Victoria left the office at exactly six, but felt no joy about the workday ending. An hour on public transport waited ahead, and after that—a predictable blowup at home. Igor had returned from his shift work yesterday, and she knew he’d be standing in the doorway to meet her.
They’d married seven years earlier, back when Victoria was a regular sales clerk in an electronics store. Igor had just landed a job as a driller in the oil fields and talked nonstop about big money. He promised that in a couple of years they’d save enough for a place of their own and finally start a happy life. Victoria believed him. She didn’t even argue when he began leaving for month-long rotations. The important thing, she told herself, was that he loved her and wanted a family.
They did buy an apartment—but with a mortgage. And it was registered in Victoria’s name, because Igor was always away and couldn’t gather all the documents the bank required. By then Victoria had moved up to sales manager and had a steady income. The bank approved her loan without hesitation.
“It’s our place anyway,” Igor said, kissing her. “Who it’s registered to doesn’t matter. What matters is we’ll live here together.”
But they lived “together” only two weeks a month. The rest of the time Igor was somewhere in the far north, out on drilling rigs, while Victoria handled the household alone and paid the mortgage. She didn’t complain—she understood his work was real work too. Still, she never quite knew where his money went. Igor bought expensive clothes, upgraded his phone every year, and when he came home, he often went out to restaurants with friends. Whenever she asked about their shared budget, he dodged the conversation.
“My job is specific—I need to look good around my coworkers,” he would say. “And besides, you make decent money. You’ve got enough for the mortgage and groceries, so what’s the problem?”
The problem didn’t show up overnight. In the early years Victoria tried hard to be the perfect wife. When Igor returned from a rotation, she greeted him with a hot dinner—three courses, no less. She made soups, stews, roasted meat, fresh salads. Igor ate with pleasure, praised her, and said how much he missed real home cooking.
“Now this is what I call food!” he’d exclaim, piling on seconds. “For a whole month I was stuck with cafeteria garbage. Only at home can you eat properly!”
Victoria glowed when she saw him satisfied. She didn’t spare time or energy, even though she came home exhausted from work. If Igor was happy, that felt like the most important thing.
At first their marriage felt like an endless honeymoon. Igor would come back tired but cheerful. Victoria would feed him, ask about his shift, listen to stories about brutal conditions and long hours, and comfort him when he was worn down. She truly believed they were a team.
Back then he helped here and there—take out the trash, wash dishes after dinner. He did it like he was performing a heroic act, but Victoria didn’t focus on that. At least he was making an effort, she thought.
His mother, Larisa Fyodorovna, came to visit once a month. She inspected the apartment with a critical gaze, checked the shelves for dust, and found something to comment on in Victoria’s cooking. Victoria clenched her teeth and endured. It was his mother—she told herself she had to keep the peace.
“The soup isn’t bad, but it needs more salt,” the older woman would say, tasting it. “And you should have added more sour cream. Igor likes it richer.”
“I’ll remember that,” Victoria replied, silently counting to ten.
Over time the visits grew more frequent, and the criticism sharper. Larisa Fyodorovna considered it her duty to teach her daughter-in-law “how life works.” She explained the “correct” way to wash men’s shirts, what groceries to buy, and what time dinner should be served.
“A man should come home to a set table,” she lectured. “That’s the foundation of family happiness. A fed husband is a content husband.”
Victoria nodded, then kept living by her own schedule. She wasn’t going to rebuild her life around her mother-in-law’s demands. Still, the tension kept piling up.
Igor began changing about a year into the marriage. Any help around the house disappeared completely. He stopped taking out the trash, stopped washing dishes. If Victoria asked why, he snapped.
“I’m exhausted! I worked like a horse for a whole month! Let me rest at home for once!”
Victoria knew drilling work really was brutal. She didn’t push. Two weeks, she told herself—you can endure two weeks.
But those two weeks turned into a permanent expectation. Victoria cooked, cleaned, did laundry, ironed. Igor lay on the couch or went out with friends. He stopped asking about her day, stopped showing any interest in her job, and never offered to help.
“How was your day?” Victoria would ask at dinner.
“Fine,” he’d answer without lifting his eyes from his phone. “What are we having for the main course?”
