— “I’m not staying at home. Especially since… I was promoted. I’m the head of the department now.”
— “How is that even possible?!” he finally exploded, slamming the words down as if he’d hit the table. “It’s… it’s YOU! Just Sveta. Ordinary Sveta. Our Sveta. Why would they promote you? Huh? Who did you have to sleep with to get put in that position?”
Svetlana sat at work, avoiding her coworkers’ eyes. She stared at her work notebook—the one bursting with tabs and project notes. She still couldn’t believe what had just happened to her.
The director had called her in for no apparent reason. She’d already assumed there must be issues with the latest project, but the reason turned out to be something else entirely: she was offered a promotion to department head.
The previous manager was moving to another city and quitting. The position was offered to Svetlana—because she was considered the most reliable and outstanding employee. She had waited five years for this moment.
She joined the company straight out of university: bright-eyed, buzzing with energy, and determined to grow into a leadership role. Over those five years she got married, moved in with her husband, learned to balance work and family, became more serious and levelheaded… and far more experienced.
She matured—and her career rose with her. Only her husband, Egor, never stopped repeating the same thing:
— “Sveta, quit fooling around. Stay home.”
He hated coming back to an empty apartment, where nobody had been around since morning. Clothes were scattered, the bed left unmade, dirty mugs sitting on the table.
Yet he happily ate lunch in restaurants, casually bought clothes in expensive stores, drove a nice foreign car, and marveled at how well they lived.
Even though he knew perfectly well: his paycheck alone would never pay for all of that. But any argument Svetlana tried to make always ended with the same phrase:
— “A woman belongs at home!”
That evening she came home glowing. She was practically floating—her heart beating faster than usual, the bag of ready-made food trembling in her hands because she’d bought dinner to celebrate the good news… though she still wasn’t sure she’d tell her husband today.
Egor was in a bad mood. He paced around the apartment, constantly frowning, answering her with sharp, clipped replies. It was obvious—he’d been talking to his mother, Evgeniya Petrovna, again. Svetlana decided not to risk it and kept quiet for now. On the weekend, though, she would tell him for sure.
She set the table, they ate. Then she washed the plates, packed lunch containers for tomorrow, rinsed fruit, wiped down the stove—an ordinary evening, just like always. And only once they were already in bed did Egor, without looking at her, say:
— “Mom’s coming on Saturday. We need to set the table. Make something decent—so it’s not like last time.”
Svetlana swallowed; the smile vanished from her face.
— “All right,” she replied evenly.
She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thinking:
Why does Evgeniya Petrovna always barge into our life and ruin everything? Even now, after such a perfect day…
The remaining two workdays Svetlana lived at a sprint. Now each morning didn’t start with her usual coffee at the computer, but with her standing in the doorway of her former boss’s office—notebook in hand, pen ready, anxiety lodged in her chest.
Her notebook quickly thickened with new notes. The pages filled with tiny handwriting: deadlines, contacts, project diagrams, reminders in brackets, stars, exclamation points. Sveta tried not to miss even the smallest detail. The previous manager was leaving on Monday, and she understood: whatever she didn’t catch now would become her problem on Monday. She kept chasing him down the corridor, clinging to every word.
The days were so draining that at home she did nothing but toss her clothes onto a chair and collapse into bed—without even dinner. And on top of everything, Saturday with her mother-in-law was looming like a storm cloud.
Sveta told herself:
— “No. I can’t carry all of this. This is beyond human limits.”
So she made a sensible decision: she would cook only the main hot dish—oven-baked meat with potatoes. Everything else she’d order from the café nearby. Their food was always fresh and tasty, and she and Egor had eaten there plenty of times. Of course, Egor always said:
— “Now that’s how you cook, Sveta!”
But Sveta had long since stopped reacting.
By Saturday everything was ready: salads were arranged on neat plates, pastries waiting, and the table covered with a tablecloth patterned with delicate blue flowers—a gift from her mother. She put the meat in the oven an hour and a half before the guests arrived. The apartment filled with the scent of garlic and herbs. It reminded her of the warm family holidays of her childhood.
Evgeniya Petrovna arrived exactly on time—as if she’d been standing outside the door. And of course she brought her husband along. Vladimir Ivanovich, as usual, stood quietly behind her and looked like a man who’d been told to stay home but had been brought along out of politeness.
He was like a page trailing a queen: shoulders always lowered, obedient nodding, a soft “yes, yes” whenever his wife spoke. Sometimes Svetlana wondered whether he had already forgotten what having his own opinion even meant.
