“I can’t just conjure money out of thin air!” Irina exclaimed as she tossed her handbag on the table, her fingers pressing against her temples. The cheap watch on her wrist, its strap worn out, indicated it was nearly eleven o’clock at night.
Anatoly remained absorbed in his phone, the bluish light casting shadows over his stubbly face.
“Couldn’t you at least take care of the dishes? I’m completely exhausted from working two shifts,” she urged, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
“I’ll handle them tomorrow,” he replied dismissively, continuing to scroll through an endless stream of social media updates.
As Irina surveyed the kitchen, her dismay deepened. Dirty dishes had accumulated in the sink for three days, and empty jars cluttered the windowsill. Their once tidy and welcoming apartment had begun to resemble a cluttered hideout.
“Tolia, we really need to have a conversation,” she said, taking a seat at the edge of the sofa.
He grimaced at her words and set his phone aside. “Are we going to start this again? Let’s talk tomorrow, alright? My head is pounding.”
“You say that every day!” Irina’s voice trembled with frustration. “It’s been six months—you haven’t even updated your resume!”
Anatoly rose abruptly, his expression one of turmoil.
“Do you think it’s easy to find a good job without any connections? I’m not going to settle for being a taxi driver or a courier!”
“I never mentioned taxi work! But you need to do something,” she sighed, her worry evident. “Our savings are disappearing. Just yesterday, you withdrew five thousand. What did you spend it on?”
“Are you monitoring my finances?” He grabbed his jacket angrily. “I’m a man! I deserve to unwind with my friends!”
“While I’m juggling two jobs?” Tears threatened to spill from Irina’s eyes.
Their dreams of a spacious home, children, and adventures together seemed like distant memories. Nowadays, their discussions revolved around blame and justifications.
“I need some air,” Anatoly said as he moved towards the door. “Don’t wait for me.”
With a heavy thud, the door slammed shut, causing a cup to shake on the table. Irina sank into the sofa, her face buried in a pillow that reeked of salty snacks. There was a time when Tolia surprised her with roses for no reason at all. Now, every conversation felt like a war zone.
She accessed her banking app and noted that just over twenty thousand remained in their shared account; her earnings barely sufficed for rent and groceries. Soon, she would have to dip into the secondary account—the funds she had been accumulating for a car.
A notification buzzed her phone. It was a message from her friend Katya: “How are you holding up?”
Irina managed a bitter smile. Holding on? She felt as though she was clinging precariously to a failing marriage—her husband had become a stranger to her.
Her gaze momentarily landed on a wedding photo on the wall: Anatoly in a sharp suit, Irina in a white dress—both radiating happiness and love. What had happened to those days? At what point had Tolia shifted from being her support to a burden she had to bear?
Deep down, Irina recognized that a change was imperative; otherwise, the recurrent struggle would ultimately crush her spirit. Yet, she clung to the hope that the man she once loved could return.
When morning came, Irina awoke before her alarm. Her eyes felt swollen, and her mind was foggy. She silently navigated the kitchen, careful not to awaken Anatoly, who had stumbled home at dawn and now lay snoring on the sofa.
While brewing her morning tea, she noticed the calendar: Wednesday, which meant another extra shift at the mall’s accounting office. Eight hours of numbers, followed by four more in the evening.
“I wish I could have a day off,” she murmured, rubbing her temples.
Suddenly, her phone chimed: her boss unexpectedly permitted her to leave at noon since the reports had come in early. She hurriedly wrapped up her second job.
For the first time in half a year, luck seemed to smile upon her. The warm rays of the spring sun bathed her face, inspiring her to walk home—just a twenty-minute stroll.
As she approached her building, she slowed her pace. Their apartment window was wide open, and she could hear Anatoly’s voice—loud, almost jovial. He rarely communicated over the phone.
Quietly, Irina unlocked the door. The hallway was dimly lit, and Anatoly’s voice drifted from the kitchen.
“Mom, you don’t need to worry, I have everything figured out,” he said, exuding a buoyancy she hadn’t witnessed in months. “Now is the ideal time to invest in real estate. That dacha outside the city is perfect.”
Irina felt her heart quicken, pushing herself against the wall to remain unseen.
“We’ll combine your savings with ours and with Irka’s—just enough to get it done,” he continued. “Of course, the dacha will be under my name; Irka doesn’t need to be in the loop.”
Her heart raced. Anatoly and his mother were conspiring to utilize their joint funds without informing her!
Quietly, Irina slipped out of the apartment, rushed to the bank, and transferred her entire savings to her mother’s account. Upon returning home, she banged the door shut as though returning from work and began packing Anatoly’s belongings.
“Tolia, I cleaned your T-shirts and am putting them away!” she called out. He merely grunted, engrossed in a football match on TV.
Soon, two suitcases stood in the hallway. Irina straightened her blouse and turned off the television.
“Tolia, we need a serious conversation.”
“Hey! The game is on!” he protested.
“This is a critical moment,” she crossed her arms. “I want you out tonight.”
He laughed—until he met her stern gaze. “Are you insane?”
“I’d be the crazy one to stay with you one more day, especially after what I overheard regarding the dacha and the plan to use my savings.”
He lunged for his phone, checked the balance, dashed to his laptop—and screamed.
“Ira! Where did the money go? The account is empty!”
“It’s in a secure place—at my mom’s,” Irina replied with composure. “I earned that money, particularly during these last six months while you lounged on the sofa.”
“Those are my funds too! I’ll call law enforcement!”
“By all means, go ahead. We can discuss how you’ve been living off me since quitting without informing me.”
His eyes then fell on the packed suitcases. “This is my home!”
“It’s a rental—and I’ve been the one covering the costs. Leave now, or I will call the police and tell them you’re threatening me. Who do you think they will believe?”
Anatoly stared at her, realizing the once-timid Irina had vanished.
“You’ll regret this,” he muttered while dragging his belongings out. “Mom won’t forgive you.”
“Make sure to say hello to Polina Yevgenyevna,” Irina smiled back. “Tell her to put aside some money for that dacha herself.”
The door slammed shut, and a porcelain figurine—a gift from his mother—shattered on the floor. Irina sat down in a chair and cried, but not out of sadness; it was a release of relief.
Her phone buzzed incessantly with calls and messages from her mother-in-law, which she blocked without hesitation. Anatoly oscillated between pleas and threats. A month later, Irina filed for divorce, accompanied by proof of her income and his lack of contribution.
Following the divorce, she stood in a car dealership, resting her hand on the hood of a sleek vehicle. It wasn’t the new model she once yearned for, but it was one she could purchase with her savings.
“I’ll take it,” she stated resolutely.
After completing the paperwork, Irina slid into the driver’s seat and turned on the radio. Their wedding song filled the air. She reached to switch the station, only to pause—realizing she felt no sorrow, just a soft nostalgia for the past.