“Well then, Nelly, is the borscht at least decent today?” Vadim snapped his fingers and leaned back in his chair. His friends were sitting around the table—Genka with his wife, and Seryoga. Saturday. Guests. As usual, no warning.
For nine years I had heard different versions of the same line. “Well, Nelly, did you at least not burn it today?” “Well, Nelly, the dress is old, but you still look all right.” “Well, Nelly, when are you finally going to learn how to cook?” Always in front of other people. Always with that smirk, as if it were all just a joke. And I would stand there with the ladle and smile back. Because if I made a scene in front of guests, then suddenly it was “you’re being hysterical again.”
Genka snorted. His wife Sveta lowered her eyes to her plate. Seryoga reached for the bread and pretended not to hear.
“The borscht is fine,” I said. “Your salary last month, though? Barely a passing grade.”
Vadim froze, spoon in hand. Genka stopped chewing. The silence was so complete you could hear the refrigerator humming.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vadim asked.
“Nothing. Just joking. You like jokes, don’t you?”
He said nothing. Finished his meal in silence. The guests left early. At the door, Sveta squeezed my hand—quickly, almost apologetically. For what? For staying silent? Or for hearing everything?
That evening Vadim was sprawled on the couch scrolling through his phone while I washed the dishes. Four plates, three mugs, one frying pan. He had, as always, left his plate on the table. In nine years he had never once carried his own plate to the sink. Not once. I counted during the first two years. Then I stopped.
“You humiliated me in front of people today,” he said without looking up from the screen.
“You humiliate me every other Saturday. At least twice a month.”
“I joke. You lash out.”
I set a plate on the drying rack. My wet fingers slipped along the edge. I wanted to say so much. But I stayed quiet. Not because I was afraid. Because I knew words would change nothing. He didn’t hear me. Hadn’t heard me in nine years.
His phone lit up with a message. He flipped it face down. Fast. Practiced.
I noticed.
The bonus came in March. Thirty-two thousand rubles. I worked as an accountant for a construction company, and I had earned that bonus with three weeks of overtime. Late evenings over reports while Vadim watched football or disappeared to “the guys at the garage.”
Thirty-two thousand. I set the envelope on the table. I hadn’t even taken off my coat yet.
Vadim picked it up and thumbed through the bills.
“Perfect. I was short on the compressor.”
“What compressor?”
“For the garage. I told you.”
He hadn’t. I would have remembered. But arguing was useless—he always said he had “told me,” and somehow I had always “forgotten.”
Thirty-two thousand. Three weeks. Fourteen evenings at work until nine o’clock. Compressor.
The next day I went to the bank. Not the one where we had our joint account. Another one, two blocks away. I opened a card in my own name. Arranged for all notifications to go only through the mobile app—no text alerts popping up on the screen.
The first transfer was five thousand. From my salary. Vadim didn’t notice. He never paid close attention to my spending. It was enough for him to know that “there’s money on the card.” How much exactly never interested him.
Five thousand. Then seven. Then ten. I started saving on groceries—buying chicken instead of beef, cooking with seasonal vegetables. Vadim didn’t notice. He barely noticed what he ate anyway, unless he had a reason to complain.
A month later, I called Rita.
“You’re serious?” she asked.
“I am.”
“Nelly, leave now. Why save, why wait? Just pack your things and go.”
“And go where? To your one-room place? With Varya and the cat?”
Rita fell silent. She understood. I was forty-six years old, owned no home of my own, my parents’ apartment had long been sold, and my share had gone toward my mother’s treatment. Leaving would mean ending up in a rented room on a salary of forty-eight thousand. Vadim knew that. And I knew it too.
“Then save,” Rita said. “Just be careful.”
A month later I had twenty-seven thousand in the account. Every evening I opened the app in the bathroom while the water ran. I looked at the number. And fell asleep a little calmer.
Meanwhile, Vadim came home later and later. Wednesday—“meeting.” Friday—“garage.” Sometimes Saturday—“fishing.” Yet the fishing rods in the trunk had been gathering dust for three months.
One night he left his phone on the kitchen table and went to shower.
I wasn’t planning to check it. Really. I was pouring tea when the screen lit up. A message from “Zhanna work”: Miss you. When already?
My hands jerked. Tea splashed onto the countertop. It was hot enough to burn my wrist, but I didn’t pull away. I just stood there staring at the screen until it went dark.
Then I picked up the phone. The code was 1987. His birth year. In nine years he had never even changed the password.