As always, Evgeniya Petrovna hadn’t even settled at the table before launching into her favorite monologue—about her younger son. About her golden boy Andryusha, who had “made it all on his own.”
Even though everyone knew the truth: he rented a tiny place somewhere beyond the Moscow Ring Road, his parents regularly sent him money, and he switched jobs every three months. But to his mother, the mere fact he’d moved to Moscow sounded almost like, he started a company with thousands of employees.
Egor listened in silence. Svetlana could see irritation boiling inside him—he sat gripping his fork as if he wanted to bend it. He wasn’t against his brother, but he couldn’t stand these endless comparisons.
And then Evgeniya Petrovna, puffing up with pride, announced:
— “And our Andrey got married! Right in Moscow! To a real Moscow girl, Sasha. Neat, intelligent. And, by the way, she doesn’t work—unlike some people. Andrey provides for her like a real man!”
The words hung in the air. Sveta even stopped serving herself salad. She only thought about how the in-laws would now send Andrey even more money—because now he had a wife to support. And naturally, it would all be framed as: we have to help; he’s in the capital; it matters.
But before she could say a word, Egor slammed his glass down so hard that water spilled over the rim—just like his patience. It was easier for him to snap at his wife than to tell his mother what he really thought.
— “You should be staying home too!” he blurted, staring at Svetlana as if she’d done something wrong. “Not wandering around God knows where!”
A heavy silence filled the room. Even Vladimir Ivanovich stopped nodding. Evgeniya Petrovna lifted her chin, as if she’d been waiting for this. And Svetlana, not being foolish, calmly said:
— “I’m not staying at home. Besides… I was promoted. I’m the head of the department now.”
The silence at the table became so complete that the only sound was neighborhood boys shouting outside. Sveta calmly picked up her fork and kept eating. She knew a storm was coming, and the best thing she could do was keep her face steady.
But everyone else froze: Evgeniya Petrovna with raised brows, Vladimir Ivanovich with a spoon suspended midair, Egor with cracked lips and wide eyes. Egor spoke first, of course. He looked as if someone had just told him the Earth was flat. He stared at Sveta like she was a stranger.
— “What do you mean… head of the department?” he forced out.
One second. Two. And then something snapped inside him. His face went dark red, his jaw clenched. He started breathing like he’d run a marathon.
— “How is that even possible?!” he roared. “It’s you! You’re just Sveta! Ordinary Sveta. Our Sveta. Why would they promote you?!”
He leaned forward.
— “So what did you do? Tell me. Who did you impress? Or… who did you have to sleep with to get put there?”
Sveta looked at him calmly, but Egor didn’t stop. He seemed to go mad inside his own fantasies.
— “No way they’d just give it to you… They don’t hand out jobs like that for nothing!” he was nearly shouting.
And right then, as if on cue, Evgeniya Petrovna joined in. She adjusted the collar of her dress and sat straighter, like she was about to deliver an official statement:
— “It’s improper for a wife to outrank her husband. It’s not decent, Svetlana. Have some shame. You need to quit.”
She shook her head as if pronouncing a final verdict.
— “For a woman, the most important things are home, husband, family. And you still can’t stop playing at a career…”
Svetlana set her fork down on the edge of her plate.
— “I worked a long time for this position,” her voice was steady, almost cold. “And none of you is going to force me to quit.”
She held her mother-in-law’s condescending stare.
— “I already had a good salary. Now it’ll be a third higher.”
Evgeniya Petrovna pressed a hand to her chest as if she’d heard something outrageous.
— “Money isn’t the most important thing for a woman,” she breathed.
But Sveta continued:
— “I have my own apartment. The mortgage is paid off. I’ve wanted a bigger place for a long time. I told Egor—he always brushed it off: ‘why?’ He doesn’t like saving. But he loves living large—restaurants, vacations by the sea, a nice car. Or do you think all of that came out of his pocket?”
She looked at her husband with something close to pity.
— “I didn’t expect your parents to be happy for me. But… I thought at least you, Egor, would be on my side.”
Egor jumped to his feet.
— “Of course not!” he snapped. “What, you want to be above me? Have you forgotten your place?!”
His face turned even redder. He waved his arms so wildly he knocked over a glass of juice, spilling it across the table.
Evgeniya Petrovna nodded, as if she were conducting the whole performance.
— “Egor’s right,” she added. “A wife should obey her husband. Not run off to jobs. You’re embarrassing us.”
— “It’s time to settle down,” her father-in-law added quietly, but Sveta understood he was only echoing his wife.
