“Mom, please, no scenes. Dad is coming with Alina. She’s his family now. It’s your anniversary, you’re fifty. Behave your age — wisely and with dignity.”
My twenty-eight-year-old son, Alexey, adjusted the knot of his tie and looked at me with mild condescension.
“And so what if she’s younger?” Lyosha added when he saw I wasn’t answering. “Mom, Dad is a man. Why are you making yourself ridiculous? You rented an apartment, started running to fitness classes… Just accept your age calmly.”
“Lyoshenka,” I said, carefully taking a sip of mineral water so I wouldn’t smudge my wine-colored lipstick. “At my age, scenes only happen because of bad digestion. And don’t worry about my dignity. It’s insured.”
Three years ago, my ex-husband Vasily left me for his secretary, Alina. He left in the most classic, vulgar way possible, taking with him not only his “male honor,” but also our shared three-room apartment and the car.
Vasya was a calculating man. While we were still married, he had registered all major purchases in his elderly mother’s name. Later, she conveniently transferred them to him as gifts.
The lawyer explained it to me dryly: property received as a gift is not divided in a divorce.
And I stood in his office realizing that trust had been divided beautifully between us — right down the middle. Only somehow, my half turned out to be completely empty.
I was the chief accountant of a large company. For years, I had put my salary into our “shared pot” without asking for receipts or guarantees. And when Vasya left, our son thoughtfully declared that his father needed to build a new life, and that I should try to be understanding.
I did not cry by the window hugging a ficus plant.
I drew conclusions.
I rented a nice two-room apartment closer to work, bought a gym membership, updated my wardrobe, and for the first time in thirty years, began spending my money only on myself.
The doors of the banquet hall opened with a theatrical, pompous creak.
Vasily appeared on the threshold.
In three years, his “second youth” had become a little worn around the edges. His belly confidently hung over his belt, and the beginning of a bald spot was carefully disguised with a comb-over.
Next to him, twenty-five-year-old Alina heavily lowered herself into a chair. She was pregnant with their second child. She simply looked like a very tired woman upon whom too much “female happiness” had suddenly fallen.
“Tanyusha!” Vasily spread his arms so wide it looked as though he intended to embrace the entire restaurant. “Well, happy fiftieth! You look… lively. Good for you. Holding up well.”
“Hello, Vasya. Thank you for finding time between paying child support and buying diapers,” I said, giving him my most socially polished smile.
Vasily sat down at the table as if he owned the place, pushing aside my school friend Nina.
“You know, Tanya,” my ex-husband began in the tone of a professional life guru, pouring himself cognac, “at our age, the most important things are proper nutrition and energy balance. I’ve been studying Vedic practices lately. A man feeds on cosmic energy, while a woman feeds on the energy of the earth. That’s why I’ve started sleeping better and getting younger right before everyone’s eyes.”
“Vasya, you sleep better because Alina takes your one-year-old son into the kitchen so he won’t disturb you,” I said calmly. “And your ‘cosmic energy’ is just third-stage snoring. You should see a sleep specialist before apnea gives you a stroke.”
Vasily turned crimson. His cheeks began to tremble slightly.
“You were always a grounded, bitter woman!” he snorted, puffing himself up like an old samovar someone had forgotten to polish before the fair.
At that moment, the doors of the hall opened again.
Artem walked confidently toward our table.
My fitness trainer.
He was thirty-eight, fit, calm, and wearing a good jacket over a turtleneck.
“Sorry I’m late,” Artem said, leaning down to kiss me lightly on the cheek as he placed a small gift box on the table. “Happy birthday, Tanya.”
The olive fell out of my friend Nina’s mouth.
Vasily choked on his cognac.
“Mom… who is that?” Lyosha squeezed out.
“This is Artem,” I said calmly, handing him the menu. “Sit down, Tyoma. We were just discussing the proper way to grow old.”
The expected ping-pong began.
“Tatyana, is this a joke?” Vasily hissed across the table, instantly forgetting his Vedic practices. “A boy from the gym? Are you out of your mind? Do you understand how this looks from the outside? You’re going to have grandchildren soon!”
“Vasya,” I said gently, looking at my ex-husband. “When you left at forty-nine for Alina, who was twenty-two, your sciatica didn’t bother you. Neither did your status as a grandfather-to-be. So why do my fifty and his thirty-eight suddenly give you such a moral spasm?”
“This is different!” Alexey interrupted, looking devotedly at his father. “Mom, come on, you’re a grown woman! Why are you dragging this guy around? He’s with you for the money! He’s a kept man!”
He leaned back in his chair with such an offended expression that one might think I had personally climbed into his piggy bank.
Artem raised one eyebrow, clearly about to answer, but I gently touched his hand.
This was my game to play.
“Lyoshenka,” I said, my voice quiet now — so quiet that a ringing silence fell over the table. “A kept man is someone who lives off someone else’s resources. And since we’ve started talking about money…”
I shifted my gaze to my ex-husband.
Vasily suddenly straightened and stopped chewing.
“Vasya, you didn’t come here today to congratulate me on my anniversary. Or rather, not only for that.”
“What nonsense are you talking, Tanya?” my ex tried to put on an expression of righteous outrage, but his eyes began to dart around.
“All last week you kept calling me,” I said evenly, savoring every word. “Your construction company has sunk into debt. The tax authorities are threatening an inspection. And you asked me, ‘for old times’ sake, for our son’s sake,’ to do a full audit of your accounting. For free, of course. You said, ‘We’re not strangers, Tanyusha.’”
Alina sharply turned toward her husband.
“Vasya? What tax authorities? You told me everything was fine and that you were just coming to show respect to the mother of your son!”
“Shut your mouth, Alina!” Vasily barked, dropping the mask of the peaceful guru. His face was covered in red blotches. “Tanya, why are you saying this in front of her? This isn’t a phone conversation. I thought we’d sit down and discuss it like adults!”
“We are discussing it, Vasya,” I said with a smile. “So here is my answer: no. Free accounting, free cooking, and free service to your interests ended three years ago, along with our marriage. If you want an audit, my hourly rate is five thousand rubles. Unfortunately for you, there are no available slots in my schedule.”
Vasily jumped to his feet, nearly knocking over his glass.
There was no more condescension in his eyes — only the pure, helpless rage of a man whose last stool of control had just been kicked out from under him.
“Who even needs you?” he hissed, spitting as he spoke. “An old, bitter hag! You think you found yourself some muscle boy and now your life is a success? He’ll leave you within a year! Let’s go, Alya!”
He grabbed the frightened, pale Alina by the elbow and yanked her toward the exit. He forgot to say goodbye, forgot his “status,” and simply fled, slamming the door loudly behind him.
My son sat with his head lowered, hypnotizing his fork.
“Mom… why did you have to be so harsh? Dad really did need help…”
“Lyosha,” I said, pouring myself a little wine, “remember one thing: when people spit into a well, they should be prepared for the water in it to run dry. My water has run dry for all of you. From now on, everyone pays for themselves.”
Artem silently raised his glass and clinked it against mine.
In his eyes there was calm respect — the kind that cannot be bought with any apartment.
I took a sip.
Inside, everything was quiet and unbelievably light.
At last, I had finally taken the trash out of my biography.
And that evening belonged only to me.