Their conversations became paper-thin. Igor spoke only about his work, his plans, his buddies. Victoria started to feel invisible in her own home.
When she got promoted, Igor reacted with indifference.
“Good,” he said, and went back to the football match.
She expected congratulations—pride, excitement, questions. Instead, nothing. Something inside her cracked then, though she wasn’t ready to admit it.
Later Victoria was promoted again. She began handling major clients and multimillion-ruble contracts. She couldn’t leave early whenever she wanted or take days off on a whim. She stayed at the office until eight some nights, and sometimes worked Saturdays. After days like that, she simply didn’t have the strength to cook elaborate meals.
Igor didn’t understand—and didn’t want to. He believed his wife was obligated to cook no matter what.
“I work a full month without weekends!” he complained. “Two weeks at home is the only time I can rest and eat normally! And what do you serve me—store-bought salads and frozen junk?”
Victoria tried to explain that her job was demanding too. That she was tired as well. That he could heat up prepared food or order delivery. Igor waved it off.
“That’s not food. I want homemade, do you get it? Real food—fried potatoes with meat, fresh salads!”
Larisa Fyodorovna backed her son with enthusiasm. She called Victoria almost daily to deliver lectures.
“Victoria, what is this nonsense? Igor says you’ve stopped feeding him! He works himself to death, earns money, and you can’t manage a simple dinner?”
“I work too,” Victoria replied, forcing patience. “I’m in a very difficult period right now—a major project. I physically can’t cook three dishes every day.”
“Nonsense! A woman always finds time for her husband! When I was your age, I worked, kept the house, raised my son—and my Leonid was never left hungry!”
Victoria wanted to say that times had changed, that women had a right to careers, but she knew it was useless. Larisa Fyodorovna believed housework was strictly a woman’s responsibility.
Igor never helped around the house. He could lie on the couch for days scrolling his phone or watching TV, and still wouldn’t carry his plate to the sink. Victoria washed the dishes, cleaned the apartment, did his laundry. When she asked him to at least vacuum, he exploded.
“I work on rotation! When I’m home, I need to rest—not mess around with cleaning! That’s your job!”
“Why is it my job?” Victoria finally snapped one day. “We both work. We both earn money. Why is the house only on me?”
“Because I’m a man!” Igor stared at her like she’d asked something ridiculous. “Men make money; women run the home. That’s how it’s supposed to work!”
Victoria fell silent. Arguing was pointless—he truly believed it.
Three weeks earlier her managers had handed her an urgent assignment. A big client planned to purchase equipment worth millions, but demanded a customized proposal with detailed calculations for every item. She had two weeks to prepare it. Victoria warned Igor that she’d be overloaded.
“Igor, I’ll be staying late,” she told him. “Please take care of your own meals or buy something ready-made. There are frozen things in the fridge—you just have to heat them.”
Igor grunted, unhappy, but didn’t respond. Victoria took that as agreement.
The first week passed relatively calmly. Igor did heat up food, though every evening came with commentary.
“Those store cutlets again,” he muttered. “Rubbery. No taste.”
Victoria ignored him. She came home late, ate something simple, and collapsed into bed. In the morning she ran to work again. The project drained her, but she knew it mattered. Closing the deal would bring a solid bonus and strengthen her position at the company.
The second week Igor started calling his mother to complain. Larisa Fyodorovna immediately called Victoria and began tearing into her.
“You’ve got some nerve! Igor told me you’re feeding him frozen factory food! That isn’t food—it’s poison! You’ll ruin his stomach!”
“Larisa Fyodorovna, I explained: I have a major project. I physically can’t cook every day.”
“Then quit your job! Why do you need a career? Igor earns well—he could support you both! You should stay home and feed your husband properly!”
Victoria ground her teeth. She didn’t want to explain that Igor spent his money on himself while she paid the mortgage. His mother would still take his side and excuse him.
The explosion came Thursday night. Victoria left the office at eight thirty. The client presentation was almost finished; only final touches remained. She dreamed of a shower and sleep. The moment she stepped into the apartment, she felt the air—tight, charged.
