Each time Dmitry Vasilyevich headed home, he found himself slowing down. At forty-two, he felt closer to sixty. Before he could even slide his key into the lock, the door swung open.
“So, you finally showed up,” Asya said from the doorway. “It’s already ten. Where have you been?”
Dmitry let out a weary sigh. “Working.”
“I know. Only Slava says you were done by seven.”
Slava, her cousin, worked at the same company and kept Asya informed about practically every step Dmitry took.
“I stopped by my mother’s,” he said. “Her blood pressure was up.”
“You could have called,” Asya replied coldly. “Do you realize my parents are arriving tomorrow? And that we’re expected at Vera’s birthday party?”
“I ordered sushi. It’s in the living room.”
He sat down at the table. The sushi had gone cold. Asya didn’t even like sushi; she ordered it only for him. That was how she showed care—by doing what she believed was right, without ever asking what he actually wanted.
They had married five years earlier. Asya was vivid, ambitious, and successful, the owner of a chain of stores. The apartment they lived in and the country house both belonged to her. Dmitry was a successful analyst in his own right, but his income was nowhere near hers.
“Mom asked me to say hello,” he said, trying to shift the subject.
“How is she in that old Khrushchyovka of hers?” Asya asked with a grimace. “Still refusing to move? Ridiculous. We offered her a great option.”
Any mention of his mother always turned into an argument.
“I’m tired,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”
“Of course. As usual, you’re walking away from the conversation.”
The next morning, on his way to work, Dmitry stopped at the dry cleaner’s to pick up Asya’s dress. That evening, when he returned home, he was greeted by his father-in-law, Pyotr Arkadyevich, an old-school businessman.
“How are things on the numbers front, son-in-law?” he said with a smirk. “You should be aiming for excellence. Look at Asya—she’s done well. At her age she already has a chain of stores, her own apartment, a house. And what do you have?”
“He has me, Dad,” Asya said with a faint, mocking smile.
After dinner, Pyotr Arkadyevich continued.
“Tell me, Dmitry. You and Asya have been together for five years now. When are you having children? She’s thirty-eight. Time is passing.”
“We’re working on it,” Dmitry answered evasively.
“I don’t think you’re showing enough initiative. A man should be the head of the family.”
Dmitry had to fight back a laugh.
They came home late after the birthday party.
“You’re still awake?” Asya whispered in the dark.
“No.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“About us. About the fact that we haven’t really talked in a long time. We discuss schedules and plans, but not what matters. Not the future. Not children.”
“We already talked about children. I explained why now isn’t the right time.”
“Yes, but it’s always a monologue, never a dialogue. You decide, and I accept it. Always.”
“So that’s what this is about,” she finally said. “Your male ego is hurting because I earn more?”
“No. It’s about the way you treat me. You don’t see me as your equal.”
“That’s nonsense. I married you, didn’t I? Isn’t that enough?”
“Why did you marry me? Because you loved me? Or because at thirty-three it was time to get a husband, and I checked all the boxes?”
“I don’t want to discuss this right now,” she said sharply.
He woke before everyone else the next morning and went to see his mother. Her small kitchen felt warm and comforting.
“Did something happen, son?” Tatyana Petrovna asked. “You seem lost.”
“It’s not exactly that we had a fight. It’s just… I think we’ve become strangers.”
“Do you love her?” his mother asked simply.
“I don’t know. I’m not even sure I remember what it means to love someone.”
“Love is work. Every day, you choose the other person.”
“You’re a grown man, son. You decide how you want to live.”
Those simple words echoed in his mind all the way home.
When he entered the apartment, silence greeted him. Voices drifted from the bedroom.
“Are you sure?” came Pyotr Arkadyevich’s voice.
“Absolutely,” Asya answered firmly. “I’ve already decided.”
“Mom, enough,” Asya cut in. “It’s been over between us for a long time. Yesterday’s conversation was the last straw.”
Dmitry pushed the door open.
“So it’s divorce?” he asked.
“Don’t pretend this comes as a surprise,” Asya said. “We’re different people.”
“I think you’re right,” he said at last.
Asya pulled out a folder of documents.
“I’ve already prepared everything. My lawyer handled it. You just need to sign.”
“And the division of property?”
“What is there to divide? I bought the apartment before the marriage. The house too.”
“That’s true. There’s nothing to divide.”
“You’re not going to argue?”
“About what? About five years of married life? No, Asya.”
Then he looked at her.
“Asya, can I ask you one question? Did you ever love me?”
She hesitated.
“I thought I did. At first. But later… later I realized it was infatuation. A desire to have a family, a certain status. I’m sorry.”
Dmitry nodded.
“Thank you for being honest.”
He left the apartment without looking back. His phone vibrated in his pocket—a message from a friend:
“How are you, old man? Want to grab a drink?”
He smiled and typed back:
“Yes. Very much.”
As he stepped out of the building, Dmitry drew a deep breath. For the first time in a long while, he felt relief. As though a heavy backpack had finally slipped from his shoulders.
A new life was waiting for him ahead. One without constant complaints or reproaches.
His phone buzzed again. It was his mother.
“Dima? Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Mom,” he answered, and for the first time in a very long while, it was the truth. “Everything’s all right. Now it really is.”