The message thread was long. I scrolled fast, my fingers shaking. Not from fear. From something else—something heavy and dull, like a stone in my stomach.
Zhanna. A coworker from a neighboring department. Forty-four. Divorced. Apartment in a new building.
After New Year’s, I’ll talk to her and leave.
She’s not going anywhere, she knows that herself.
She has nothing and nowhere to go. She’ll sit quietly.
I put the phone back where it had been. Face up.
Vadim came out of the shower, grabbed the phone, slipped it into his pocket, and looked at me.
“Tea hot?”
“It’s fine.”
He sat down and lifted the mug. I watched him drink. Calm. Certain. A man who had decided everything already. A man who knew his wife was “not going anywhere.”
There were three hundred and eighty thousand in my account.
That night I lay awake staring at the ceiling while Vadim snored beside me. I wasn’t thinking about Zhanna. Not about the messages. I was thinking about numbers. Three hundred and eighty thousand was not enough. To make a down payment on a one-bedroom apartment in our city, I needed at least eight hundred. Better yet, a million.
So I needed a second job.
The next week I made an arrangement with Larisa from the office next door. She was looking for a part-time accountant—remote, evenings. Fifteen thousand a month. I told Vadim I was staying late at work. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t care.
Fifteen thousand extra. Plus ten from my main salary. Plus the savings. Four months later I had seven hundred and twelve thousand.
I applied for a mortgage online. Filled out the forms at night while Vadim slept. Got income statements from both jobs. Applied under the program for people without housing of their own.
The approval came on Thursday. I was sitting in the kitchen drinking cold tea, reading the message three times over. Your application has been approved. Amount: 3,200,000 rubles. Down payment: from 15%. Term: up to 25 years.
Fifteen percent of 3.2 million was four hundred and eighty thousand. I had seven hundred and twelve. More than enough.
The next week I went to see the apartment. A one-bedroom on the eighth floor. Thirty-six square meters. A big east-facing window—the sun would pour in every morning. Small kitchen, but enough for me. I was going to live there alone.
The realtor walked me through the rooms. I touched the walls. Smooth, fresh plaster. The place smelled of paint and new beginnings.
“Are you taking it?” she asked.
“I am.”
That evening Vadim came home at ten. He smelled of someone else’s perfume—sweet, heavy. I said nothing. Washed the dishes. Went to bed.
There were eight hundred and ninety-three thousand in my account. Two months until the move—just enough time to wait for the deal with the developer to go through. I counted the days.
They came on a Saturday. Vadim’s mother, his brother Oleg and Oleg’s wife. “Family lunch.” Vadim gave me two hours’ notice—“Mom’s coming, set the table properly.”
So I did. Salad, roasted chicken, potatoes. Two hours of cooking. A table for six. As always.
His mother, Zinaida Pavlovna, sat in her usual place by the window, like a commander at her post. Oleg poked at the salad with his fork. His wife Lena smiled softly.
The first hour passed without incident. Vadim joked, poured wine, acted cheerful. Too cheerful. I knew that tone—he was getting ready to announce something.
After the second glass, he stood up.
“Well, family. I’ve got news.”
Zinaida Pavlovna raised her head. Oleg stopped chewing.
“I’m leaving Nelly.”
Silence. Lena dropped her fork.
“I found a normal woman. Zhanna. We work together. It’s serious. Long overdue, really—you can all see what this has been like.”
He gestured vaguely around the apartment. Our apartment. His apartment. The place where I had spent nine years washing floors, making borscht, enduring his jokes, and washing his socks.
Zinaida Pavlovna looked at me. Not with sympathy. With appraisal. As if checking to see whether I would cry.
Oleg cleared his throat.
“Come on, Vadim, maybe not at the table?”
“When else? It’s fine. Nelly knew this was coming. Where’s she going to go? She’ll sit with it for a while, think it over, then we’ll separate peacefully.”
Where’s she going to go? I had seen those words in the messages to Zhanna. And now he said them out loud. In front of everyone.
I sat across from him, back straight, hands on my knees. I could feel my nails digging into my palms. It hurt. But the pain helped—it kept me from crying.
My bag stood by the door. Inside it was a key ring. Two keys with a little tag. Apartment number eighty-three. My apartment. The paperwork had been signed a week earlier.
I stood up. Went to the hallway. Picked up the bag. Came back. Vadim’s whole family watched me like they were in a theater.
I placed the keys on the table beside the salad bowl.