Igor sat in the kitchen at an empty table, face dark, fists clenched. Victoria knew what was coming.
“Hi,” she said carefully. “How are you?”
Igor slowly lifted his eyes. Barely controlled anger stared back.
“How am I? Wonderful! I sat here hungry all day because my wife decided her job matters more than her family!”
Victoria kicked off her shoes and went to the kitchen. She opened the fridge—yogurts, cheese, vegetables for salad, a pack of sausages.
“Igor, there’s plenty of food. You could have made something yourself.”
“Made what?” He sprang up and yanked the fridge door open so hard the jars rattled. “This? Yogurt and cucumbers? Am I a rabbit to you?”
“There are sausages, pasta in the cupboard, eggs. You can put together dinner in fifteen minutes.”
He slammed the fridge shut so violently Victoria flinched.
“Have you completely lost it?” he shouted. “The table is empty, the fridge is basically empty—I’m starving! I waited all day for you to come home and cook real food! And you’re telling me to fry something myself?”
Heat rushed to Victoria’s face, but her exhaustion snapped into a cold, clear calm.
“Igor, you’re thirty-five. You’re an adult. You can cook dinner for yourself.”
“That’s not my responsibility!” he roared. “I work. I earn money! A woman cooks and keeps the house. That’s the normal division of duties!”
“I work too,” Victoria said quietly, firmly. “I earn money. I pay the mortgage on this apartment. I’m just as tired as you are. And I have a right to rest.”
“Your job is nonsense!” Igor waved a hand with contempt. “You sit in a warm office sipping coffee. I work on a rig in the freezing cold—real physical labor! I need to recover, to eat properly!”
“Then cook for yourself.”
He stared at her like she’d said something obscene.
“What? Say that again!”
“Cook for yourself,” Victoria repeated. “Or buy something ready-made. Or order delivery. I’m done standing at the stove every evening after work so you can stuff yourself while you lie on the couch.”
“How dare you!” Igor’s face turned purple. “You’re my wife! You’re obligated to feed me!”
“I’m not obligated,” Victoria said, taking a bottle of water from the fridge and heading to the bedroom. “I’m your wife, not your housekeeper.”
Igor grabbed his phone and called his mother. Victoria heard his outraged voice from the kitchen, but didn’t interfere. She showered, changed into pajamas, and lay down with her laptop. The presentation still needed polishing.
In the morning she woke to a hard, insistent doorbell. Half past seven. Igor was still asleep, sprawled on the living-room couch. They hadn’t spoken since the night before, and he’d made a show of sleeping separately.
Victoria opened the door and found her mother-in-law on the threshold. Larisa Fyodorovna looked determined.
“Hello, Victoria. We need to talk.”
“Good morning, Larisa Fyodorovna. Come in.”
Her mother-in-law marched into the kitchen without even removing her shoes, sat at the table, and folded her arms.
“Igor told me everything. I’m shocked. How can you treat a husband this way?”
Victoria silently poured herself water. She didn’t want a showdown at dawn, but she didn’t have a choice.
“What exactly did I do wrong?”
“You’re starving him!” Larisa Fyodorovna raised her voice. “My son comes home from backbreaking work and wants to eat properly! And what do you offer him—processed junk? That’s cruelty!”
“I’m not starving him. I’m telling him to cook for himself or buy food.”
“A man shouldn’t stand at the stove!” the older woman slapped the table. “That’s a woman’s duty! You’re a terrible wife, Victoria. You don’t know how to care for your husband!”
Victoria set down her glass and looked her straight in the eye.
“Tell me, Larisa Fyodorovna—why can’t a healthy adult man cook? Why can’t he boil pasta or fry eggs?”
“Because it’s not his responsibility!” Her mother-in-law jumped up. “Igor works, he earns! He provides for the family! A wife creates comfort and feeds her husband!”
“I work and earn too,” Victoria replied evenly. “More than that—I pay the mortgage on this apartment. Igor doesn’t put a single ruble into our family budget. He spends everything on himself.”
Larisa Fyodorovna hesitated for a second, then recovered quickly.
“That doesn’t matter! A man has the right to spend on himself! The important thing is he works! A woman must run the home!”