Their voices layered over each other—pressing, chanting, crushing—and suddenly the room felt like it had less air. Sveta had to leave—first the table, and then… the apartment. Without a word she grabbed her fur coat, wrapped a scarf around her neck, didn’t even look at her husband’s twisted face, and walked out.
The freezing winter air hit her like a slap. Sveta breathed in deeply and walked down the alley where streetlamps cast golden circles on the snow and mothers strolled with children on the playgrounds. Someone was building a snowman; someone was sliding downhill on a plastic sled. Sveta watched the little kids and felt an emptiness open up somewhere inside her.
She had always dreamed of having children—but first she wanted to stand firmly on her feet. And Egor… once said he didn’t want kids before thirty.
— “I haven’t seen everything life has to offer yet. Kids are a burden,” he’d said—like a teenager.
Sveta stood there until her gloved hands turned icy, then turned around and went home. She returned late—after her in-laws had already left. She opened the door… and went still when she saw her suitcase by the threshold.
Big, gray, with an airport sticker she’d never peeled off. Egor stood in the hallway with his arms crossed over his chest.
— “Pack your things,” he threw at her, refusing to meet her eyes. “And get out.”
He paused, then added:
— “When you think about your behavior, then you can come back.”
Sveta stared at the suitcase in silence, took off her boots, and began gathering her things. She left without regret. Yes, it hurt—eighteen months of marriage, gone. But what was there to regret? She remembered the words everyone repeats at weddings: “in sorrow and in joy…”
And suddenly she realized: their marriage couldn’t survive even joy. And if real sorrow had come—illness, loss, true hardship? She didn’t even want to imagine it.
Outside it was bitterly cold, but she felt as though it was even colder inside her. She hailed a taxi and quietly gave her parents’ address.
Yulia Vladimirovna met her daughter without unnecessary words—no questions, no accusations. She simply hugged her tight, took her coat, and offered mint tea.
— “Sleep, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Everything else can wait.”
In the morning Sveta told her everything—calmly, without hysteria. She ended with:
— “I’m getting divorced.”
Yulia Vladimirovna only nodded.
— “You’re doing the right thing, my girl.”
No “I told you so,” no lectures. Only support—the kind Sveta had been missing lately.
At work, everything became surprisingly peaceful. Nothing interfered with her focus. On Monday morning, after drinking coffee and sorting her first emails, Sveta submitted an online divorce application. Her fingers trembled, but inside she felt certain. Not long after, her phone started blowing up with calls. It was Egor.
He clearly hadn’t expected her to go all the way. At first he wanted to scream; then he started texting, asking to make up and “work it out.” Sveta didn’t answer and didn’t pick up. When the missed calls passed forty, she blocked Egor’s number.
Her mother-in-law, of course, was delighted. Her dream had come true: her precious son was “divorcing that career woman.” Only she hadn’t considered one small detail—Egor could no longer be as generous as before.
All those restaurant dinners, the new clothes, the trips—that lifestyle had largely been funded by Sveta. When money is pooled, you don’t always see who is contributing more.
But once they separated… it became obvious Egor had enough to get by, but not enough to live beautifully. He didn’t want to tighten his belt, of course, but he had no choice.
The first blow was the car—his beloved pride and joy. He pampered it, polished it, posted photos on social media. But the car had been purchased during the marriage, and it had to be sold and the money divided in half. Egor shouted like they were splitting custody of a child, not a piece of metal.
But the law is the law. Then he tried to claim a part of Sveta’s apartment—the same one-bedroom she’d taken out a mortgage on before she ever met him. The court recognized only five payments made during the marriage as joint contributions. Sveta handed him half of that amount with a laugh—pennies. But he took them.
That was the first time she thought:
My God… he’s so petty.
Meanwhile Sveta’s life kept rising. Work was buzzing. Yes, the first weeks were truly hard—reports and piles of tasks that used to sit on the manager’s shoulders. And now that manager was her.
But gradually she found her rhythm. The team respected her, partners listened, and leadership was pleased.
One partner stood out in particular—Nikita Sergeyevich. Smart, reserved, thirty-five. At first he asked only work questions, then he started calling more often and suggesting meetings. A couple of times they had lunch together—always “for business,” but Sveta could feel he genuinely enjoyed her company.
And, honestly, she did too.
And one day, closer to evening, when the office was starting to empty, Nikita Sergeyevich called and asked:
— “Svetlana… may I invite you to dinner?”
Sveta looked at him and suddenly realized: she didn’t owe anyone anything anymore. And she said:
— “Yes… you may.”