The promotion came at the end of March, when dirty snow still lay outside the windows, but the air already carried the promise of spring. Olga sat in her boss’s office, staring at the envelope with her new employment contract, unable to believe what she was seeing. The figures were impressive—she was now earning twenty percent more than Denis.
“Congratulations, Olya,” Igor Valeryevich said with a warm smile. “You’ve earned it. Three years of flawless work, two successful projects last year. We value employees like you.”
She walked home with an unfamiliar feeling—pride mixed with a strange kind of discomfort. Denis had always been the provider in their family; it was an unspoken rule. He was an engineer at a construction company: steady pay, confidence in tomorrow. Olga worked as a manager at a logistics firm, and her income had always been slightly lower. It suited them both—no questions about who was “in charge,” no arguments about money.
“Din, I’ve got news,” she said as she stepped into the apartment and slipped off her heels.
He came out of the kitchen with a mug of tea in his hand, wearing sweatpants and an old T-shirt. In five years of marriage, Olga had learned every one of his moods—from his gaze, the angle of his head, even the way he held that damn mug.
“I got promoted. I’m head of the department now.”
“Seriously?” Denis set the mug on the table and wrapped her in a hug. “That’s amazing! I knew you’d make it. It was long overdue.”
She pressed her face into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar mix of his cologne and laundry powder.
“And my salary is higher than yours now,” she said softly, almost as if she were testing him.
Denis pulled back, looked her in the eyes, and laughed.
“Well, perfect! That means I’m officially being kept by a rich woman. I’ll lie on the couch and drink beer.”
She punched him lightly in the chest, and the tension vanished. Everything was fine. That evening, they drank champagne in their tiny kitchen, making plans.
“Listen—what if we open a separate account,” Denis suggested, pouring her a second glass. “We’ll put money aside for a car. Ours is more than ten years old, it squeaks over every bump. It’s time we upgraded.”
“Deal,” Olga agreed. “But no loans. We’ll save up and buy one outright. I’ll put away about twenty percent of my pay each month—you do the same. We’ll have enough for a decent foreign car in no time.”
They clinked glasses, and in that moment Olga felt completely happy. They had a goal. They were a team. What else could you ask for?
They opened the account a week later. Olga insisted it be in her name—purely because she was the one who found time to get to the bank first. Denis didn’t mind; he said he didn’t care whose name was on it, as long as the savings grew. The first months went exactly as planned: she transferred her twenty percent, he transferred his. By early summer, there was already a respectable amount sitting there.
And then Svetlana called.
Olga was at work when Denis messaged her: “Sveta’s coming back from Moscow. She’ll be here in a week.” Nothing else. No emotion. No details.
Svetlana—Denis’s younger sister, the same age as Olga, twenty-eight. Three years earlier she’d moved to Moscow, loudly declaring that she was suffocating in their hometown, that she needed opportunities, a career, a real life. Olga’s mother-in-law, Tamara Ivanovna, cried for a week, begging her daughter not to leave. But Svetlana wouldn’t budge. She’d met a guy there—a Muscovite—and the job was supposed to be lucrative.
“What happened?” Olga texted.
“I’ll tell you tonight.”
That evening Denis was gloomier than a thundercloud. He wandered around the apartment, frowned, grunted in response to questions. Finally he sat down across from Olga at the table and spilled everything at once:
“She and Andrey broke up. He dumped her, moved out, took his share from the rented place. Sveta can’t afford the rent on her own, and her job didn’t work out either. They promised golden mountains, but in reality it was pennies. She’s coming back to Mom.”
Olga slowly set her fork down on her plate.
“To your mom? Tamara Ivanovna is almost seventy. She’s retired.”
“She still works,” Denis replied. “In the school cafeteria. Picks up extra shifts.”
“Den,” Olga felt something inside her starting to boil, “your sister is twenty-eight. She’s a grown woman. How can she come back and live off an elderly mother?”
Denis’s jaw tightened.
“And what is she supposed to do—sleep on the street? She’s my sister.”
“Find a job. Rent a room. Like normal people.”
“She will find a job. She just needs time. Mom doesn’t mind.”