“Then let your son move in with you,” Victoria said, surprised by her own calm. “You can feed him. I’m not going to be free help anymore.”
“How dare you!” her mother-in-law went pale. “You’re throwing him out?”
“I’m asking him to act like an adult,” Victoria said. “Either he starts cooking for himself and helping at home, or he moves out.”
At that moment Igor walked into the kitchen. He’d clearly heard everything.
“Vika, are you serious? You’re kicking me out?”
“Out of my home,” she corrected. “The apartment is in my name. I pay for it. And I’m not going to serve someone who thinks I’m hired help.”
“You…” Igor began, but his mother gripped his shoulder.
“Igor, calm down. She’s not herself. She’s just overworked.”
“I’m completely myself,” Victoria said. “I’m simply tired of living with a man who spends two weeks a month demanding full service and acting like it’s normal.”
“All women do this!” Igor shouted. “All normal wives cook for their husbands! You’re the only one acting special!”
“Then find a ‘normal’ wife,” Victoria said, taking the keys from the table. “And I’ll file for divorce.”
Silence dropped. Igor and Larisa Fyodorovna stared at her, as if they couldn’t believe what they’d heard.
“You’re joking,” Igor finally said.
“No. I’m serious. Pack your things.”
“You can’t kick me out! This is my apartment too!”
“It’s registered to me,” Victoria reminded him. “I pay the mortgage. You can stay only if you behave like an equal partner. But you don’t want that. So pack up and go to your mother’s.”
Igor tried to argue—he yelled, threatened, said he’d divorce her and take half the apartment. Victoria patiently explained that the place was purchased on her credit and that he hadn’t contributed a ruble. Larisa Fyodorovna tried to defend her son, but Victoria didn’t budge.
By lunchtime Igor had packed. Victoria took his keys.
“You’ll regret this,” he hissed. “I’ll find a normal woman who appreciates me!”
“Good luck,” Victoria answered calmly. “Just warn her up front that what you want isn’t a wife—you want a cook and a maid in one.”
Igor slammed the door. Larisa Fyodorovna followed, tossing over her shoulder:
“You’ll end up alone! Nobody will want you!”
Victoria shut the door and leaned against it. She expected regret, fear—something. Instead, relief flooded her so strongly she almost laughed.
She went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a yogurt. She sat down and ate breakfast in peace. Then she opened her laptop and finished the presentation. The work flowed easily. Her head felt clear.
That evening her mother called.
“Vika, how are you? Larisa Fyodorovna called me. She said you and Igor split up.”
“Yes, Mom. I made him leave.”
“Oh God… what happened?”
Victoria told her briefly, simply. Her mother listened in silence, sighing now and then.
“My girl—you did the right thing,” she finally said. “I was always afraid you stayed with him because you were scared of being alone. But you’re strong. You’ll be fine.”
“I know,” Victoria said.
“Come over tomorrow for dinner. Your father will be happy to see you, and we’ll talk properly.”
Victoria hung up and smiled. She looked around: a clean apartment, quiet, no demands, no shouting. Just her—and her life.
A week later Victoria successfully presented the project to the client. The deal closed, and she received a large bonus. Management offered her another promotion—department head. She accepted without hesitation.
Igor called several times, tried to come back, promised he’d change. Victoria calmly told him she’d filed the divorce papers at the registry office and they both needed to show up to complete the process. When he refused, she said she’d do it through court. A month later, they officially ended the marriage.
The apartment remained with Victoria—she paid the mortgage, and Igor had no claim to it. He tried to demand compensation, but a lawyer quickly explained that without any financial contribution to the property, he had nothing to demand.
Victoria continued living on her own. She learned to cook simple meals for herself, found time for the gym and friends. Six months later she met a man who didn’t expect her to be his personal cook, but suggested they cook together. They split the chores evenly and respected each other’s work.
Sometimes Victoria ran into Larisa Fyodorovna at the store. Her former mother-in-law would turn away and pretend she hadn’t seen her. Victoria didn’t take it personally. She was grateful for the kitchen blowup that opened her eyes. She understood this much: being alone is better than living with someone who treats you like household staff instead of an equal partner.