“These are the keys to my apartment,” I said. “A one-bedroom on Molodyozhnaya Street. It’s in my name. The mortgage is approved, the down payment has been made. I’ve been saving for a year and a half.”
Vadim stared at the keys. Then at me.
“What?”
“I left you before you left me. A year and a half before. You just didn’t notice.”
Zinaida Pavlovna opened her mouth, then shut it again. Oleg pushed away his plate. Lena stared at me wide-eyed.
“You’re lying,” Vadim said.
“One million one hundred and forty thousand. In a separate account. From bonuses, part-time work, and saving on groceries. Those same groceries you ate without ever noticing it was chicken instead of beef. A year and a half.”
“That’s our money!” Zinaida Pavlovna jabbed her finger at the table. “Family money!”
“My salary. My bonus. My second job. In the last year and a half Vadim spent more on the garage and his ‘fishing trips’ than I managed to save.”
Vadim was still standing, his face red, sweat shining on his forehead. He snapped his fingers—a habit he had when he was nervous.
“You lied to me for a year and a half?”
I looked him straight in the eyes.
“And how long did you lie to me? Eight months of messages with Zhanna? ‘She’s not going anywhere, she knows that herself.’ Remember? October fourteenth, eleven-thirty at night. I remember.”
He went pale.
I picked up the keys from the table and slipped them back into my bag. Zipped it closed. Calmly, like I was getting ready for work.
“I’ll come for my things tomorrow. Rita will be with me—she has a car. Thanks for lunch. By the way, the chicken turned out fine.”
I walked into the hallway. Put on my coat. My hands didn’t shake—which was strange, because inside I felt like live wires were humming under my skin.
Behind me came voices. Zinaida Pavlovna was scolding Vadim. Oleg asked quietly, “You really didn’t know?” Lena was gathering plates.
I closed the door behind me.
The stairwell was quiet. It smelled like an old building—dampness, stale paint. I stood there breathing. Just breathing. For a year and a half I had imagined this moment—walking out. And now it had finally come.
My knees buckled. I sat down on the step. Cold concrete through my jeans. My bag on my lap. Inside—keys to my apartment. Mine.
I took out my phone and called Rita.
“I’m out.”
“I’m coming,” she said, and hung up.
I sat there on the step and waited. Downstairs, the front door slammed—one of the neighbors. Upstairs, silence. No one ran after me. No one called me back.
And that was exactly how it should have been.
Rita arrived twenty minutes later. Silently unlocked the car door. I got in, fastened my seat belt. She looked at me, and I saw her eyes were red.
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked.
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
We drove through the evening city. Streetlights were coming on. I looked out the window and thought about how tomorrow I would wake up in an empty apartment. No curtains, no furniture, just a mattress on the floor. But it would be mine. With keys no one could take away.
Rita stayed quiet the whole drive. Only when I got out and took out my keys did she say:
“Call me if anything happens. Even at three in the morning.”
“I will.”
I went up to the eighth floor. Opened the door. Empty room. Bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Smell of plaster.
I set my bag on the floor. Took out my phone. Eighteen missed calls from Vadim. Three voicemails. Two messages from Zinaida Pavlovna: Shameless woman and Give the money back.
I turned the phone off.
Then I sat on the windowsill. Outside, city lights. The city was living its life. And I sat in my apartment and felt something heavy—something nine years old—slowly sliding off my shoulders. Not happiness. Not joy. Just air. As if someone had opened a window in a room that hadn’t been aired out in years.
Two months have passed. I live on Molodyozhnaya now. I hung curtains, bought a table. Rita’s cat, Barsik, moved in with me—she said, “He has more space with you.”
Vadim still calls. Every week. Zhanna didn’t take him in—it turned out she liked him married and seemingly well-off, not divorced and aimless. He sits alone in our old apartment and asks to “talk like adults.” I never answer.
Zinaida Pavlovna tells everyone that I “robbed her son and ran away.” Oleg still says hello to me. Lena messaged me once: You’re strong. I could never have done it.
The family split in two. My mother’s friend, Valentina Sergeyevna, said that “decent women don’t do things like that—sneaking around in secret like a thief.” Rita answered that decent husbands don’t go and find themselves a Zhanna.
I’m paying the mortgage. Twenty-three thousand a month. With the extra job, it’s manageable. Not easy. But it’s mine.
So tell me—did I do the right thing by saving in secret for a year and a half? Or should I have left right away, without secrets, without a safety net, without any of this?