Olga wanted to say more, but she stopped. She could read her husband’s face—arguing was pointless. He loved his sister and was always ready to protect her, even though he admitted she was flighty and careless. After their father died—Denis was sixteen, Sveta was ten—he’d taken on the role of head of the family. Worked, helped his mother, drove his sister to dance classes and English lessons. They were close, and Olga knew it, accepted it.
But that didn’t mean she had to like what was happening.
Svetlana arrived a week later. She rang the doorbell on Saturday morning while Olga, still in her robe, was drinking coffee in the kitchen. Denis rushed to open the door, and an excited squeal echoed in the hallway:
“Denchik! I’ve missed you so much!”
Olga stepped out of the kitchen and froze. Svetlana stood in the entryway wearing a beige cashmere coat, carrying a leather handbag that was clearly not from a budget brand, and fashionable ankle boots. Her hair was styled, her makeup flawless, and she smelled of expensive French perfume.
“Olya!” Svetlana spread into a grin and threw her arms around her. “How are you? You look fantastic!”
“Thanks,” Olga hugged her back automatically. “You look great too.”
They went into the living room. Svetlana slipped off her coat, and Olga saw a trendy dress, a delicate gold bracelet on her wrist, and a watch that clearly cost more than Olga’s monthly paycheck.
“How is Tamara Ivanovna?” Olga asked, pouring tea.
“Mom’s fine. Working, as always. She says she gets bored without work.” Svetlana waved it off lightly. “I keep telling her, ‘Mom, rest, you’ve earned it.’ But she refuses.”
“Maybe she needs help?” Olga offered carefully.
“No, we’re managing,” Svetlana dismissed it and turned to her brother. “Den, I’m so sick of Moscow. The rush, the people… everyone’s so fake. They pretend to be friends, but really it’s every man for himself.”
Denis nodded sympathetically. Olga sipped her tea in silence.
“And that Andrey,” Svetlana went on, her voice turning wounded, “promised me the world. Said I was the only one, that we’d get married. Then he just packed up and left. Turned out there was another woman. Can you imagine?”
“Bastard,” Denis said. “I should’ve had a talk with him.”
“Oh, forget it—it’s all in the past,” Svetlana sighed, then smiled again. “The important thing is I’m home. I’ll look for happiness here now.”
Olga stared at her, thinking: does she honestly not understand? Is she truly not ashamed to sit here in designer clothes and talk about how miserable she is while her elderly mother works in a school cafeteria to help support her?
“Sveta,” Olga finally couldn’t hold it in, “are you looking for a job?”
“Of course!” Svetlana brightened. “I’ve already sent out a few résumés. But you know… in Moscow I got used to a certain standard. I can’t just take any job for pennies now. I need something достойное—something worthy.”
“Right,” Olga said, taking a sip, feeling irritation rising.
“And besides,” Svetlana leaned in closer, conspiratorial, “I have to keep up appearances. You know, I want to get married, and on the bride market—especially at our age—you have to look the part. A good man won’t even glance at a woman in cheap clothes.”
“And where does the money for all that come from?” Olga asked bluntly, nodding toward Svetlana’s bag.
Svetlana smiled mysteriously.
“I have my own sources. Don’t worry.”
“A sponsor,” Olga thought. “A rich lover. That’s where all this comes from.” And she felt a strange wave of relief: at least it wasn’t her mother paying for it; at least Svetlana wasn’t lying about that.
After that visit, Svetlana started showing up regularly. Once a week, sometimes more. She’d come to their place or invite Denis over to his mother’s. Denis returned each time looking thoughtful, but his answers were always short: everything’s fine, Mom’s okay, Sveta’s job-hunting.
Olga didn’t interfere. She and Denis had an unspoken agreement: his family was his responsibility. She stayed out of his relationship with his mother and sister, and he stayed out of her affairs. It had worked for five years—why would it break now?
Summer flew by. Work was intense, and Olga practically lived at the office, growing into her new responsibilities. Denis supported her and didn’t complain that she came home late. They kept saving into the account, and Olga periodically checked the balance in the banking app, happy to see the numbers climb.
In early September, she received her annual bonus—a large one, almost a third of what they still needed for the car they wanted. Olga decided immediately: they should move everything into a higher-interest deposit. The bank had a strong offer for deposits above a certain amount.
