocked.
Marina opened the appliance store app and placed the order for the exact washing machine—dryer and steam included. Delivery: the day after tomorrow.
And tonight the three of them would sit at the table, and Marina would show Victor her thick notebook—years of menus, shopping lists, important dates, reminders. She’d show him the system she’d built piece by piece. And maybe, together, they’d create a new one—shared.
She poured herself another cup of tea, opened her notepad, and started writing a plan:
“Basic skills for Victor: cooking porridge without lumps…”
Outside, the rain grew heavier—but inside, it somehow felt lighter.