During her lunch break she went to the branch. The consultant—a pleasant woman in her forties—smiled.
“Let me pull up your account… Oh. That’s a good amount to start a deposit.”
“Yes, we’re saving for a car,” Olga said proudly.
“A great goal. But…” The consultant frowned at the screen. “You have some strange transactions here. Large sums are being withdrawn regularly. Did you know about this?”
Olga’s heart skipped.
“What withdrawals?”
“Here—look. Fifteen thousand on June tenth. Twenty thousand on June twenty-fifth. Ten thousand on July third. And so on.”
Olga stared at the screen as everything inside her turned to ice. Their savings. Their shared money—set aside for their future. More than half the account was gone.
“Can you see where the transfers went?” she asked.
“To a card issued to…” The consultant read out a name. “Svetlana Igorevna Komarova. Is she a relative?”
Olga closed her eyes. Not scammers. Not a hack. Not theft from outside.
Denis.
Her husband had been transferring their savings to his sister.
“Can you block the card?” Olga asked quietly.
“Of course. I’ll do it right now.”
She rode home on the bus, staring out the window and seeing nothing. Her head roared like an old television full of static. She tried to find an explanation, an excuse. Maybe something serious had happened to Svetlana—an illness, debts, trouble? But then why hadn’t Denis said anything? Why had he been stealing—yes, stealing—their shared money?
She remembered Svetlana’s stylish clothes, the expensive bag, the talk about “the bride market” and “keeping up appearances.” She remembered the mysterious smile: “I have my own sources.”
She did have a source.
Denis.
The man who had been draining their account so his sister could buy outfits.
Olga walked into the apartment around six-thirty. Denis was home, sitting in the kitchen with his phone. When he heard her, he looked up—his face already anxious.
“Olya, are you okay? I tried to transfer money and the card didn’t work.”
She set her handbag down, slipped off her shoes. Slowly. Carefully. Inside, she was boiling, but on the outside she was calm—icy calm.
“I blocked the card.”
“What? Why?”
“I was at the bank today. I wanted to move the money into a deposit. And I found out half of it was missing.”
Denis went pale. One second. Two. Three—silence.
“You blocked the card? Then what are my mom and my sister supposed to live on?” he shouted, but Olga only smiled.
“You’ve been sending our money to Svetlana,” she said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
“I was going to tell you—”
“How long?” Olga cut him off.
“What?”
“How long have you been doing it?”
“Only since June. Since she came back. Olya, she’s in a bad place—she needed help…”
“A bad place?” Olga let out a bitter laugh. “In a cashmere coat with a bag worth fifty thousand?”
“That stuff is from Moscow—”
“She’s wearing new clothes! I’ve seen it! Every time it’s something new!”
“She needs… she says it’s for finding a decent husband…”
“For finding a husband?!” Olga felt herself start to shake. “Den, we were saving for a car. We were planning our life. And you just gave our money away so your adult sister could show off for potential grooms?”
“It’s not like that! She promised she’d pay it back!”
“When? With what money? She’s been looking for a ‘worthy job’ for three months!”
Denis paced the kitchen, raking his hands through his hair.
“I couldn’t say no. She’s my sister. She really is struggling. Andrey left her, she doesn’t have work…”
“And that means your mother should support her? And when Mom isn’t enough, you dip into our joint savings?”
“Olya, please, understand…”
“No, you understand!” she stepped closer. “Your sister is twenty-eight! She’s healthy, educated, with two working hands and legs. But instead of taking any job and living on her own, she decided the world owes her. That Mom owes her. That her brother owes her.”
“She’s not like that—”
“She is exactly like that! And you keep enabling it! You lied to me for three months!”
Denis fell silent, head down. Olga watched his jaw muscles twitch.
“Unblock the card,” he said quietly.
“No.”
“Olya…”
“No!” she almost screamed. “Those were our savings! Our goal! You had no right!”
“I did! I was saving too!”
“And I was saving too—more than you! Because I earn more, remember?”
He flinched as if she’d slapped him. Olga saw something change in his face, his features hardening.
“So that’s what this is,” he said coldly. “Now you get to decide because you make more?”
“No,” Olga replied. “I decide because I’m the only one here with common sense.”
“We had an agreement—”
“You broke it first!”
They stood facing each other, and suddenly a chasm opened between them. Five years of marriage, understanding, trust—collapsed in minutes.
Denis’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen, and his face twisted.
“Sveta,” he muttered, and walked out into the hallway.
Olga stayed in the kitchen, hearing fragments.
“Yeah, she blocked it… I don’t know… Olya found out… No, I can’t right now… Wait, I’ll figure it out…”
He came back a minute later, flushed, eyes wild.
But Olga was still smiling. Strangely, she hadn’t expected it either. Something inside her had simply let go. A veil had fallen away. She saw everything clearly—sharp and unvarnished.
Her husband, who thought it was normal to lie to her for three months. Who spent their savings without even a conversation. Who screamed at her while defending a grown sister living off other people.
And the future—where Olga would keep working, saving, planning, while Denis handed money out left and right because “family,” “sister,” “I can’t say no.”
She smiled because the decision suddenly became simple. Crystal-clear.
“Olya, do you hear me?!” Denis grabbed her shoulders, shaking her. “Mom can’t handle it alone! She needs help!”
“Tamara Ivanovna needs help,” Olga said evenly, “not Svetlana. Your sister doesn’t need help. She needs free money for clothes.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand perfectly. And you know what, Den? I’m done understanding.”
She turned and walked into the bedroom. Pulled a bag from the closet and started packing.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving. I’ll stay at Lena’s for a couple of days. Then I’ll find a rental.”
“Olya, don’t… Let’s talk…”
“About what?” she looked back. “About how you’ll keep supporting your sister? About how we’ll spend another two years saving for a car because half the money went to her outfits? About the fact that I don’t trust you anymore?”
“I won’t do it again! I promise!”
“Den,” she stepped closer and met his eyes, “you will. Because for you this is normal. Because you think I’m supposed to ‘understand.’ But I’m not. I’m not obligated to support your sister.”
“This isn’t about support—”
“It’s exactly about support. You were giving her ten to twenty thousand every two weeks. Over three months—that’s more than a hundred thousand. That isn’t help, Den. That’s keeping her.”
He didn’t answer. In his eyes there was resentment, confusion, anger—but no remorse. And Olga understood: he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. He thought she should have understood, accepted it, forgiven it.
“You’ll regret this,” he said dully.
“Maybe,” she nodded, zipping the bag. “But it’ll be my choice.”
She left that evening. Stayed with a friend at first, then rented a small studio on the edge of town. Two weeks later, she filed for divorce.
Denis called and texted, begged to meet, promised everything would change. Olga stayed silent. She understood the main thing: you can’t glue trust back together with promises.
The divorce was quick—there wasn’t much jointly owned property. They rented their place, their furniture was cheap, and the old car was in Denis’s name. Olga demanded nothing; she just took her things and the money that remained in the account.
Six months later, she changed jobs—moved to an international company with an even higher salary. Rented a larger apartment. Bought herself a used but reliable Honda.
One day, a year after the divorce, she ran into Svetlana by chance in a shopping mall. Sveta was walking arm-in-arm with a man in his fifties in an expensive suit, a gold chain on his neck. Svetlana was dressed to the nines, laughing, holding onto his arm.
Found herself a sponsor, Olga thought. Or a husband. What did it matter?
She walked past without stopping. Her life no longer intersected with that family. And, oddly enough, she didn’t feel pity—only a lightness, like relief.
That night, in her small but cozy apartment, Olga made tea and sat by the window. She looked down at her car in the courtyard. Not new. Not the one she and Denis had dreamed of. But hers. Bought with her own money. No compromises, no obligations, no need to support other people’s adult children.
A bank notification popped up: salary deposited. Olga opened the app and transferred a third of it into savings. A new goal now—a down payment on her own apartment. It was still far away, but she would get there. Alone. By her own rules.
And, strangely, she felt good. Light. As if she’d taken off a heavy backpack she’d been carrying without realizing how much it weighed.
She smiled at her reflection in the dark window and raised her cup in a silent toast.
To freedom. To choice. To the right not to “understand” someone else’s wrongdoing.